justbeyondthebracken

[justbeyondthebracken]

10.

The hallway was pristine. Each slippered footfall tapped quietly on the white marble floor. Eight acolytes followed Tulavio, a high priest of the Only. Tulavio was young for a high priest, only in his early thirties. He wore a white linen robe, a degree of translucence displayed the the markings on his arms, chest, and legs. Intricate tattoos, all markings to the Only, covered his body. The tattoos stopped at his neck, a hard line that circled from one side to the other, connecting. His face was clean shaven, his eyebrows removed. He had long eyelashes that lent a certain darkness to his gaze. His head was shaved smooth, too, but not without adornments. More tattoos upon the skin of his skull, runic prayers to the Only. 

Tulavio marched solemnly, his eight acolytes moving in lockstep, the actions overlaid upon one another, imprinted on one another. 

tap. tap. tap. tap.

The slippers of Tulavio and his acolytes moved quietly enough as they sought entrance to an alcove for mid-morning prayer. The sunlight seemed to glimmer on the grey veins of the white marble, warming the cold stone after a night in the shroud of dark. Tulavio stopped, coming at last to the alcove he had been searching for, and was nearly trod upon by his acolytes. Tulavio felt the breath of the tall, teenage boy, on the back of his neck, and only barely restrained himself from reaching for the switch attached to the thong of leather about his wrist. He felt the handle of the switch upon his palm, the smooth, hard grip called to him. His eyes flicked about. There was not another in sight. Still, they had not run him down as they had days before, so there was, perhaps, some sign of progress. 

Tulavio turned, marched off to his right, toward a bell-shaped opening that lead to a small, courtyard full of greenery. “Here we will all be together, be a part with the Only,” he said as he lowered himself to the ground on the grass near a 12-sided fountain spraying gouts of water into a pool. The stonework was intricate, the piping system even more so. The bursts of water moved around the fountain in concentric circles, the spray racing around the fountain.

The acolytes, all boys and all less than 17 years writ upon their bodies, followed suit. They fanned out in a circle around Tulavio who began their prayer to the Only. The prayer featured words spoken and words uttered in refrain by the acolytes. There were movements involved, gestures to the great Only who was the very essence of the aether, the very being that filled the interstices between the fibers which created all. 

When the prayer was finished Tulavio’s pate was covered in the slick sheen of sweat. Even the boys, who lacked the piety of Tulavio, were wearing a thin layer of sweat on their bodies, despite the lack of linen clothing aside from the perizoma each boy wore. 

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9.

And in one fell swoop Auranda felt like she had been out maneuvered by the Only. She was fraught with grief. Her body shook. The palpitations of her heart threatened to leap out of her chest, crawl up her throat. She made the sound of a low moan without decay mixed with “oh.” It was a truncated thing, torn apart by the emotional onslaught that coursed through Auranda. She withheld sobs, found that her strength kept her at a tight threshold just above that level of grief. But the tears came, they smeared her face with the red dust pervasive in Lost.

Pulling herself together, she took several short breaths to bring oxygen into her lungs, to steady and calm the ululations. “And you take,” she said, pausing to suppress a sob, “you take from them what you take from the others?”

“Yes, child.”

“I’ve never seen anybody with eyes like Wind, with eyes like yours, living in the city,” Auranda said, her voice had a slight tremor, the sneaking of incredulity.

“Perhaps the power of the Only is strong. Perhaps their great holy one brings about their physical healing. Perhaps other medicines and magics are delivered to his high holiness, for mine is not the only power in this world.”

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8.

“He’s still alive,” the old seer said.

“I know,” Auranda replied. She brushed the bangs from her eyes, the bangs that weren’t there, the bangs that didn’t exist — yet.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because I need to know everything. I need to know why he was taken. What are the Only using him for? Why can’t he come back home? I miss—” she choked on a sob, leaning forward at the belly.

