Month: June 2018

*Scene 01* – 17:11 (Traitor!)

“Mattox!” I yelled, reaching for my sheathed honor sword, bearing it out with a metallic ring.

The sword did not ignite, as it had before in the underground caverns, but I took no notice of this as I swung the blade upward in a defense position, a precursory move easily shifted into an assault posture.

“This man is a traitor!” I yelled, causing more heads to turn my way, eyes shifting to me. I stood there panting, the exertion of my passion, and the stress on my wounds, and weakened body making me tremble with both outrage, desperation and pain. “I do not know what he has told you to bewitch you all, but he is a liar and an agent of the Xarmnian Protectorate!  He is quite possibly the very reason you find his cohorts very near the back door!”

Swords and various other bladed weapons were rapidly drawn in response to my unsheathed blade, but the bearers did not move to attack the man I accused, but rather they stood together with their blades pointed at me, signifying their intent to defend him.

The man who I had identified as ‘Mattox’ held up his hand to still them, and walked toward me amid a forest of blades, suddenly turning upward into their rest position, then lowering to be replaced in the sheaths.

I held my sword forward, bracing for an attack, as he drew nearer.  Watching his approach down the end of my pointed blade.

“That dubious honor is more likely yours and yours alone, Brian,” he spoke my name calmly as if doing so might placate me, and make my accusation seem to be a result of a mind that still had not recovered from the ordeal I had just been through.  “Don’t try to play head games with me, Mattox.  I know you all too well.”

“These already know how completely I have severed all ties with Xarmni and broken fellowship with my kinsmen.  But, there is no time for this now,” he said under his breath, low enough for only me to hear without acknowledging my charge of prior personal experience to the larger crowd gathered around us in response to the warning of Xarmnians approaching the city from the secret back trails.

He cast an accusing glance at Maeven and Christie, “They should have allowed me to see you sooner.”  Then he turned his steely-eyed focus back to me.  “All is not what it once was.  Nor what it might seem to be.  You have been away for a long time.  I am very surprised to see you as well.  I had thought you dead.”

“If not for Jeremiah, you would be.”

“Jeremiah…yes, well, his strange act of mercy, set me on a journey.  I would not have hesitated, were I in his place at the time, but now…  Much has changed.”

“It’s not that easy,” I growled.

“Nothing ever is,” he conceded.

“Whatever has happened, you still have much to answer for.”

“And so, I hear, do you.  But there is no time for that now.”  Without waiting for my response, he held out a weighted bag with something round, slightly heavy and completely wrapped in cloth so that it could not be seen as he offered it to me.

“This belongs to you.  The spoils of your kill.  You will need it when you eventually reach the lake country.  Don’t reveal it to anyone and do not unwrap it except in private or with those in whom you have absolute trust.”

Anger flared and flashed in me, “Absolute trust,” I snarled, “Why should I take anything from your hand?!  Keep it.  I want nothing from you!”

“All the same, this is yours.  Fairly won.  It is essential if you hope to cross the great Lake of Cascale to reach the Woodlands beyond and then cross the plains before the Xarmnians fully field their armies.  Even now that may already be too late, but it is your call to make.”

Our eyes locked in a tension of wills.  My eyes reflected my outrage, I’m sure, but his eyes reflected something that shocked me…deep sorrow.  I wavered, slowly lowering my sword.  I sheathed it…and grudgingly extended my hand to take the wrapped parcel.  Seeing my hand coming close to his…I couldn’t.  I clenched my fist around the bag meaning to toss it away, but he anticipated my intent and grabbed my arm with a fisted gauntlet preventing me from doing so.

“Don’t let your anger towards me, make you do something extremely foolish.  If you knew what I am giving you, you would not wish to do that.  Do not throw this away until you have learned what it is.”

He released his grip and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me there are preparations to be made before the Xarmnian Protectorate arrives and time is of the essence.”

Lord Nem and Ezra approached us seeing that our meeting was tense and strained.

“What is the problem here?”

I stepped back from him, never taking my eyes off him lest he dared to make the slightest motion to reach for his own blade.  Whatever it was I now held, I kept and tucked into a pocket, uncertain of the wisdom in doing so.

Mattox responded to the inquiry, as I was still unable to do so, a mix of confusion, uncertainty and outrage struggling within me.

“Brian, or Mister O’Brian as I hear him called now, and I have a history from before I came to Azragoth.  A history from my former life as a Xarmnian general.  We met, then, as enemies.  Those memories are still very fresh in O’Brian’s mind, and, given their violence, I am very doubtful that he is willing to accept the possibility that a man such as I was, could ever fully be changed and remade to be anything else.”

Changed.  Remade.  I almost spat.  Impossible!

The claims implied by those words could not easily gloss over the raw and painful memories and suffering that I endured under the orders, fists from thugs, and yes, assaults under the wielded steel of this man.  It was his men who had bound me and chained me to a stone to drown in the river.  Though Mattox was not present, I knew them to have been under his command, and I held him personally responsible.  I could not believe he was here now, presenting himself under the guise of an ally.

The man I knew had a streak of cruelty unlike any other I had ever encountered.  It was hard to imagine him in any other light and my mind balked and revolted at the possibility.  Yet…a name emerged out of the shadows of my memory darkened mind.  Paul, who once was Saul.  The Writer from Prison I had so extolled.  A murderer, a rapacious, ravenous hunter of the early believers.  How might Ananias of Damascus have felt approaching the nemesis Saul of Tarsus and pray for him to restore his vision.  To forgive him for the stoning of Stephen.  To forgive him for all the evil the man had down in Jerusalem and the surrounding towns.  A commissioned brute and murderer.  Still my mind balked.

How could I extend forgiveness to such a man?  Much less, how could I ever join forces with anyone such as he?  Or ever turn my back to him?  I had not seen his contrition, nor heard a word about his repentance.

His cruelty was too vivid in my memory.  He was known to make terrifyingly visual statements to those he captured.  To mess with their minds before throwing them in dungeons and oubliette cages, positioned within the sewer run-off ditches beneath the cobblestone streets of Xarmnian cities.  Victims died of disease and malnourishment, if the sewer rats didn’t get to them first.  He also did this where his troops were quartered during their conquest marches, subduing and pursuing the resistance, conquering and pillaging town after town until they succumbed, paid tribute, and swore fealty to the Xarmnian Overwatch, and its dubious, royal regent.

They drove people out of their homes, took over their lands, burned their crops, slaughtered their animals, stole whatever valuables and family heirlooms these people had, and cast them out of the cities.  Leaving them to starve and survive harsh winters, wet and rainy seasons, and dry, hot summers.  These men under Mattox’s command waited for the worst possible weather to carry-out their forcible evictions with no prior warning or inkling of who would be their next target.  There were no appeals.  If the Xarmnians were in town, they in effect were the law.  No courts, no juries, just forced sentencing before the Xarmnian in local command.  The Xarmnian central governing structure had grown so powerful that no one individual could stand under its ire.  Individual rights did not exist.  Everyone under Xarmnian rule served the collective because everyone was made to depend upon it to survive.  This, in their minds, was the greater good.  Whatever township or village dared to resist the Xarmnian collective, or dared to harbor a resistor without reporting them, lived on counted and borrowed time.  And the Xarmnians would collect it back in due course, with terrible interest.

Mattox’s trademark demonstration was to enter a town in full battle armor, with a retinue of Xarmnian soldiers, and make an intimidating parade through the street, daring anyone to challenge or impede them.

The procession would ride into the most heavily populated centers of the town or village and form a ring of soldiers around the perimeter of the crowd, blocking every street or alleyway, forcing the people to press into the center of the site for their “town’s demonstration”.  Soldiers in armor would select, separate and stand behind children, with their cruel hands resting on their shoulders, a vise-like grip, signifying a threat, daring the trembling child to attempt to struggle and wrench free, forcing both parents and children alike to watch the demonstration.

Mattox was known to carry two tied baskets, which he removed from his warhorse.  He would set them down in the middle of the circle for all of the captive audience to witness.  A macabre theater in the round.  From one basket he, with a metal sleeved gauntlet, would unfasten its catch and reach in and pull out a long, black and writhing, venomous viper and cast it upon the ground.

The crowd closest to the snake would naturally try to move back away from it, but would find that the press of the crowd behind would not allow them to do so.  Then, the leader or mayor of the town would be called forth, and if no one volunteered to identify themselves, someone at random would be selected.  A burlap sack was then thrown to the ground and the man or woman was then told to pick it up.  From the second basket, Mattox would reach in and draw out one of many mice.  The interior of the basket was sheathed in a wire mesh so that these mice could not escape their basket enclosure.  Mattox would then drop one or two mice into the burlap bag held by the leader of the town, and tell him to coax the snake into the bag he held so that the townsfolk would not be bitten.  The serpent, he said had a regular diet of live mice and would sense them.  Invariably the terrified bag holder would ask what if the snake attacked him or her.  To which, Mattox consistently replied, “Then you had better hope it prefers the mice.”

The person would then be forced to try to collect the serpent and coax it into the porous bag, whimpering and repulsed, but carefully watched by the townsfolk as to whether their leader valued their lives, the lives of their children, or his own.  In the course of the demonstration, Mattox would tell the terrified bag holder that if he allowed one or more mice to escape the bag he held, they had an even bigger bag that would hold one of the town’s children, for each mouse freed.  The burlap bag would not contain the mice for very long, so the bag holder had to be quick about it.

For those town leaders that successfully captured and lured the venomous snake into the bag, Mattox would stride forth and take the bag from its erstwhile bearer and hold it up for all to see.  The bag would writhe, twist and jerk, as the terrified spectators looked on, tearfully imagining the fear of the trapped mice to be akin to their own.

“Let this be an example to you all,” Mattox would shout, “Xarmni is the serpent.  Those who resist us are mice.  You are witness to our power and what we can do.  Pray that you never become the mice.”  And with that he would throw the bag and its prey and predator conflict back into the serpent’s basket, to allow the snake to finish its meal in private.  The soldiers would then hold the town leader and bind them in chains and march them through the streets as an example that the leadership of the village had been overthrown.  Then the leader would be forced to surrender his house and servants to Mattox and his men at arms, and the leader along with the leader’s spouse and children would be made to serve them as household domestic servants.  As long as the leader and his family remained servile, they would be spared their lives.  If they refused or resisted, they would be publicly hung from the city gates, their bodies left to dangle and rot over the heads of everyone coming into or going out of the town.

