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* – 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.

*Scene 04* – 00:00 (The Spoils)

The wrapped parcel sack Mattox had given me, I had affixed to my belt, as an unspoken indication that I had resolved to trust according to the inner promptings of my spirit.  Mattox seemed satisfied by the gesture and then turned to all of us.

“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 that Mr. O’Brian and the others of his company be taken out of the city by the secret ways through The Keep.  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 can leave no survivors.  Kill their beasts as well.  Do we have an agreement?”

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 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.”

*Scene 05* – 00:00 (Time to Go)

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 06* – 00:00 (Grum-Blud’s Plan)

Grum-Blud is brought by the Wood Sirens to stand before The Pan to give his report and make his pitch to enlist The Pan’s Manticores to assault the old city and clear out the remnants still living in Azragoth and whatever lurks beneath it.

*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.