“You don’t know, you don’t believe me,” said the Eye. “You want me to see it through your eyes, you want me to recite every sodden detail. You want to know he’s not pained, not tortured. You want to know that he’s okay, even if he’s miserable. You want to know that you can swoop in, find some way to rescue him. You want to use the information I provide you and use it to every advantage. And, in all of this, you think you’re the first to do so.” She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disgust. “You believe you’ll leave Lost, cross the dust ridden paths back to the city. You don’t believe that the rumors from the city. You find them based in conspiracy, that any can enter lost and learn their fortune, learning all, and that they can leave unimpeded once they cross that threshold.”

The Eye raised her hands as if to call thunder down into the dirty basement with its candle light and solemnity.

“You don’t believe, never believed, that the Only seek out those who learn their truths. You think, again, that you’ll leave here and return to your plotting and planning, but you’re wrong.”

“How... how do you know?” Auranda said with a stammer. Her best laid plans seemed suddenly far from tenable, the bedrock of her foundation rattled by the Eye, rattled by her wit.

“Worst of all,” she began, “You’re so hung-up on all the details that you never explored the possibilities that your journey was tracked, too.

Auranda sat up straight, eyes wide, a cold sweat forming on her brow.

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7.

Auranda brushed the jacket out from underneath her and sat onto the red-dust floors. She was an open-mouth stare, uncomprehending that which presented itself to her. The third eye blinked at her. She found herself reflexively jumping, startled that it wasn’t an elaborate scheme, some clever paints and bad candlelight to present the illusion of a seer. The priests had always painted the Trovokia as a dishonest people. They were poor wretches with loose morals. Prone to lie, cheat, kill for whatever wanton desire they had. This was not a kill or be killed methodology, it a bestial in its very nature, the raw depravity of their poverty was an honorific, so the priests were prone to saying.

“You are searching,” the Eye said. Her voice was even, soft, soothing. In only a few words Auranda knew that the seer could lull her into an endless sleep if she spoke and spoke and spoke. “You come to Lost with hopes to find. But you must give in order to take.”

The riddle was labyrinthian, it wasn’t that it was beyond her understanding, more so that the vocal patterns were pleasant, soothing, bringing succor where there was heartache. She was lost within them, warm and comfortable within the maze. Was it a false sense of security? Would she give until there was nothing left to give? Bled dry of all she had.

“You seek a brother, stolen, you believe. You believe him kidnapped by the clergy of the Only. Believe that he is now enslaved by them, doing the bidding of the theocrats who hold dominion over all of our lands but you come to the Eye, you come to me, because you know that none hold dominion over the folds of the future. Woven into the very fabric are the tiniest threads to pull, unraveling the greatest plans. Of course, known to you, is the understanding that the threads have a connectedness to the great and vast beyondness, that which you will never understand, never know its magnitude, the midden heap of bad ideas clinging to the goodness we wish to bring about by meddling about in these things. You, sweet child, wish to bring about a new future in all the planes.”

With that, Auranda was transfixed. The soliloquy was a mother’s lullaby despite the machinations of doom that fed the undercurrent of message. The seer’s voice came at a whisper, “If you wish to know of the futures, if you wish to know which threads to pull in order to supplant the will of time then you will give me your sight.”

Auranda looked into the cataract eyes of the seer and saw a vision of herself reflected in their white haze. She wore her hair down, long bangs swooping over milky swirl of her eye, hiding the deformity, hiding the price she was made to pay.

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6.

Wind reached the last of the stairs and stepped to the dirt floor. The walls of the foundation were stone, holding the squat stucco building aloft, but here in the basement a dusty red layer covered the dirt and clay. Auranda didn’t noticed the familiar grit of oceanic sediment that covered the floor, only felt the familiar grating of particles on hardened surfaces. She followed Wind, not blindly, as some light flicked and flitted into and out of her view at the bottom of the stairwell.

She studied the back of his head as he stepped fully onto the landing. The bald patches, hair gone missing or fitfully plucked from his scalp, drew her in, made her feel parched with a thirst for knowledge and understanding of Lost which she didn’t possess. She reached the landing, her presence pushing Wind forward. He turned to his right and she followed. In the center of the wall she walked along, which opened into a large, rectangular room, was a candelabra, an agglutination of melted wax in a myriad of colors and hues, the lengthy wicks running deep throughout, sprouting like saplings from a formless, shapeless mound.