And this was the kind of monster I was supposed to believe had a change of heart?  A man who invented ways and means of cruelty.  A favored brute of the High Court of Xarmni and their revered champion of Xarmnian might and conquest.  I could not imagine such a change in a man so cruel.  It strained credulity to such a limit that I refused to turn my back on him for the slightest second.  How could anyone forgive such as this?  How could one forget his crimes?

“C’mon.  Let’s get you back to the infirmary,” a voice beside me said.  “It will do you no good to remain here.  There is much to be done before those Xarmnians discover the city.”  Stirred out of my reverie, I felt a strong hand steady me on my feet.  It was Begglar, assisting me through my shock.

“How long have you known this?” I asked, still stunned by the revelation.

“Come,” he said simply, “let’s talk in private.”

*Scene 02* – 18:22 (Past Wounds)

“Xarmnians are coming towards this city, and no one has any answers.”

I winced, the stress on my bandaged wound flared, and I felt dizzy.

“You are in no condition to help and will more than likely get in the way.”

It took us only a few more minutes before we had made our way back from where I had started.

Begglar opened the door and helped me to the pallet bed.  I was sweating.  My legs and knees trembled, and my bandaged side was seeping blood.

Catching my breath, trying to ease the strain getting up had put on my wounded body, I finally asked, “How long have you known, Mattox was here?”

Begglar pursed his lips but said nothing, busying himself with preparing a fresh gauze bandage for my seeping wound, and a cleansing wash to bathe it clean once more.  “Begglar,” I huffed, “why won’t you answer me?”

“I got you out of there before you could make more of a spectacle of yourself.  You’re welcome.”

“I don’t understand.  What is Mattox doing here?”

“A lot has changed since you left.”

“You’re telling me Mattox has changed?  How is that even possible?  You know what he was!”

“Yes, I do,” Begglar countered, “and I also know what you were.”

“I…”

“Brian, you still don’t see, do you?”

I winced, my vision seeming to become liquid.  “So, now your back to calling me, ‘Brian’, at last?”

He moved a three-legged stand bearing a rinse bowl to the bedside, being careful not to slosh the water in it.

“Turn on your side,” he ordered, brooking no argument from me.  Taking a small knife, he began cutting the wrapped bandage away from my wound, dropping the saturated pieces of it into a small waste pail below the bedside.  As he worked, he spoke.  “When I have something important to say to you, I want you to hear it directly, without prefix or pretense.  So, listen up.  You still have a ‘self’ problem.”

With my face turned away, I could not see his expression, but I sighed.  Here it comes.  Another lecture.  Feeling exasperated, though, I did not stop my mouth from responding, “What’re you talking about?  I just sacrificed myself to a dragon to save everyone in this city!”

Begglar kept working, sponging out my expose wound with a wet cloth he dipped in the water basin, and wiping away some of the exudate with a stacked supply of dry ones.

“That dragon was here because you left this place and came back.  We brought this threat with us!  The golem thing—the banshee witch—pointed the way.  Golems don’t build themselves.  They are devilish constructions of dragons, tied to wind spirits.  Hence, inhabited by Banshees.  The Pan used dragons for mining ores, to make iron, and to amass precious metals.  Alchemists used to study them, seeking to enrich themselves, they once worshipped The Pan, before they betrayed him.  It is part of why he hates and detests mankind.  Even their worship of him was false and self-serving.”  But when you struck this dragon’s golem agent down, something transferred into you.  Something crawled into your vulnerability and hid itself there.”

I took in a ragged breath, remembering what Lord Nem said about me being in the “thrall” of this dragon.

“Did you not feel an oppression, even after the golem dissolved?  When others responded to its screeching, I could not help but peak and see what it changed into.  The young girl Becca became an old woman.  Blood always reveals the truth.  That old woman was familiar.  If you think about it, you should have recognized her too, but expectation clouded that vision.”

I held my tongue, thinking back.  The wild grey hair swirling under the storm shadows, the age lines drawing the child’s face into that of an aged crone.  The eyes wild, framed in bulging white, devoid of a strange kindness that used to belong to an otherwise recognizable visage.

“Had Nellus looked up, she would have recognized that face better than you or I.”

Begglar let that thought linger and sharpen to clarity in my mind.  A name escaped my lips on the edge of an exhale of realization.

“Noadiah.”

“Yes and no.  Dragons not only hoard mammon, but they are also image stealers.  It was Noadiah’s image yes, but not her personhood.  A familiar spirit, if you will.  A mimic, arising from a dragon’s taste of her blood.  Golems have no natural face of their own.  They are merely totems, until there are given a blood image.”

“But what killed Noadiah was a sea monster.”

“Aye,” Begglar snorted, “A sea dragon.”

“Sea dragon?”

“The three beast princes.  The prince of the power of the air, the prince of the deep of the sea, and…”

“A prince of the pit of the earth,” I finished.

“Yes, and why did you go under the city?  What did you hope to accomplish by doing so?”

“Actually…,” I sighed, “it wasn’t my idea.”

Begglar stopped wiping the wound and rolled a fresh piece of gauze into its concavity, evoking a pained grunt from me.

“I expected that was so.”  Begglar muttered, “It was a mistake letting Maeven bring us here. I should have realized that.”

“A mistake?!” I asked, incredulously.  “If it wasn’t for Maeven and her Lehi coming when they did, those Xarmnians would have run us down on the road.”

“Or that dragon would have.”  He paused.  “We led that monster here.  We involved more innocent people in the danger pursuing us, thinking only of saving ourselves.  That’s not leadership, that’s cowardice.  We ran from our trouble.”

I released a breath I had been holding, “And…that is why… you say I have this self problem.”  It was a conciliatory statement rather than a question.

“That is part of it…,” Begglar began leaning toward me.  Interrupting himself to say, “Sit up, Brian.  I need to rewrap this bandage around you.”

He assisted me as I took a deep breath and turned, sliding my legs off the pallet to pivot into a seated position.

“Careful.  Don’t strain,” he said easing me upward, until I could sit there on my own.

His head was bowed as he stretched out the rolled gauze, having me hold one end to my chest with my free hand while I used the other to brace myself in the seated position.  Carefully he wrapped the gauze around my torso, tugging at it with just enough tightness to pull the wound edges together without binding my breathing.

“The other part,” he continued, “is the irony of your reaction to finding out about Mattox.”

“Mattox?!” I growled, “Jeremiah should’ve let him drop!”

Begglar grunted, “That is what I mean.  You seek to be forgiven for your past transgressions but are unwilling to grant that same possibility of forgiveness to another.  Do you not remember how it was that Jeremiah came into possession of The Cordis Stone?”

Unable to contain my resentment, I snarled, “Yeah, Jeremiah was all about loving an enemy enough to save him but could not forgive the offense of a brother in arms!”

“His brother died because you failed to guard him.  He warned you his brother would try something foolish.  He trusted you with his brother’s life, and you agreed to keep an eye on him.”

“Yeah, he made me babysit his brother, rather than…”

“Rather than what?” Begglar asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Never mind!”

Begglar lowered his voice, knowing he was probing a sensitive spot in my self-constructed armor, “Did you let Caleb take the stone because you resented Jeremiah giving you the job of watching Caleb?”

“Of course not!” I sulked but couldn’t help but wonder if that was partly true.  My then pride being somehow snubbed from being taken out of the action and set aside for that ignominious guard duty.  A wave of guilt threatened to overwhelm me, giving forth a deeper pain greater than those I felt from fighting the dragon.

Begglar broke the quiet to suggest something to me, that I had not considered when facing up to what we had done and confessing to Jeremiah.

“Could it be that Jeremiah sensed insincerity in your attempt at an apology?”

I snorted, “So you are suggesting Jeremiah could spare the life of this known butcher, grant him a mercy, but could not bring himself to do the same for me, because he suspected that I was insincere?!”

“How did you really feel about staying behind with Caleb?”

“That’s beside the point!”

“No, that IS the point.  You never confessed that you were insulted by the job he gave you.  That you may have been resentful of him and been less inclined to keep your word to keep Caleb out of trouble?”

“I never intended for Caleb…” I began.

“You never intended, but what was unintended happened, and what the two of you did was extremely dangerous!  It took Caleb’s life and endangered the lives of the rest of us.”

“I…” I ran my hands through my hair, wincing at the pulling of my wounds, my eyes filling with tears at the frustration and pain of my selfishness and betrayal.  I squeezed my eyes shut, spilling tears on my cheeks, whispering through clenched teeth, “I am so sorry.  So sorry.  I don’t know how to make it right.  I can’t…”

“That’s right,” Begglar huffed, “You can’t.  There is nothing you can do to bring them all back.  There was no way to complete the quest, once The Pan got hold of The Cordis Stone.  Disbanding was the only thing left for us to do.  To return to the Surface World and consider our part in the Stone Quests a loss.”

I pondered this through the anguish I was feeling.

“But you remained. Unwilling to let it go.  You led others to try and get the stone back, and failed, losing more of us.  Risking our lives for your own crusade to make amends.  To earn forgiveness Jeremiah refused to grant you.  You were desperate for his approval.  Desperate to make it right in your own efforts.  And that desperation made you dangerous to all of us.  That is why Jeremiah refused your company.  That is why you eventually were cast out of the group and tried to hide yourself in that crude shack you built in Basia.”

“Yeah, and that is where Mattox’s men eventually tracked me down.  Mattox, the cruel Xarmnian whom Jeremiah could grant clemency to, so that that villain could eventually send his men to finish me off by chaining me to a rolling stone, dragging me clawing and scraping down a hill to drown in the shallow river.”

“The wounds of a brother are often more painful than the wounds of an enemy.  Jeremiah felt your betrayal deeper than the rest of us.  Sometimes it takes longer for those wounds to heal enough to come to the point of releasing them in forgiveness.  Mattox was cruel yes, but his cruelty was driven by wounds you never knew about.  Eventually, Mattox came to know the truth, and it shattered everything he once believed about himself.  Jeremiah’s forgiveness was the catalyst for where his journey to faith began.”

“But he is a Xarmnian.  How is that the same?”

“We are all of us born as enemies of The One,” Begglar said quietly.

“Yeah, I guess that’s so, but…”

“But nothing,” Begglar interjected, “there is no equivocating about it.  If you don’t allow for the possibility of forgiveness for your mortal enemy, how can you hope to claim it for yourself?

“This is so hard.  If Jeremiah had not saved Mattox, I don’t believe his men would have ever found me in Basia and tried to kill me.  It feels like to forgive Mattox, is to act like the evil done to me and others was okay.  How can I reconcile myself to that.  To the people he harmed.  To the ones of our company that they killed?”

Begglar nodded, “Mattox did not want you to know, but I think it is too important for your own healing that you be told.  Mattox was the one who found you in the caves.  If Jeremiah had let Mattox drop off that cliffside on the day we recover the Cordis Stone, Mattox would not have been here to find you in those caves below this city.  If it was not for him, you would still be down there and most likely would have bled to death before we got to you.  You are alive, here and now because of Mattox’s persistence, and knowledge of these types of dragons.  They are capable of becoming invisible.  When they die, they simply fade out of existence.  The cavern we found you in and the tunnel leading to it collapsed.  Mattox and his men dug you out.  Mattox was insistent that you were in there.  All because of a gold coin.”

“A gold coin?”

“Yes. Mattox found it sifting through the dirt.  It shone in the torch light, and he noticed the debris was fresh.  Nem and the others agreed that there had been a strange happening in the town treasury.  The man that came and took Lord Nem away that day.  The chubby man.  It seems he is the town Treasurer.  Name is Kallem.  He was insistent that the coin was from the vault.  He agreed that if the coins could be dug out, they would most likely find where the beast fell.”

“But if the dragon was not dead… they could have set it free to do more damage.”

“Like I said, Mattox was insistent that they determine one way or the other and find you.”

“But Mattox has no regard for me.”

“That may have been the case before, but not now.  Sure, he admits you are a nuisance.  But being spared despite the past suffering he caused to others, he was determined to grant you whatever help he might give.  He knew you would be shocked to find him allied here with Azragoth.  He wanted to meet with you sooner, but your two nurses thought it would strain you too much and put you in distress.”

I was quiet, pondering shocking these revelations.  Finding it hard to process all of it.

Begglar continued, “Forgiveness is foundational to everything we believe.  If you erode that or reserve it to a select you deem worthy of it, you undermine the nature of the justice of The One.  Like that dragon, your unwillingness to forgive is an assault on that foundation of faith.  It works against everything the Stone Quests represent.  Essentially, you become the Earth dragon, operating just as the seed of the dragon does.”

Begglar finished wrapping my wound and secured the end in the wrapped weave.

He then took my shoulders in each hand and kneeling next to my bedside, said, “Brian, you of all people should know that out of the same measure of mercy you have been given, you must be willing to extend mercy to the ones who seek it from you.  Otherwise, you will be forever bound by the injuries you suffered from them by your unwillingness to forgive.  And if that remain the case, there is no point in going further in the Stone Quests.”

I closed my eyes.  Of course, Begglar was right.  This was a rebuke I deserved.

Seed of the dragon.  That phrase resonated within me.  A stirring of memories, swirling silts that had lazily drifted to the bottom of the well in my soul.

We are the seed of the woman, grafts and wild shoots, yes, but still arising from the woman that gave our race birth.  Joint heirs with the heel of the One Man that crushes the head of the serpent.  That old dragon, who stole the crown of dominion, attempting to abscond with it here in the between world, to raise his stars above the heavens, into the mountains of Excavatia.

The one bridge that we are offered to leave the brood of dragons, is the offer of forgiveness extended toward us by a nail-scared hand that did not deserve its wounding.

Whatever I had once felt against Mattox, I could not continue our journey, if I failed to release him now from my vengeful-seeking heart.

I had no choice but to forgive him or leave the Mid-World once again.  But this time, never to return.

*Scene 03* – 03:55 (Catching Shut Eye)

Since departing from Hadeon’s company, Bayek had ridden overland through the night, leaving the Kilrane forests, decending to the valley road through part of the early morning as dawn’s light was just casting its gilded glow beyond the peaks of the Zefat range.  The dark shadows had grayed into mist morning pastels as the enshrouded land blushed further into its natural hues against the reaching rays of the rising sun.  Bayek had walked his horse for part of the journey, allowing the beast to rest from its overland travel.  When he came to an open meadow, carpeted with thick rustling grasses he decided to let his horse rest, knowing that he had still several hours and a day’s worth of travel remaining before reaching the dominant kingdom lands of Xarm.  In the early morning hours the woodland deer would come to this meadow to graze.  If he was lucky he might get off a shot with his crossbow and take one down to field dress for meat later.  He refrained from building a fire, but knew he would have to, if he hoped to preserve the meat of a kill, for the journey ahead.  He had taken some provisions from Hadeon’s camp, but not much, since the men still had more to do.  Not that meager portion taken of dried meat was consumed, and his water bladder was down to a few swallows.

A flock of cranes stalked through the grasses, catching insects, marsh frogs and whatnot.  If anything predatorial, human or beast, entered the meadow, the flock would take flight in a noisy flapping of wings, giving him an early alert to it.  The deer would come soon.  In the meantime, the tall grasses would provide cover.  Both he and his horse were exhausted.  Deciding this was best, he took off the reins and bit harness, fashioned a lead line around the animal’s neck, wrapped part of the line into a one-leg hobble and picketed it into the ground.  It cropped the dew-wettened grass, slaking its thirst while gathering nourishment for its worn muscles and empty belly.  Bayek had removed the horse’s saddle, and unfastened the supply bags from the mount, then laid down an oiled ground blanket, climbed into his bed roll and soon fell asleep, catching a few brief hours of rest before continuing his journey.

This low wind in the field, and soft cropping of grass easily lulled him into a restful solitude until suddenly his horse’s ears perked, and the animal snorted and shrieked, catching a disturbing scent on the breeze.  Bayek’s eyes popped open and he awakened to a foul animal stench, and the veritable face of a devil glaring down at him, holding a stone knife to his throat.

The creature’s face was stained black with soot, and its eyes were yellow and brown, with odd shaped pupils, and a stringly, greasy shock of curly hair hung down around its face with two small horns pertruding from its brow.  Menace shown in its wide cruel face and its teeth were yellowed and pulled back into a sneer.

A dark, towering shadowy hulk, with a hoary head, and twin twisting horns, backlit by the morning sunrays loomed beyond the creature holding Bayek down.

“Nephesh uh-daum!” the creature growled, pressing his stone blade harder against Bayek’s throat.  Its eye shine gleaming with a crazed, sinister, light.

“Hold!” came a deep rumbling voice, Bayek could only surmise coming from the hulking shadow beyond.

*Scene 04* – 20:21 (The Lies We Keep)

I do not know when Begglar left me, because in my weakened and wounded condition, my body had shut down and I fell asleep.  Eventually, I awakened, feeling some degree of shame for my inability to help when the Xarmnian troop were approaching the city, having followed our trail.  As my groggy vision gained clarity, my eyes focused on the wrapped parcel sack Mattox had given me.  It was still attached to the belt and scabbard, hanging from the back of a chair near my bedside.

I thought back to the heated exchange we had when I confronted Mattox.  He had not denied my charges.  And it shocked me that others, Begglar included, seemed to be aware of his vicious history, and had somehow come to terms with it…and had forgiven him.  What possible penance had he performed to gain their trust, I could not know.  But somehow, he was no longer the enemy I had once known, and the change in him unsettled me.  When we parted, I had affixed his proffered gift to my belt, as an unspoken indication that I had resolved to trust this difference in him according to the inner promptings of my spirit.  Mattox, at the time, had seemed satisfied by the gesture, but he had noted my reluctance to receive it.

Could I trust him?  Did I have a choice?  As weakened as I was, I was too vulnerable to resist him.  A choice was before me, whether I wanted to face it or not.  Begglar was right.  Forgiveness was essential to my own need, as it was to the person Mattox now was.  To deny him the forgiveness I sought for myself, was to become a hypocrite, but worse than that, to insinuate that forgiveness was reserved only for those who were worthy of it.

Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors…  I gasped.

The thought sent a shockwave through me, as I realized that my own need for forgiveness was being restricted by my unwillingness to grant forgiveness.

My reluctance to forgive, suggested that the mercy of The One was constrained by whatever resentments I still held against Mattox, …and toward Jeremiah as well.

At the moment, a line from a famed playwright crossed my mind:

“The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, Scene 1

Mercy was not granted to the just, but to the unjust.  Of which, both myself and Mattox were squarely in the camp of the latter.

At that moment, the door to my convalescent room opened and in walked Mattox.  I started to rise, but he raised his hands and urged me to remain as I was.

“Please, don’t strain yourself.  I am not here to harm you.”

The tension in my face must have shown otherwise, for I struggled under the cover, my eyes shifting to my sword and scabbard.  Mattox moved slowly toward the stool that Begglar had used when redressing my wounds.  “May I?”

I sighed and laid back in the bed, realizing I could not reach my sword in time to defend myself, if he had come in to assault me.  “Suit yourself,” I said, exhaling in resignation.

He quietly assumed the chair, and gestured toward the bag that he had given me, hanging on the post of the chair.

“Did you have a chance to look at what was in the bag?”

I shook my head.  “Not yet,” I answered, “I’m still not…”

He nodded, without needing my explanation.

“What are you doing here?  Aren’t you supposed to be out there defending the city against attacks by your fellow countrymen?”  There was an edge of accusation in my voice that came through without my full intention in showing it.  Mattox was a dangerous man, and in my condition, it was not wise to provoke him.  But Mattox did not seem to mind or register the veiled insinuation.  Instead, he leaned over and lifted the bulging bag from the belt and post of the chair.

“Perhaps, it is time you learned what you now possess as a result of your engagement with the beast below.”

He hefted the bag, and loosened the draw strings at the top.  “This was once in the possession of the Xarmnian Crown.  It resided locked deep within the King’s Treasury, though none of us knew at the time what it signified.  But finding it below, it is now clear what this was…is, I should say.  Sources inside Xarm City reported quietly that one of the Protectorate Scouts discovered it missing, with an old woman involved in its disappearance.”

From the bag he drew out a massive white orb, that shone with a polished sheen.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, reflexively sitting up, though the effort caused me some discomfort.

“Have you ever seen a pearl this large?” he asked, gazing upon it with some degree of fascination.

“What is it?” I puzzled, “A pearl, you say?  Don’t those come out of the sea?”

“It was in the mouth of your dragon,” Mattox responded, still gazing at its softball size, held in the palm of his large hand.  “Can you imagine its value, its worth to sea diving merchant?  I have never seen its equal, nor one so large as this.”

“How do you possibly know it came from the mouth of the dragon?”

Here he regarded me, and extended his hand, passing the large pearl to me.  As I took it from him, it felt rather light in my hand, and I was surprised, expecting it to have more heft, considering its size.

“How did you know that to kill a dragon, you must cut out its tongue?”

“Its tongue?”