The firelight of the candle wicks danced and darted about the room. Auranda took in the flickers, found herself dizzied as she spun away from the candelabra to be treated by dozens of mirrors hung about the walls, reflecting the sparks into the million stars of an atmosphere. She gasped and reached out reflexively, talking Wind by the shoulder for a moment to steady herself. Wind shook himself free, moved his arm up and caught an orb which had flown through the air. Auranda took a step back, bumped into soft solid of cooling wax, left her boot print mark, etching herself into the temporary as Wind plucked a piece of fruit from the air.

“Go now, child.”

The voice in the darkness was soft, with the temperament of a loving parent who gave and gave and gave.

“Sit, now, and I will give you what you seek.”

Auranda’s eyes adjusted and she saw the Eye seated, cross-legged, on the floor. Each ankle resting on the opposite knee. The woman was old, ancient. Her white hair hung in strings from a head with dark splotches of pigment. Dark splotches of pigment which stretched in misshaped blobs all over her body, piebald, mottled, vitiligo. The skin hung from her arms in paper thing folds. She wore dark colored garments, black cut with burgundy, in a sort of loose fitting whole body covering, cinched about and tied with rope at the waist.

The crone’s most defining feature, however, was not the eyes filled with cataracts but the single eye in the middle of her forehead, an equilateral distance from pupil to pupil to pupil — could you but see them.

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5.

The clank of a hammer striking hot metal reverberated through the streets. Auranda wondered what the citizens of Lost would need with a smithy but nails could hold boards which supported roofs, mended walls and crates. She supposed metal smithing wasn’t about weapons exclusively, that it could yield more than a simple sword had momentarily been lost on her in the desolate section of the city.

After a time they came to a a squat building, the windows were all shuttered. The door was a thick slab of oak, perhaps a discarded table from more prosperous years. The boy stopped at the door, stood before it and knocked on it with five, swift knocks upon it.

The door opened without further provocation. The young boy moved through the passage, beckoning her to follow. Auranda bristled with a nervousness but she moved one step forward. Then another, and another.

Incense burned from tiny holders hung from the ceiling, one in each corner. Her nose tingled at the smell, while its scent was pleasing she found herself disturbed by the lingering smoke. The tendrils were sucked by the drafts running toward the the crevices and cracks in the windows and doors.

Darkness enshrouded the room, only sprinkling bits of candlelight helped to illuminate their way toward a set of enclosed stairs leading below ground.

“What’s your name?” Auranda asked, her voice a whisper. He paused mid-step, turned and looked at her, his face serious. She struggled to read the emotions in it.

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “Or, I have forgotten, it has been so long.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“You should call me Wind,” the boy said.

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4.

“Follow me,” the boy said. She took in his features. His hair was matted in some places, missing in others, whether pulled out or simply not growing, she could’t say. His hair was a deep black, and didn’t match the softness of her own. It needed to be combed. His body was skinny, borderline malnourished. He walked ahead of her and she watched his bare, brown feet slap against the dusty pathways. The soles of his feet calloused, dirty. Each step was a spring setting off, he bounced and bounced as he moved ahead of her.

For clothing he wore ripped linen for a shirt, there was a hole for his head to fit through, the rest was wrapped loosely about, tied off with twine in places to prevent it from blowing about every which way. Cloth covered his genitals and revealed only a portion of his posterior. The loincloth was fastened about with a worn rope belt. This is poverty, she thought.

He turned to face her, to usher her along in his foot steps and she noticed for the first time that one eye was glazed over, all white with cataract. His lips were puffy and pink, chapped with dehydration. “Are you thirsty?” she asked as he turned around to face her. The boy shook his head.

“The Eye protects us,” he said. “Clothes us, feeds us, gives us water.”

She found herself speechless. The boy’s stomach wasn’t distended but she felt like it was only a rough week away. He started up again, flashing her a smile as he turned away from her. He began moving further into the squalor of Lost, the detritus and grime that she had expected wasn’t there. While there was dirt and dusty, she had expected there to be waste everywhere. She had expected the streets to run with urine, for the smell of nightly chamber pots to be spewed upon the broken cobbles each morning.

But there was no scent untoward, there was no waste running in rivers through the streets. This was not what she had expected.