“That is where this was found, next to your body.  In the meat of the creature’s severed tongue.  It gave off a soft glow in the darkness below.  That is how we found you.  You were covered in the beast’s blackened blood, with the pearl next to you, clutched to your chest.  The pearl was drawing the black blood from you, even as you lay there unconscious of it.  You should not have survived the encounter with such a formidable creature, yet here you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” I sighed.  “Helpless and useless.”

“These dragons… they are not common here.  There are legends of them.  Some say they come from beyond the sea.  Others say they were part of the strange brood of The Pan’s ilk, but they are unlike their kind.  They are creatures wholly of one part in physical form, yet of some invisible, ineffable kind, on the other.  Creatures of The Lie, I’ve heard them called, in some circles.  And they way in which you’ve slain it, seems to comport with evidence to the veracity of the latter title.”

“How so?”

“What could be clearer, than to stop a lie by cutting out the tongue of the liar who very strange existence here relies upon it?”

It made some sense what Mattox was saying, yet I wondered about it.

“But why would the stolen pearl, if in fact it is the one that was stolen, be found within its tongue?”

Mattox fixed me with an evaluating stare.  “Because a blatant lie cannot exist, if it does not also contain some measure of a half truth within it.  Believe me, I have lived long under lies to know how to employ them. They must be mingled with enough truth to lure the unsuspecting into giving them credence.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, cupping the strange pearl with both hands and feeling a slight tingling warmth coming from within it.

“There have been enough lies that have entered The Mid-World to make devils of men.  But most are born in creatures already tainted with the legacy stain of their Surface World sins.”

I looked up at him, “Are you telling me you have done with the lies you yourself have lived under?”

“I am saying, that I have come to know the Truth, and learned that even I was deceived.  I believed in the rightness of the rule of kings, because I was taught that this was the only way to survive in Xarmnian culture.  I worked hard to promote that rule.”

He let me ponder that for a moment, and continued, “You know the true battle all men must face is not external, but internal.  Others can do and say cruel things to you.  They can deceive you only so much and to a point.  But ultimately, it is the lies that you tell yourself that will bring you the most harm.  A man can make or break depending on what he keeps for himself.  If he embraces lies, he will become a servant to them.  If he surrenders them and opens himself to the truth, no matter how hard it is to accept, only then can he truly find freedom.  I finally came to that point where I could no longer stomach the lies I told myself, and I finally released them to accept The Truth.  The Truth of The One Whose Words are forever written on The Marker Stone.  I had to bow my knee to what those words revealed to me about myself.  To beg for mercy over the justice that was my due.”

I shook my head in amazement.  Here was a man who had seemed so sure of himself in the rightness of his cruelty, who was revealing something I could never have guessed—a disgust with his own deceptions.  But that still did not answer for me why the Azragothians should accept him as they seemed to have now.  Clearing my throat, I asked him, “I still find it hard to understand how you have become so much a part of this city, with all of their city rules.  They are naturally suspicious of outsiders.  How did you overcome that suspicion, given your reputation?”

“Because I learned that I am not, in fact, a Xarmnian.  I was stolen from here.  My mother was an Azragothian.  The man I believed to be my father, took me from her, many years ago.  He raised me as his own son.  Told me that my mother was killed by a Capitalian.  He confessed all this to me before he died.  Revealed to me that my whole life had been lived under lies.  King Xarm was not in the habit of taking ‘No’ for an answer.  My false father had been a soldier under that monarch’s service.  He had come upon my mother gathering berries from wild bushes to sell in the marketplace.  When my mother would not give him the basket of berries she had spent all morning gathering.  He had rode away angry.  When King Xarm heard of this, he took it as a personal offense to his own authority when a peasant refused anything from one of his officers, so he told the man to go and take whatever he wanted from her by force.  And so, he rode back and took me from her.  Leaving her wailing and screaming.  Seemed to think it was a good joke, as did the other officers when he came back carrying an infant.  King Xarm approved, and promoted him in rank for that outrage.”

“So, you came back here?”

“I did.  I rescued another child and brought him here with me.  I could not undo what my false father had done, and I could not see it done to another.  That boy is one you have in your company, though it was so long ago, I doubt he recognizes me from so brief a time.  The boy is older now, but he was very young at the time and was from the Surface World, as you are.  He was eventually sent back there through the sea Oculus with one of your former travelers.  I am surprised to find him here again.”

“So, you were never…” I began, stunned at the revelation.  “What about the towns, you and your men subdued and forced under the Xarmnian crown?  What about the black serpent you carried?”

“The danger from the serpent was an illusion.  Like I said, I lived under lies and learned how to make use of them.  The serpent had its fangs removed.  That is why I had to feed it with mice.  When I took away its ability to kill, I made it dependent on me for its own survival.  A very Xarmnian principle is to remove self-sufficiency.  Control what the subject needs, and you rule it.  It must obey.  I was its keeper.  The serpent’s venomous reputation was enough.  It didn’t matter what was true.  It only mattered what they believed to be true.  It was all an illusion to get the townsfolk to surrender without us having to raze it and destroy the things we desperately needed from it.  Most of the other bruels thought to come in using brute force, but I opted for subterfuge.  No houses were burned.  No merchant carts were destroyed.  We just moved in and kept them under threat, making them think we were capable of overpowering them.  I reasoned that the king’s treasury could not collect from dead men, nor could workers be commandeered to his fields from out of a graveyard.  They did not need us as badly as we needed what they could provide.  Xarmni badly managed its storehouses, its wealth was hoarded and wasted by the royalty.  They had the appearance of being more powerful than they were, and had suffered greatly after being defeated by the Capitalians, so they did everything they could to maintain the illusion of superiority. They taxed the communities they controlled and fooled into poverty.  They established brute squads to patrol the towns and give the appearance that we were fully capable of wiping them out.  Some used violence, and were sent in whenever such an example needed to be made.  That was the system I had bought into.  Had served, for so long, until…”

“Until you were granted a mercy which you did not deserve,” I interjected.  “Your life spared.”

“You know the rest,” Mattox said quietly.

“So, what now?” I asked.  “The Xarmnian Protectorate is in the woods of Kilrane.  What will they do?”

“It is not the time for revealing the secret of Azragoth to the Xarmnian guards.  They will hear from us soon enough, so it is best if you and those of your company are taken out of the city by the secret ways.  That stone you hold is one of the great stones belonging to the Dominion Crown.  Its size matches those of the other legendary stones. But it cannot remain here in Azragoth.  Every moment it remains among us means more danger for this city.  It will draw other dark things which seek it to destroy it as surely as it did the dragon who concealed it.  You must continue to bear it on its intended journey to The Crown which calls for it.  Though Azragoth has been hidden for a season, that time is soon drawing to a close.  That pearl has demonstrated a remarkable capacity to draw into itself the spilled corruption of tainted blood.  This will aid you on your journey, I think, for who knows what further creatures of darkness you are to encounter on the path ahead.”

“So now you believe in the prophecies?  In the Stone Quests of The Marker Stone?”

Mattox nodded gravely.  “That Stone plinth is more than just carved words.  It holds mysterious keys connecting your world and ours.  There is a reason, your kind are being sent here.  I will no longer stand in its way.  Take that stone, and go do whatever it is you are called to do with it.  My heart has made peace with it, and peace with The One.  I am, at last here with those I can truly call family, and you can bet that I will do whatever I can to defend them with my last ounce of strength and breath.”

“But how are we to leave the city, if it is surrounded by those hunting us?  What will you do about the men and their Cerberi thrashing about in the woods.  What will you do when they find this place?”

“As Ezra has said, we should do as we have done before.  Wait and watch.  Bear arms and watch over these if they attempt to enter the city through the old ruins.  We will engage them only if it is absolutely necessary.  Let them look around.  Find nothing here.  Come to the realization of where they are and flee the city if they are intelligent enough to do so.  Otherwise, if forced, we will do what needs to be done.”

He let those words hang for a moment and rose.

“I will lead you out of the city.  There are still ways to get in and out without discovery.  It is best, though, that you leave soon.  You have rested.  Begglar and Nell both are adept in the healing arts.  You may find that you will gain more strength on the journey.  Gather your sword and belt.  Hide that stone back in this bag.  We are leaving shortly.  The others of your company will meet us outside.”

“But how will we leave?  Through the old gate?  I went into the tunnels below through the grating in an old fountain.  I don’t think I can make that drop again without further injury.”

“There is another way.  This time you will rise and descend through the The Keep.”

“What is a ‘Keep’?” I asked, removing the coverlet and rising to my feet, feeling a bit stronger after having rested.

“It is a fortified tower.  The strongest in the city.  No one suspects that the highest place in this fortification also extends to the lowest places below.  We use the tower silos to store our grain.”

“Great,” I said under my breath, “another granary, here we come.”

*Scene 05* – 13:50 (Monsters in the Meadow) – Part 1 “A Sporting Chance”

Bayek’s horse shrieked as a group of four hairy satyrs encircled the beast, causing it to rear and thrust its forehooves and kickout at them with its unhobbled leg as they lunged in and out.  Bayek glared at the smokey smelling satyr holding the stone knife to his throat.  “Leave my horse alone!” Bayek yelled at the satyrs hectoring his animal, though he could not see what they were doing.  The satyr pinning him to the ground leaned in, spittle and drool, wet its blackened lips and spilled from the hairy creature’s foul-smelling mouth still holding him under its stone knife’s serrated edge.  Its dirty face bore an expression of crazed madness, and its black eyes darkled with delight at the prospect of impending violence and spilling of human gore and blood.  “Horse meat, sweet meat!” the creature cooed, in mock soothing.  A phrase that the other satyrs took up immediately and began chanting as they continued to circle the frightened animal, slashing in feints at the horse as it turned.  Ignoring the others, the satyr growled and hissed into Bayek’s ear, “But which shall we taste first, I wonder, Man meat?”

A massive, six-fingered hand swiped at the creature who had pinned Bayek to the ground, cuffing him with a hard glancing blow that caused the satyr to roll off Bayek and cower in the grass beside him.  The jagged stone knife that had been pressed to Bayek’s throat, fell to his chest, and Bayek quickly snatched it up, holding it defensively out in front of him.  Amid the loud protests of Bayek’s frenzied and frightened horse, the large form that had dealt the blow to its servile henchman, now loomed over Bayek in a growing shadow, gaining hard edges against the nascent morning light.  A sunrise beyond the distant peaks that he might never fully see.

Bayek’s body trembled involuntarily, even as his terror clarified his predicament.  A thrown bucket of ice-cold water could not have done more to rudely awaken him to the danger this shadow borne man-beast posed to both him and his hobbled horse.  Bayek, still prone, quickly raised himself on his elbows, his feet chopping into the grass in a feeble effort to evade the calculated approach of the dread being known mostly in legends and firelight fright lore throughout The Mid-World.  This was The Pan, the dark monarch of the dead woods to the north, a region strangely cloaked in gray mists and unrelenting shades of twilight.  The scary tales told him as a boy had not exaggerated.  This towering monster’s twelve-foot form of ancient brawn, and crowned head, gaining a further two feet in stature with its twin twisted horns sprouting from a wild, unkempt, shaggy mane of black woolly locks was even bigger in person.  Its forearms were sheathed and shagged in long black stringy hair, its shoulders were broad and stacked with slabs of muscle, its fists and long fingers splayed with black stained flesh and long nails portending a viselike grip that could both crush and pommel with its sheer brute strength.  Its black-rimmed lips parted revealing a mouth with double rows of yellowing teeth, stained with whatever horrid, rotten animal it has last consumed.  Its brow was thick, rimmed with rugged eyebrows, shading a pair of deep-set, milky, orbs that seemed to pierce through the shadows cast under its heavy brow.  Somehow, he knew that it sensed him, rather than saw him.

Its voice rumbled with harnessed power and authority that seemed to shake the ground beneath Bayek as it spoke to him, its large hooved foot moved forward ready to crush his body.

“Shethite!  You are far from your city of towers and stonewalls, and in no position to bargain or make demands.  Do you instead wish to beg?” the creature seemed amused. “If so, I will hear your pathetic entreaties.  Go ahead.  Amuse us.  Entertain us with your pleas.  Who knows?  I might be inclined to show mercy.”

Bayek’s mind flooded with questions, mingling with his fear.  What was the dark ruler doing here?  Why were these dark half-human creatures suddenly showing up in the highlands and the rising foothills and meadows?  Were they finally quitting the dark lands where they had remained for so many years?  And what was this semi-shadow, a darkling mist, that persisted in cloaking them now?  Were they somehow bringing darkness with them?  Clearly, the truce brokered by Xarmnian trolls was breaking.  Had the trolls betrayed them?  All indications made it seem so.  Sirens were sending threatening messages to his dread sovereign.  Enlisting him as their reluctant emissary, having slaughtered his troop, but sparing him for the ill-fated and ignoble purpose of being the bearer of bad news to a temperamental king.  A message that would never be delivered, now that he was captive and about to be made into a meal for this dark monster and its filthy entourage.

Bayek’s jaw tightened against the fear that choked his words.  He would not grovel.  He would not beg.  His hands were sweating, and the stone knife felt rough in his clenched fist.  If given a chance, he might die fighting.  There was no way he could outrun the satyrs.  Not without his horse.

The Pan grinned as Bayek’s slowly drew his feet up under him, pushing into a crouch, still clutching the purloined stone knife.  So positioned, The Pan began to chortle, then laugh with that same deep bass that made the ground return a sympathetic rumble.

“So, you wish to be made sport of,” it intoned.  “Very well.  Try to run.  My guardians await you beyond.”

Bayek was loathed to turn away, but he sensed that something or somethings were causing that rumbling in the grassland behind him.

“I’ve tired of seeing these scampering satyrs cavorting and capturing prey.  But it has been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing my guardians take prey.  You may even have the use of your horse, if you wish it.  Make it more of a challenge for them.”

Bayek backed toward the ring of satyrs who sneered and chuckled, as The Pan motioned for them to widen the ring that encircled the wide-eyed horse, turning and snorting.  Bayek cocked his head towards his mount.  The picket stake had been uprooted, and it swung from the animal’s neck.  Frothy foam drippled from the horse’s lips, as he snorted, no longer allowing even Bayek to approach safely.  Bayek carefully edged closer, barely avoiding a front kick from the horse’s hooves.  The animal turned toward one of the satyrs moving into another tormenting feint, and Bayek managed to snag the picket line, moving in closer to avoid its stomping, by pivoting with its shoulder.  Quickly, he freed the horse’s hobbled leg, knowing that there was no opportunity to put on the saddle, he grabbed a hank of the mane, along with the picket rope and swung up on the animal bareback.

The Pan gestured for his satyrs to move back and give the man and beast a chance to believe they might succeed in fleeing.  Bayek wasted no time in urging the frightened horse to gain speed and distance away from The Pan and its satyrs.  He turned the horse and kicked its flanks, pointed back to the edge of the open meadow, hoping to reach the woods on the far side and potentially lose his pursuers under the tree cover.

Suddenly, just beyond him, in the space between the edge of the far woods, from within the deep grasses, huge six-foot segmented stalks suddenly uncurled and raised up, revealing the presence of The Pan’s guardians lying in wait.  Each tall stalk, arced forward, ending in a black tipped barb the size of a man’s dagger.  As the concealed bearers emerged from under the canopy, the articulated stalk jabbed forward in a rhythmic pumping action and the guardians raised their heads, roaring as they bounded towards Bayek and his horse, cutting their sole escape route off.

Bayek had never seen or heard of such beasts, as they had rarely left the dark woods that marked The Pan’s darkened realm, and few who ventured there ever made it out alive to bear witness.  The creatures connected to the tall articulated stalks appeared to be large lions. Eyes big and golden with feral eyeshine that reflected the golden glint of the sun rays peeking through the mountains that had backlit The Pan and his orgy of obsequious satyr minions.  These lion creatures came toward them with deafening roars, snarls, hisses and growls, the noises resonating across the open field, whipping ferociously through the grass.  The scruff of their heads were crowned with a thick mane of brown and tan, their mouths bore two sets of large canines capable of ripping large gouts flesh from a carcass, and jagged carnassial teeth to cut, grind and masticate the flesh for swallowing.

Bayek’s horse reared, and bellowed in terror, turning away from the hunting cats in panic, galloping back towards the line of smaller satyrs bearing their stone knives and jumping up and down in frenzied excitement, ready to catch their quarry at the other end of the meadow.  Bayek barely held on, as his horse turned, running diagonally through the passage line against the advancing satyrs attempting to reach the flank and burst through the satyrs on the edge of the small meadow, before the lion creatures closed in and pounced on them from behind.  Seeing this attempt, the large stinger-equipped lions bounded along at an angle closing the horse’s trail in a crescent move, attempting to hook them back into an encircling trap.

Just beyond the edge of the far wood line, five, tall stalking figures emerged from the dense wood, their limbs exaggerated and sinuous, their height reach fifteen feet or more, their long strides rapidly skipping over much of the ground of the open meadow.  They bore some sort of bundle between two of them, swing it aloft and down, as they paced and strode through the high grass toward the action at the far side of the meadow.  Their legs and arms were fashioned of twisted vines and snarls of living branches their clutched vine enwrapped bundle bore a squat figure who was in no way enjoying this sling and swing means of dizzying and stomach-churning conveyance.

Two of the large lion creatures had succeeded in getting ahead of the horse and man, closing off their retreat.  Bayek’s horse reared and spun again, facing a closing passage, of ferocious monster cats with slack jaws, and champing rows gnashing teeth, tails swishing and stabbing their wicked barbed telsons forward with an excited pulsing motion.

A female voice issued from the stalking figures as the five new congregants joined the excited viewers throng dancing gleefully around The Pan, who was wishing at that moment that he could visually taste the terror of their quarry, beyond the cataract cloud that occluded his vision, rather than just hear it playing out.

“My Lord Pan, what sport are you making, that we have missed?  May we participate in this game?”

The Pan lifted his head and smiled, skinning his yellowed teeth at the recognition of his favored servant queen.

“Ah, Briar, you’ve arrived just in time,” he chuckled, “we were just about to dine.  We were first enjoying some appetizing entertainment.”

“Playing with your food again, Sire?” Briar laughed, her form assuming her feminine wrappings of softened green-hued skin, her elongated legs and arms twisting and shortening into her more lithe and pleasing nymph form.

The bundle of vines, unraveled, spilling the squat form of Grum-Blud out of its binding onto the patches of thick grass.  The troll groaned as it struggled to regain feeling in his limbs.  He curled and flexed his fingers, reaching for the knife he had not been able to wield against the rapid curl of the vines that had snatched him up.

By then, Bayek and his horse were once again encircled by the threatening horde, this time joined by a pride of lion-insect monsters, with their telson and stingers poised to stab the two should they attempt to break the circle.

Briar turned toward the cornered victim, as her nymph followers assumed their feminine forms and joined the group, with Grum-Blud muttering curses under his breath, as he hobbled and gamboled toward the gathering.

As the horse turned, Briar caught sight of the man’s face.  He was sweating, looking wild-eyed at the vicious creatures who surrounded him, but it was a face she at once recognized, looking much the same as it did when she and her kind had confronted the man and his company in the upper trail in Rim Wood.

*Scene 05* – 09:54 (Monsters in the Meadow) – Part 2 “Recognition”

“I know this one, Sire.  And I spared him and gave him a task which he has yet to fulfill.  If we kill him, I will require another of his kind to deliver a message to his human ruler.”

“What…task?” the monstrous monarch asked, an underlying suspicion barely contained within his the careful pause he inserted between the two-word query.

Briar shifted a cursory glance toward The Pan but did not look at him directly. “M’Lord, you remember that we agreed to spare Sonnezum, and give him limited measures of our golden spores.  His need for it will continue to grow now that he has learned of its powers of enhancement.  This gives us the influence we sought to curb his decisions and actions to suit your needs, and give us what we need from among his blood bearers.  Our season is coming soon where we will need to pollenate a woodland with our spores.  We need a wood that is still living, for our old one dies.  The spores grow in potency only on living plants and trees.  That is why we asked to be granted the forest of Kilrane.  It is far enough from Sonnezum’s kingdom reach to be held and defended effectively.  The spores must feed on existing life, even as we need blood infused with our ancient enemy’s breath to sustain us and give us virility.  The measure of spores given him will soon be exhausted, and we will need fresh blood for our seasonal birthing time, and to feed our seedlings.  Now is the time for his return to us.  To gather a fresh supply, and for our nymphs to take from among his followers the sacrifices in payment.  This man was given to deliver the message that we have bidden him come to Kilrane for the exchange.  We had hoped to celebrate this coming following this granting ceremony when you consecrate our new home.  The more this human king ingests our spores, the more amenable he will become to your wishes and plans, under that dependency.”

The Pan snorted, “My wishes and plans?!  Be careful, vine queen, that this is not a ploy to make this pitiful human more receptive to your wishes and plans alone.  I am still the only legitimate regent of this world, as long as the Great Tannin sleeps.”

Briar bowed, “As always, m’Liege.  I am ever your devoted servant.  My will bows to yours.  My servants are your servants first and foremost.”