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3.

Auranda followed the instructions and stood, mouth open, panting. She looked into more and more buildings. These buildings, however, showed signs of life. Bodies moved about, hanging clothing on lines strung between buildings. A man wringing a dirty wet cloth into the walkways below — soaking a man below who cursed and cursed. She watched the bustle of the secretive people, yet none seemed to watch her.

She lifted her hands to her head, tied her bow again, tightening and straightening a ponytail come loose of its binding as she navigated the labyrinth of the empty city sections. There were some, those she had spoken to, those who trusted in the Trovokia medicines and magic, who had told her that the way to the Trovokia people was as magical and elusive as the very people themselves.

She lifted her hands from her hair and raised them high above her head in a stretch. She breathed in a deep breath, practicing a slowed breathing to help quell her nerves. She had regretted not bringing a wine skin of some watered down summer wine. It would have helped ease her thirst.

Her exhaled breath let out a small whistle and a whistle came in return. Sitting on a shabby awning some 15-feet away, bare feet dangling above the street, sat a young boy. She saw that his left hand looked different from where she stood. The hand seemed to curl in on itself, the arm thin and frail compared to the right arm. The boy continued whistling and eventually she looked away from him, back to the people she had been watching. When the whistling stopped she looked back and saw that the boy was walking toward her.

“You ‘ere for the Eye?” He asked.

Auranda could only nod.

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2.

She looked back at the prosperity she left behind, looked back at the towers with the clay tiled rooftops and the tiles surrounding the inverted teardrop windows in their intricate, colorful patterns. The smooth, stucco structures thrust into the air in a display of wealth, of power.

Auranda referred often to a small, crumbled piece of paper she held in her hand, never letting it go.

Walk beneath the the sign of Abernathy’s Jewelry then make an immediate right into the alleyway. At the end of the alley take the stairwell into the stone building with the double arched door. Take the stairs within the building to the roof. Walk across the roof, toward The Only Towers, use the planks to create a bridge between this building and the building adjacent to it. Heading straight, along the parallel lines of the divide you will use the planks to make two more bridges. Take the stairs down into the final building, the never ending serpent is painted upon a doorway there, enter it, walk down the stairs to the first floor. Exit the building, head away from the towers. Walk through the crumbling necropolis, home of the former ruling class, by following the only brick path. Then, at the end of the path, at the exit, trace Trovak’s symbol into the air and wait for the Watchers to arrive.

She knew that she must follow the instructions to the letter. Any error would be the total denial of her existence by the Trovakia people.

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1.

Turning into Lost corridor, as it was known, revealed the ostentatious display of wealth held within the coffers of religion. She looked into down the street at the grime of Lost and felt the palpable divide that existed.

Her hair was pulled back, tied with a deep blue ribbon. Loose strands of blonde floated on the breeze blowing in off the sea, they called it “The Breath of the Only.” She wore tan pants, a white blouse tucked in, and fitted tan jacket, the length of which hit just behind her knees.

Looking into Lost gave one the sense that city workers drew a dividing line here, didn’t go any further. She pushed her foot forward, her leather boot pushed over the edge dividing Lost from the civilized. A line of grime pushed against the toe of her boot, pushed aside, running in tiny muddy rivulets alongside both inside and outside edge.

Finally she pushed on. The Mouthpiece of the Only watched her go from his tower, watched as she walked into the Lost with a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. His shoulders slumped in resignation. He shook his head and turned to the portrait hung upon the stone wall. The Only stared back. “Another Lost,” her murmured, kneeling before painting and bowing his head in prayer.

The Lost corridor was a swath of abandoned buildings, taken over by feral children, addicts, murderers, and soon-to-be-murderers. Everyone was a whore, for a price, because to deny that you couldn’t be bought suggested you had worth, and in the slums you didn’t. But she was not Lost. No, she was looking for some one.

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Part 5.

Lilac was a mess. Her body was covered in the black sand, stuck to her sweaty skin. Her rib cage in pain, bruising undoubtedly forming all along her right side. She was gasping, sucking in breath after breath, trying to regulate her breathing and finding the task difficult. By force of will alone she pulled herself to her feet. She wondered why the beast hadn’t pursued but soon found her answer: Silas.