“We shall see, Briar,” muttered The Pan.  “Everyone has their own plans and schemes.  I am not without my own, should any in my kingdom prove to be disloyal.  Truth bends to Power.  A power I am not opposed to wielding to get past false assurances and duplicity.  Bear that in mind, as you bend and twist your human monarch over his needs for your powders and potions.”

Meanwhile, Bayek and his horse turned from side to side looking for some opening, some weakened gap that they might chance a charge through.

One of the sirens extended her arm which quickly sprouted into searching vines that wrapped around Bayek as he desperately clung to his horse.  With a powerful jerk, Bayek was unseated and slammed hard into the grassy ground, barely missing a half-buried rock from fracturing his skull.  Another whipped vines around the fearful horse, effectively hobbling it and heaving it also to the ground with a thud.

“Pity,” The Pan muttered in a half-breath, and then raised his large hand halting the satyrs from moving in to hack and chop their victims with their stone shards.  One of the manticores, for such the lion-scorpion beasts were known to be called in the Surface World land of ancient Persia, deriving from the word merthykhuwar or martiota, translated as “man-eater”, drove his telson stinger forcefully into the dirt beside Bayek, preventing him from rolling, and reminding the man that he had no chance or hope of escape.

“Hold!” The Pan’s deep bass roar rumbled with the charge and command, again seeming to arise from the ground around them.  “This one will be spared to do the Vine Queen’s bidding.”

There was an audible groan and disappointed hisses from among the group of would-be devourers, but slowing the sirens reeled their binding vines back into their womanish arms and hands, daintily folding them across their chests, demurring but yielding to their sovereign’s order.  The satyrs whined, stowing their stone knives in a pouched sheath around their waists.  The manticores, raised their poised, segmented, metasoma stalks, waving the telson barbs at the tips of that bending branch, showing their deference, along with a chittering screech, mingled with a bass grunting noise, came from deep within their resonant chests.

“What about hor-sez?” a satyr asked.  “May we eat dis hor-sez?”

The Pan, paused and Briar whispered something that only he could hear, and then shook its horned head.

“The horse must carry the man.  It needs all of its parts to do so.  Let the horse be.”

Bayek squinted, not sure if he had heard right, but the other creatures backed off of his animal as well.  The horse rocked itself to its side, kicking its hind legs and tried to rise to its feet once more.  Fear had so gripped him, that he was not sure of anything.  He scanned his motley captors warily adjusting his grip on the crude stone knife he had snatched from the woolly satyr that had first throttled and threatened him.  It was a pathetic tool, but the only one he possessed after the brief skirmish and attempt to run.  Bayek crab-crawled toward the horse, snagging the lead line he had once held.  His body ached from the bruising and rough handling from the siren woman who had pulled him down, but he could not think of that now.  His eye landed on the queen siren that had charged him in Rim Wood with bearing a message to his king and then shifted to the squat figure huddled beside her, who regarded him with a scowl.  That lumpy face, with its bulbous nose, a half tusk pushing against its rubbery lips, its wiry unkempt hair, and its overlong bulbous arms and flat knuckles fisted down in the grass on either side of its stubby fat feet, and rounded pot belly; a face he recognized as well.  Grum-Blud!  That little pile of dung!  The traitorous pig of a troll!  A Xarmnian Troll.

“Why you little pig!” he growled at the troll, “Selling us out, are you?!”

Grum-Blud grunted and wagged a stubby fat finger at Bayek, “Watch yer mouth, Bayek!  It seems you have a service to perform for these beasties, as well.  I wouldn’t go pushing your luck any further with these halfsies, or they’ll have you on a spit in short order.  Go along and do as your told, and you might just live long enough to see another sunrise in the bargaining.  And mind what you say to the king about me.  It may be that he will soon need a mouthpiece in The Pan’s court, as you playing are for Queen Briar.  You are spared for now.  Don’t ruin that temporary status, for you may not be as fortunate to escape the teeth and talons in the future.”

The Pan listened to this exchange and nodded an approval, waving the circle open for the man and horse to ride away.

Briar called after him, as Bayek swung back on his horse rising shakily to its feet.  “Remember the message I gave you, human!  If you do not deliver the message soon, or if Sonnezum does not come to Kilrane shortly, every rustling bush, or stir of the wind in the leaves of the trees may be us coming to find you and put you in a special place of hanging baskets, bleeding and pierced through with thorns as you rot in an agonizing cocoon before we finally eat and drink from you.”

Bayek shuddered and his horse ambled to the side and snorted, turning into the open gap in the surrounding circle.  Unbidden, his horse began to gallop away before these strange, slavering and chortling half-monsters changed their minds, and decided not continue their journey until they had filled their stomachs with blood and flesh.

*Scene 05* – 00:00 (Monsters in the Meadow) – Part 3 “Getting A Head”

As they rode away, The Pan turned to Grum-Blud and addressed him, “And you, Frog-man.  I sense you have come to see me once again, this time in the company of my sirens.  What of your other companions, and the two donkey-men I loaned you?  Why are you alone?”

“Lord Pan, I have but a part and one whole of my companions left, and the one that survived is of little use.  But I have brought you a gift, and a proposal, if you will but hear me and consider it.”

“How careless of you to lose your fellow Frogs.  But what of my onocentaurs?  Have they proven useful?”

Grum-Blud considered his words a moment before giving his answer.  “In so much as they could be, I guess. They have served, though they are a mouthy lot.  But they have given me no more trouble than I could handle, and I thank you for the value to which I’ve put on them.”

The Pan squatted down upon its large haunches, getting closer to the short troll, its bemused expression, giving Grum-Blud some hope that his petition and offering might be considered.

“And what of this gift you mentioned?  What could you possibly offer me, Little Frog?”

Grum-Blud lifted a blackened bag he had carried tied to belt.  “A way to see into another world, Sire.”

The Pan sniffed and smiled, chuckling.  “But I already have this, through my vision pools.  I can look into that other world as much as I like.”

Grum-Blud grinned around his tusk, exposing his crooked teeth, squinting his eyes with his bunched cheeks.

“Ah, but Lord Pan, through the pools you see but in part, but with the gifting of my blood, there is a way of our seeing that only us troll-mades can give you.”

“Pray tell us what this way of seeing is,” The Pan’s mouth raised in a half-grin, lacing his dark soot-stained fingers on front of him.

“A way to see through a living human,” Grum-Blud said proudly, raising the bag.

“What do you have there?” The Pan nodded, hearing the rustle of the bag and smelling the death smell coming from it.

“I told you I had one companion living, m’Lord.  But I have a part of another, though we had the others parts before we were interrupted.”

“Am I to endure riddles from you, Frog, or are you going to explain this to me?”  The Pan asked, growing irritated.

“We trolls have a gift of seeing into humans.  We see their secret fears and insecurities.  We are able to use them to plant thoughts in their minds, leaving a seed of our viewing to look upon later.  That seed was planted by my brother whose head I have recovered in this bag, into one of a recent newcomer to this land.  A newcomer from the Ancient World.  An interloper.  One of the ones who meddle around with ancient prophecies and stone quests.  As long as she holds that terror in her mind, my brother’s planted seed will be able to link to her mind and sight.”

The Pan snorted, “But what good is this to me if your brother is dead.  Can the dead still see the living?”

“No, my Lord, but I can.  For I can peer into my brother’s dead eyes, through the holes is his scorched skull and catch glimpses of that linger seed of fear.  The connection still works.  I call tell you what she sees, and all I need is to keep this head with me to report to you what the girl sees, when she sees it?”

The Pan rubbed his bearded chin, raking his fingers through the oily tangle, scratching it thoughtfully, considering.  “And this is useful to me, you say?”

“Aye, m’Lord, for don’t you see, she will certainly return here sometime soon, for The god of The Stone does not call them here, only to abandoned them.  Some die here, yes, but the living, as long as they are living, will still follow in that god’s purposes.  Every kingdom has its servants, its watchers.  You have winged watchers, and eyes within the forests and woodlands,” Grum-Blud explained gesturing towards the sirens.  “You have these lions that lay wait in the fields, to bring you prey, and reports.  You have creatures with night eyes to provide a watch during the evenings.  I offer you…eyes through a human mind.  One that will find a way back, and into the ranks of those meddlers who might awaken the great beast in the high mountains in the wester land.  With eyes among their ranks, you can always know what they are up to and can trap them whenever you wish.”

The Pan considered the trolls words, and a slow smile crept into his face as the savage field of possibilities presented themselves to his liking.

“And what, pray tell, Little Frog, would you ask of me, to perform this service of insight?” The Pan asked, opening his hands.

Grum-Blud grinned, and said, “For the pleasure of borrowing and briefly commanding your guardians for a task that will serve both your interests and those of my mistress, Queen Briar.”

“My guardians?” The Pan snorted, “What possibly could you want with them?”

“To rid the woods of Kilrane of a linger blight of human infestation, my Lord.  There is an old forgotten city, deep within the woods.  It was once thought to be destroyed by a plague.  It is the one city that led to the defeat and diminishment of the Xarmnian kingdom.  A place called Azragoth.  There is a remnant there that remains of what once was a thriving citadel.  They have a ruin in their outer courts, but the inner courts are hidden behind a dark wall of pitch and possibly something else that prevents the sirens from performing the task.  And there are reports that a stray digger, possibly a mining tannin, has crawled under the city and still lurks there.  Only you have ever commanded the tannin.  Only you know what fearsome creatures they be.  I propose to lead these manticores on an assault to destroy those who remain in the city, and certainly, if the tannin arises to interfere, your manticores may match its ferocity or drive it from its den.  Either way, these sirens will need to be rid of both.  If the tannin flees, you may meet it in its run and subdue it as you once did those who served you in the old mines as the legends say.”

“A tannin?” The Pan rose again to its full height, remembering the past.  How the tannins had served him for a time but then formed golems to distract his followers and deceive them into thinking they were human.  Golems could be useful tools, yes, he thought to himself, but they were loyal to the creatures who formed them.  There was a supernatural connection with those dust creatures linking their minds and allowing them to communicate with each other across distances and with no need for spoken words.  This ability would be useful to him, but it was never within his power to gain it.  This troll, on the other hand, might give him that unconscious insight into another creature born of the dust and breathed into life by his ancient enemy.  The one who had cursed him to this half-animal half-man condition when they had first crossed over into the Mid-World, hoping to appease him who required a blood sacrifice.

The Pan flexed his fists and rolled his massive shoulders, considering all that the troll-frog had offered.  There was craft in the creature’s mind, and cunning.  Surely, his manticore guardians might be able to take down a tannin, or at least drive it out of the woods, as long as the tannin did not go too deep underground.  A tannin was brute enough to destroy the living trees and furrow the land, subsuming it into pits, and depressions.  The land below would implode and be destroyed from below.  Yes, the tannin must be driven out, there could be no question about that.  He had thought he had killed most of those who followed him through the portal so long ago, but perhaps not.  Some had not been creatures of the ancient world.  Those weren’t the most dangerous.  Those may be of the other kind that ruled the air, the waters and… the ground.  The largest one had fallen asleep for centuries in the high mountains.  That one was a creature that could fly and breathe fire.  A second one had followed, and that one ruled the waters of Cascale, the mighty fjords between the lands of the east and those of the west.  It was rumored that the sea tannin no longer plied through those waters, but since the Great Tannin, slept for millennia, who could be sure that the sea tannin had not also succumbed to a lengthy slumber.  And now, this.  A tannin arrives just as the rumored news of the return of Surface Worlders had recently fell on his ears, delivered by the Harpy Delitch.  The timing of it could not be coincidental.  This creature could well be another Prince of the earth, come to take his place as ruler among those who walked, crawled, creeped and nested upon the ground.  Creatures HE ruled.  He champed his teeth in frustration, but turned to the waiting troll, offering to rid him of this fresh annoyance.

At last, he spoke, not looking down but staring hard across the meadow toward the distant woods, not seeing, but sensing a feeling of unease.  “You have my permission, Frog-man.  Take these manticores and lead them into the woods, to this hidden city.  Briar, you and your sirens will remain here with me.  There is a clearing that I remember is in the woods of Kilrane from days before the guardians drove us out of it, and pursued us into the northlands.  There is an old creek that may still flow but perhaps has since gone to ruin.  Frog-man, you will meet us there when you have taken the city.  Do not fail.  If the tannin tunnels, the bog and creek may flow down into his passages.  We will watch the old waters to be certain, and I will deal with the creature there.”

He turned to his manticores, whose shaggy heads appears to have some strange semblance of a human face, rather than natural leonine features.  Their tails raised at the ready, awaiting The Pan’s instructions.

“Mowgrai, carry this Frog-man to where he leads you.  There is an old city within Kilrane still crawling with humankind.  There you and your kind may take what remains and kill and eat all you wish.  When the deed is done return to the swampy creek and wait for me if we are not already there.  This Frog-man have found favor with me, and offers me something only he can give, so he claims.  Do your best to protect him, for he owes me a service after this request is granted.  Understood?”

The manticores nodded, and then one lowered itself to the ground, allowing Grum-Blud to climb onto its broad back, and take hold of its mane.

The Pan stepped forward and put his massive hand on Grum-Blud’s head.  “Give me the head.  I will keep it until you return.  I wouldn’t want it lost in the fighting to come.  If you fail, know that it will be this very hand, I will crush your skull so that nothing might remain of your eyes or your small mind inside this bone casing, but juices which will pour through my fingers.  Lie to me, and I will know it, one way or another. Now go!”

The Pan sighed, holding the bag Grum-Blud had surrendered, wishing he could watch what might follow.  So long he had watched the old world through his mystic pools that he had lost his natural vision.  That trade off had stolen from him the pleasure of watching the blood sport that would follow and left him potentially vulnerable to a lurking tannin that might be seeking revenge for what was done to its kind long ago.

*Scene 06* – 00:00 (Time to Go)

All nodded assent and signified with a fist raised to shoulder height.

“Thrax will hold the gate and station archers to the south and east watchtowers.  Let no one walk upright across the battlements.  Remain unseen.  Have the young children brought indoors.  Secure them in homes furthest from the inner city wall.  Allow the youths old enough to bear and carry swords to stand as pages to the soldiers manning the heights.  Have them carry extra quivers to feed arrows to the archers if need be.  Draw up the tree nets from the old courtyards, and set them as covers on the stone walls in the old courts.  They will look to be mere overgrowth to an old city surrendering to the wild, but spikes within will sweep them to their deaths if the need arises.”

The soldier/messenger who had delivered the news, asked, “What of Lorgray’s company in the backwoods?”

“Lorgray and I have spoken of this possible scenario before.  He knows what to do.  They will ensure there are no stragglers left to report what may transpire.  If any Xarmnian posts are left behind, they will deal with them.  If any reinforcements follow this company, they have orders to destroy the bridges and secret way left still intact after the passage of the light-bending dragon creature.”

I weighed in, “How can we help?”

Ezra addressed my question, “Leave Azragoth to us.  It is our city and we know best how to defend it and keep its secret.  We’ve been doing it for many seasons now.  There is some great potential among your company to gain the needed skills quickly, but they still do not know our city as we do.  There will be other fights for your team to be ready ahead of you.  I’ve given them a start, but they must acquire additional skills in travel.  City fighting is much different than the warrior skills needed to survive the wilds of the open road.”

Maeven spoke up, “What can the Lehi and I do?”

The Eagle, Mattox, remained silent, but Lord Nem turned to her and spoke for both of them.

“It has been decided that the time has come for you to follow Mr. O’Brian in this quest with the other Surface Worlders.”

Maeven was stunned, here eyes widened, not having considered that she would be expected to ride chaperone.  To part from the city she had come to regard as her home for the last twenty-one years.  “B-but we could create a diversion.  Lead these hunters away.  Engage them and draw them out of the woods.”

“No, Maeven.  That would only assure these Xarmnians that they were close to discovering something that your team wanted them to move away from.  Even if your team were to draw them out of Kilrane temporarily, they would soon come back in greater numbers, suspecting your efforts.  Your team of Lehi riders are needed here to defend this city.  You have served well, but it is time for you to go.  Ryden will assume command of the Lehi.  He has been your trusted lieutenant, and knows the role well.”

Maeven looked from Nem to Mattox in shock.  Their faces were grim and determined but clearly saddened to have to be giving her this news now.

She turned to Ezra, “Did you know about this?!”

Ezra reached out to take her hand and said, “Maeven” but she pulled it back, feeling betrayed by her adopted family.

Mattox, who had trained Maeven in the ways and skills of warfare, and had helped her to build up her confidence and overcome her once shy demeanor, spoke quietly to her, with a gentleness that I had a hard time imagining could have come from him.

“We spoke of this before, Maeven.  You knew this day would one day come, and you know why it is particularly important for you.  You will always carry us wherever you go, but it is vital that you learn how to return before it is too late to do so.”

Maeven breathed, inhaling deeply and exhaling as if trying to find a way to stay calm.  And something else was in her expression that I had not expected with all of the bravado that she had demonstrated before as leader of the Lehi.

Fear.

*Scene 07* – 00:00 (The Keep)

We were gathered together as a company, my fellow travelers and I, joined by Maeven, Begglar, Nell, and Dominic, as they had considered Nem’s and the people of Azragoth’s invitation to stay in the city, but chose to decline it, in favor of life on the open road with us.  Corimanth, elected to remain, as he had seen his share of adventure and bore the scars and wounds to show for it.  The Lehi, the specially trained elite horsemen and women, whom Maeven had led for a season, were joined back into the regiments of The Eagle, as he would have need of them in the coming days.  A detachment of The Eagle’s regiment would be left to buttress the defenses of the city’s inner walls and guard the cavern entrances below the city to ensure no further unwelcomed man nor beast would discover and enter by the secret ways.  Both Nem and Ezra had pressing duties that required them to take their leave and say their goodbyes to us and wish us well on our continuing journey into the interior of the Mid-World lands.  They said if they did not see me again in this life, they were certain to meet me again in the next one.  They spoke to each one of us individually, and to my shame seemed already to know the names of my company whom I had yet to receive.  Each was given a choice weapon from the weapons array in their armory, and Ezra knew instinctively which one was suited to each person’s skill potential, carriage, and bearing.  How long had they trained with Ezra while Nem and I had had our discussion and I had been rudely shown the underside of the city of Azragoth, I wondered?  Ezra had lived through many seasons as he was an aged man, but his insight and keen eye were as sharp as it ever had been.  He saw potential in people, and that made him naturally endearing and imbued them with confidence that they could be what he told them was possible for them.  Nem’s mind for planning and organization, was shown as he seemed to orchestrate the quick preparations for our journey onward, dispatching Azragothian citizenry to bring traveling garments and packs suited to each person to distribute gear according to each one’s ability to carry it while walking.  A plan had already be set in place ahead of us, where we would rendezvous with cached supplies, be provided with horses for the plains, stable and transition from horses to wagons to bear a shipment of supplies into one of the villages in the lake district to support the resistance, and seek passage across the lake to the Xarmnian country and the forests and mountain range beyond them where the Capitalian cities resided beyond the pass and the great wall separating the two warring kingdoms.  But first, we must get through the stone mountains, on the other side of the valley, before making the plains.  That trip would be dangerous, as the rocks and ledges were unstable and wild and ancient creatures lived within.  The Half-Men.  Even the Xarmnians feared and avoided the Half-Men creatures if they possibly could.  These were the only inhabitants of the Mid-Worlds whom they did not try to conquer, or demand tribute or homage from and they did everything they could not to provoke them.  But the time for speaking of these has not yet come.  We will get to these others in due course.

When we had said our last goodbyes and thanked the Azragothians for their hospitality and for taking us into their homes and their confidences, it was The Eagle who waited, to chaperone us out of the city by the secret way.

Armed, packed, geared and loaded, we rallied to the end of the courtyard, and Mattox addressed me, as the others waved goodbye to Nem, Ezra, Corimanth and Morgrath, the captain of the city Sentries departing from the opposite end.

“We must go to The Keep.  It is the only entrance into the caves, aside from the one you and your dragon created outside the pub.”

Still feeling leery and a bit strange about the turn of events and my new commitment to extend Grace to this man, I hesitated to respond.  My suspicious mind told me that this man could still be leading us to our deaths below the city or directly into the hands of the Xarmnian Protectorate troops that had pursued us this far, but my spirit tempered these thoughts and beckoned me to remember the transformative power of the One whom I claimed had called me to this mission.  Hard as it might be, I was being led to trust him, as these Azragothians had with their secrets and their very lives.

“Is there a problem we should be aware of?”