The old fool waved the torch at the beast, thrusting it toward the snapping jaws. It was a dance with an untimely rhythm. Silas would work his way closer and closer, waiting for the beast to strike and then wave the torch wildly in its direction. It didn’t matter that the flames never once met the flesh of reptilian form, it was the light, Lilac realized, that kept Silas safe.

As her breathing steadied Lilac could hear the snapping jaws as the rows of teeth smashed together. She could hear Silas grunting as his footfalls sank into the sandy beach, twisted at his ankles. His shirt already damp with sweat, his breath labored. She didn’t know how long he’d last but the blinding light of the flame would be their best shot.

She thrust the rod out in front of her, hoped that it would act as a diviner’s rod for her weapon and began a wide sweep of the area as she walked quickly about. It felt like hours had passed before she found her axe. Still, Silas danced about in front of the creature, trading near misses back and forth. Lilac lowered her body, bending at the knees, and hefted the axe up, onto her left shoulder, and, still using the improvised staff, stiffly yet quickly, walked toward her protector.

“S’time to be bold,” she said, coughing spittle and the bile remnants about. “Drive at it, see if we can get it to its haunches.”

“It’ll never work,” Silas replied.

“Ain’t gotta choice,” she said, coming right to his side and handing him the staff of petrified wood. “You ain’t got much left.”

“You’re looking much the same,” and the last bit was said with gusto as he swung wildly at the albino.

“No choice,” she said, “no choice. We go now!”

He was ready, perhaps he’d always been ready, and they both ran headfirst at the lumbering leviathan. The torch in his left hand and the staff in his right the thrust the torch at the beast, as it twisted to its left he gave the creature a quick slap with the staff, forcing it to confront the flames had on. Lilac watched the red-orange glow bouncing about the pink albino eyes as the flames licked at the scales. When finally he beast reared up to avoid the flame she made a leap, brought her axe into the soft underbelly. Blood sluiced out through this opening of flesh. The beast fell and Lilac had to dive out of the way to avoid being crushed by its girth. She blinked sand from her eyes, watching the beast retreat to the water.

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Part 4.

Both Silas and Lilac roared, the tendrils of fear were laced with bravery in facing the unknown. It wasn’t much in the way of a plan but even some of the largest animals could be scared off by the very presence of humankind, by a strong voice and large body, by brandishing flame. Lilac had heard the stories. They could try to sneak by, turn their backs to the creature and run along the rocky outcropping alongside the beach, exposing themselves, the scent of their terror lingering behind them. 

It was to the surprise of both Lilac and Silas when they rounded the gapping maw of the massive, rotting fish, to come upon a large reptilian creature. It’s tail was looked to be as long as either of them. It’s hind quarters were thick with twitching muscles. The haunches were up into the body, giving to Lilac what she hadn’t put together before, the creature had risen on those hind quarters, stood upon them, and tossed something back into the water. The power to lift the sagging belly, to pull the massive shoulders up against gravity was awe-inspiring. The reptile’s back was covered in a hardened, translucent carapace with veins of cerulean running through it. Beneath the carapace it’s true skin was revealed, the white Lilac had seen previously. A milky pallor, the cream of the cat’s bowl, was the defining feature of this creature. When it’s head finally pulled from gorging on the offal its snout protruded a foot from its face, several short horns jutted out and most of it was covered in fish guts. 

They had stood there, on the very precipice of uncertainty, for what felt like minutes and the beast had not turned toward them. Silas stood unmoving and after holding and waving the torch aloft for sometime he let his arm fall. Lilac knew, in that moment, that this beast had no predators here. It would never be prey. Its size, its power, unrivaled. In a swift motion the reptilian beast tossed an enormous meaty chunk of fish into the water. Another beast, similar in size, rose from the depths and caught the chunk. This reptile too was white and it stood out in the blackness. The splash they had heard was its girth slapping into the lake. 