“Your company has no idea what is ahead of them.  The Pan has savaged the woodlands cities, and you will be in grave danger going through the great stone mountains for there are many rock Trolls living there, and creatures you will have to see to believe they could ever exist.  The Half-Men have suffered bad seasons lately and they are growing more wilder than they have ever been before as their bloodthirst increases.  They have even taken to eating their own kind but would be delighted to change their current fare if they discover your company passing through their lands.  Be careful.  These are not the same creatures you and I fought in days past.  They are not so dull-witted or easily fooled.  Their animal nature still is at war with their ancient flesh of man.  And there is a sort of brimming madness about them, that has finally allowed them to subvert their bestial nature to serve the primary interests of their tormented and cursed half-human minds.  Such that, now they demonstrate a cunning deceptiveness they once did not have.  There is something else, some otherness, within them that seems to have come from the Surface World of your time.  If you have the unfortunate experience to encounter one of them, do not think you can treat them as simple-minded as we once did.  You will regret it as they close in to eat you and your company alive.”

I nodded, having had only past experience with The Half-Men creatures, and did not know they had become more trouble of late as they were always a sort of clannish reclusive bunch that shied away from heavily populated areas.

Rarely seen back then.  I knew now more than ever that Nem had done me a great service by forcing me to deal with my pursuer and thereby find the strength through the quickening once more.

“There also is another thing I may need to mention to you before we enter The Keep just ahead.”

I looked up at his suggestion and saw a great stone building reaching several stories upward, spanning several meters across, with a rampart crowning it above, and a joined tower jutting from its side ahead of us. Its base stood upon the edge of the city wall, and below in the wilder courtyard, it was festooned with purple flowers, white iron weeds, and green bushes around the sloping road and a widely paved stair.

A rook tower blocked part of my view, but Mattox saw me gape in amazement at the sheer size of the edifice and city’s stronghold.

“What is it you should tell me?” I asked after a bit.

“That you and I and all who follow us here will have to first go up to the top there before we can go down into the caves below.  It is the first test of how well your company may endure the climb in the mountains beyond.  There are stairs in the adjoining tower there that lead upward.  But the one and only descending stair that leads down into the caverns below begins at the top of the turret battlement.  There is a winch-and-pulley system that allowed heavier gear to be lowered below, but it is not intended for people.  There are granary chutes where grains gathered below are poured into the cavities of one of the hollow towers within, but it is filled such that the inner stairway only goes down to the level of the grain stored within.  All lower levels are filled with the tonnage of grain, allowing us to survive and make bread enough for a city under siege and walled secretly within.  The Keep serves as our main storehouse and is our way into and out of the city, save by the old unused paths through the outer gates.”

It took us over an hour’s long journey to make the ascent and finally descend into the caverns below the city.  By the time we reached the cavern floor, we were exhausted from such a climb.  If climbing and descending the stairs of a tower was this tiring to us, I could scarcely imagine what a climb through the mountains ahead of us might be like.

As we filed through the corridors and tunnels, where I had once tracked and fought the dust dragon, I had the uneasy feeling that something was still left unsettled.  We passed a partially collapsed tunnel that I felt somehow drawn to.  It may have been this place where I first encounter the Dust Dragon, but I could not be sure.  I raised my torch and saw a little of the interior beyond which looked to be filled with stalagmite columns, so I dismissed it as being nothing more than that.  Much to my regret, I would later learn differently.  That I should have followed that urging in my inner spirit to take the time to investigate.  But, I did what most of us have done many times when we feel a particular prompting.  I dismissed it, and rationalized it away.  There was some connection between that interior and the dust dragon, I could sense that strongly.  But, Mattox and Nem both had assured me that the creature was dead, that by cutting out its tongue I had ensured that it would never rise to hunt us again.  It had died, not from the fall that broke its back, but from the poison, it had ingested flowing from its own tongue.  This was, after all, a spawn representative of Deception.  A kind of beast roaming the outer ring between our Surface World and this one.  As Surface Worlders pass through the portal, they invariably permit one or more of these supernatural set of creatures to follow them into this one, because of the blood curse that is upon all mankind.  That, Mattox said it the reason why Mid-Worlders are reluctant to welcome a Surface Worlder visit.  The baggage they bring with them is more often than not something sinister and supernatural.  That is why very, very few portals were permitted to remain after the Earth’s great flood.  Why the surface of the Earth was reshaped by the megatons of water bursting from both the firmament below and the sky above.  The Great Sculptor was taking the clay and reshaping it using both physical and Living Waters.  The path of light and its connection with gravity no longer gave entrance easy entrance into the mid-world lands through the places among the stars.  The physical path to the Holy Mountain was forever closed to all mortals.  The One Way, chosen by mankind was through the paths of pain, suffering, and death until all corruption falls away and only the eternal part of man remains.  The Doorway to the Holy Mountain, and to the Throne of the Creator remains open only through One Way, and One Man who paid a terrible price for that entryway to remain open to all mortals of Earth.  A joining into the Vine and a fellowship of Spirit made knew.  Man must be reborn to see hope and must be cleansed of all mortal and soulish corruption to survive a face to face meeting with his Maker.

Perhaps, I shouldn’t for the purposes of the story, reveal what was in the corridor that I did not investigate.  But this far in, I feel like I should.  What I had believed to be stalagmites, were rank upon ranks of standing pillars.  Each standing pillar was composed of a curing mud and clay mixture, each of varying height, and girth.  If the light had found its way into the chamber, the rows and rows of pillars would look vaguely familiar.  Each stood in regimental attention, with roughly human features, akin to the terracotta statues of warriors standing in rank in ancient burial tombs, waiting to serve, in a future afterlife, the eternal spirit of the warlord or king whose human remains had been entombed there, upon his day of resurrection.  The arms, legs, and torso of each figure were compressed as if the body form was bound in a sort of clay cocoon.  The faces of each of these statues lacked definition as if these were metamorphosing into individuals which awaited something further to happen.  Some catalyst to complete their final transformation.  Four of these statues had progressed from their transitional state into a more advanced stage of definition.  The clay and dust, flakes and silently drifted to the floor.  These were identical in height and form, arms and legs, chest and shoulders defined with uncanny and eerie detail.  Like the other hundred or so forms beyond them, only their faces lacked definition, but that was beginning to change as well.  In time, these would be able to stand across from me on any field and within any room, and I might only mistake them for a moment as being a mere reflection of me in a mirror.

The Dust Dragon has evidently been beneath the city of Azragoth before, and this legion of transforming statuary had been the product of its consuming the rock and earthen foundations of the city above it.  The formations had passed through its mouth and been through the mixer of its unique salivary wash, formulating a clay-like substance called Marl that could then be reshaped into a hollow, bloodless husk that approximated human form.  The word for such a malleable clay-like form was a golem.  The golems formed and expelled through the creatures molding gills, awaited only one more component to give them the semblance of life, so that they could pass for and walk among humans.  A breath.  A spirit and some form of intellect, which would infuse them, and interact with others in such a subtle way that those they walked alongside might never know their sinister secret and difference.  These were why the Dust Dragons and the wind spirits, we came to call Banshees, had such a unique and symbiotic relationship.  The wind spirits needed bodies, the Dust Dragons could formulate them at a cost.  The Banshee who takes and inhabits a body formed by a Dust Dragon must serve at the bidding of the Dust Dragon as its agent and slave.  But most often, the creature’s interests were one and the same.  Deceive and torment the citizens of the Mid-World, and particularly target any visitor to these lands coming from the Surface World.  These especially must never, ever discover who they really are or what they are meant to become, nor meddle too much in the affairs of the peoples of these lands.

The regimental lines of faceless golems awaited within the dark stillness of the caverns.  Without the Dust Dragon to mentally summon the Banshees, the wind spirits rarely if ever blew through the cavernous underground to be able to reach these golems.  But as we proceed along, under the city towards the secret way through the surrounding forest, I distinctly remember feeling an oddly chilling breeze at my back.  Had I but investigated the rooms, and seen the figures standing there, awaiting faces, I would have been able to displace them all into dust with a mere touch of the honor sword.  As it was, however, and in my ignorance, I took the only known honor sword in the area (for many of them had been lost, destroyed or repurposed to serve some more obsequious purpose), and bore it with me on a quest into the interior, and considering what was ahead of us and behind us, perhaps never to return to Azragoth again.

***************** End Chapter 28 here

*Scene 03* – 00:00 (Briars and Nettles)

The forest pressed close around the Xarmnian hunters, a living wall of thorns and shadow. Every swing of a blade sent a spray of damp leaves and nettles into the air, the scent of rot and rain still thick on the wind. Hadeon’s arm ached from the steady rhythm of cutting, but the sight of the cobblestones emerging under the muck stirred something fierce and determined within him—an enraging proof that the old defiant road still lived beneath years of neglect.  The old routes through the woods of Kilrane, though overgrown and succumbing to the creep of the dense forest, once were serviceable enough to allow traders and travelers to pass over them on their way to the old city.  Hadeon was certain that the section of the buried road they had spent half the night clearing would eventually connect to a stone bridge that spanned the northern graben connecting the forested wing to the raised horst, a central flat shelf upon which the city was built on a descending terrace of earth and stone.

The men of his Protectorate band worked in shifts, rotating down through the narrow lane, uncovering and clearing more of the path, their axes biting into the tangle of roots and briars that had extended from the forested lane’s verge.  Each strike echoed faintly through the trees, swallowed quickly by hiss of the evening mist and dripping from the sodden canopy. The Cerberi shifted restlessly, their hackles raised, nostrils flaring at awakened scents long buried deep in the soil. They whined low and uneasy, as if the forest itself whispered warnings only they could hear.  The three-headed, slack-jawed creatures had tried wriggling through the thick briers, only to be cut and abraded by the thorns piercing through their thick black furry hides.  Finally, the men had had to cut a few of the more intrepid creatures when they became entangled and snared in the thickets, and Hadeon had ordered that the dog beasts be harnessed and restrained once more, to keep them out of the way, until the barbed impediments could be cleared.  They had spent hours in the darkness, hacking through the thick overgrowth to the point of exhaustion, until Hadeon had ordered Kathair and Tizkon to backtrace through the road and see if another way through the dense wood might be discovered.  Clearly, this portion of the old road was no longer in use, but that was not to say that another part of it was unserviceable.

Farther ahead, Tizkon’s voice carried faintly through the drizzle, calling out to Kathair as their teams veered westward. The faint glimmer of their sputtering torches flickered between the trunks, swallowed by the gloom. Somewhere beyond that curve, the lost city waited—its name half-forgotten, its stones buried beneath the same creeping green that now resisted their every step.  The portion of the old road previously discovered had petered out and crumbled into a declivity where the rains had washed its pavers into a moistened gully.

The rain began again, soft but relentless, drumming on leaves and armor alike. Hadeon lifted his gaze to the canopy, where the ancient branches intertwined like the ribs of some vast creature, and pressed forward into the dark.

“We’re wasting time in this muck!” he growled.