Lilac took a tentative step forward, the violent energy building inside her was swelling, set to burst without release. A terror gripped her as she calculated the ways she might scare the creature away. One blow, she thought, I only need one blow. Another step and still the creature had not turned her way. It stared out into the vastness of the underground lake. Lilac watched, too, wondering at what it looked for out there. And then she found it, quite by accident, as the creature still within the depths circled about a clutch of eggs bobbing near the surface. 

Lilac had severely underestimated this. This was pissing standing up with your pants around your ankles. She’d been made a foo by mother fucking nature and Silas would pay for it. Silas, whose eyes were wide with the same discovery still yelled a mighty yell at the top of his lungs. He had paused for a breath and continued yet neither of the pair had made any attempt at protecting their scavenged meal nor their unborn. 

“S’fucking deaf,” Lilac muttered. She snatched at Silas and began backing away slowly. As the moment dawned on her, the realization crushed like a stack of rocks pressed upon her chest. She found breathing more difficult. She found her breath snatching out of her lungs in short, truncated hisses. Her axe grew heavy. Silas kept pace, not moving too quickly, and showing absolutely bravery or madness, the line ever-blurred, as he stayed beside her through the ordeal. 

Silas nodded, whether it was truly deaf or simply ignoring their fervor and profound stupidity wasn’t a point worth contending. “We’ll continue to back away, once we’ve made our way back to the stone path we’ll run for a ti—,” his voice caught, her breath caught, stuck like a lump in her throat that she couldn’t bear to swallow. 

The creature turned back to the fish and its pink, albino eyes, sitting atop the front of its skull, gazed out in the predatory manner so befitting of its primordial purpose — to remain at the top of the food chain, maintaining superiority over the living domain within the cavern lake. It made no sound as it looked to them but its long tail slapped the sand and water. The water splashed around the length, arcing in two distinct plumes to the right and left of the tail. As the mists settled Lilac caught sight of the creature protecting the eggs, it’s head rising from the blackened water, two menacing rows of teeth as its jaw opened and closed. 

The stink of rotting fish still hung and Lilac’s nerves seemed to be failing, she begged herself not to retch, not to spill the contents of her stomach, but she had never been particularly religious so prayer made no difference and she certainly hadn’t been one to espouse much belief in herself. She started to speak but found she couldn’t contain it and her stomach emptied, stinging up her throat with the spice of peppers and bile. She wiped her mouth on her bare arm, tugging Silas forward while he had tried to drag her back. 

The creature moved with speed, it’s four legs scrambling through the sandy beach toward the rocky outcropping where they hoped to find safety. It was on them soon, lunging from ten feet away and closing the gap quickly as it leapt through the air. Lilac managed to shove Silas back, he stumbled several feet before his feet tripped him up. He managed to keep the torch lifted high but the distance between he and Lilac widened. 

Lilac had but a split second to leap backward and pushing Silas back had caused her to misjudge the creature’s timing. Her jump back was interrupted as the snout of the creature pushed into her abdomen mid-light. The force sent her sprawling, she let the axe drop into the sand and tucked into a backwards roll as she hit the sand. She dug her fingertips into their black grit, grabbed two fistfuls and tucked her legs into her body, crouching low. The creature lifted its front legs two or three feet off of the ground and turned its hips, moving its body toward her position. It sprung at her and she sprung back. As the two bodies in motion flew through the air she let loose one fistful of sand. She’d had no line of sight of the grains as they flew toward her intended target. She’d fallen out of Silas’ circle of light and was blind but for the white body and cerulean veined crystal carapace. 

Her leap and been short and she landed nimbly and made the correct decision to spin, left shoulder over right. The jaws snapped and missed. She heard the creature give a frustrated hiss. It began to gag, reflexively, to suck upon its own gums to bring fresh saliva to the granules of sand uncomfortably scratching the inside of its mouth. Lilac knew it wouldn’t last long — the diet of the beast was likely one of scale and bone, the sand was a minor irritant.

She swept her right leg side to side, then her left, fumbling away, searching desperately for her axe. Her left foot brushed against something, rolled overtop of it, really, and Lilac reached down to find a long stick, an old, ancient stick, whose wood had absorbed the calcium from around it over the vastness of time. It was better than nothing, she knew. 

The creature had rebounded from its previous lunge and moved cautiously toward the lithe figure of Lilac. Its head tilted, moved left over right. Lilac saw, truly, for the first time, the fanned bone ridge about its skull shielded its neck. With the carapace shielding its spine, the bony ridge shielding its neck, Lilac’s options were growing more and more limited. 

The poor woman didn’t have time to dodge the blow of a tail whipped around. The creature had planted its two front feet into the ground and popped its back end into the air as it swung its hindquarters toward her, the 7-foot tail smashing into her ribs. Lilac felt a sharp, shooting pain overcome her body, knew that the blow had likely cracked several ribs. She wheezed, gasped for breath, wondered if she’d opened a hole into her longs as she panicked, jugular vein pulsing and straining as she tried to lift her body from the black sand. She hadn’t dropped the petrified wood, had managed to hold on to the 5-foot pole and she pushed herself up onto her knees, panting wildly as excruciating pain pulsed through her body. 

“Jus’ fucking die ‘ready,” she spat out, blood running down her chin from her split lip. Whether it was an encouraging word to the beast or herself she wasn’t certain.

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Part 3.

Lilac passed the torch back to Silas, slowly, eyes watching, squinting in the darkness, in the direction of the sound. They moved on slowly, careful of every footfall, careful that no stray rock would go sailing into the brook with a splash, revealing their presence. She wondered if it mattered, wondered if whatever was there hadn’t known they were here already, wondered that the reason she was here in lieu of somebody else was on account of them being too chicken shit afraid.

“Maybe they was right to be chicken shit,” she said. “Guess we’ll see.” She didn’t hold back. Didn’t hold the quiet in. Grabbed Silas by the cuff of his shirt and pulled him onward at a new pace, one with renewed vigor. “I know ya said Abner couldn’t fit through some damned crevice, know ya said it was safe n’all that, but something don’t feel quite right an’ I get the feeling you’re knowing more than you’re telling. So it’s to this now,” she paused for a breath, “We’re gonna head to the source of that noise and we’re gonna kill whatever makes that sound. I’m a-gonna hit it and hit it and hit it with this gods damned axe as many times as it takes.”

Silas could only nod. He wasn’t one to play coy and if he had any clue about what was ahead it seemed he truly didn’t know, or she figured he’d have told her. Still, her frustration had blossomed into a cold anger now. Tired of the dark, tired of being spooked by over gods forsaken noise, tired of stubbing her fucking feet on these tiny stalagmites that weren’t any higher than her boots. “Gods damned caves,” she said with a groan.

She tried her best to navigate toward the sound of where she had thought she had heard the splashing but after navigating to the shoreline of the black sand beach and seeing nothing untoward she wondered if the sound hadn’t come from further out, had reflected back upon them, the cavern playing tricks on them, throwing sound this way and that.

The smell that had prevailed for so long now came to face them head on, pungent and burning, a smell most foul. It was the smell of flesh lacking preservation, the smell of rot and decay neatly wrapped in a cavern lacking winds strong enough to do more than slowly pull it toward an exit.

Lilac was taken aback when they arrived upon the source of the smell. The first sign was the blood and bits of flesh that had been scattered about the room. The flesh had come from a large marine animal, some beast of considerable size, which lay on the beach, it’s spine toward them. The thick black skin pierced, punctured, and torn away in varying spots, where nature’s carnivorous scavengers had come to feast upon a veritable buffet. Taking it all in was a bit much. The smell was the very essence of putridity. It stung the nostrils with the vibrancy of stale blood and empty stomach contents. Even a wisp of bile lingered in the air.

“Certainly looks a fish to me,” Silas said in a hushed tone.

“That thing’s been dead for days, ain’t that thing makin’ no splash,” Lilac replied. She couldn’t believe he had chosen this moment to be a wise ass. She flexed her fingers on the axe she carried and stepped one tentative boot into the black sand beach. She kept her eyes drawn ahead toward the fish, length and girth of the typical oxen, but made furtive glances toward the shore, always expecting that the sound they chased had tucked itself away, eyes lurking just high enough above the water to break surface tension with a blink, eyes lurking, watching, waiting for them to get close enough to strike.

When the third splash came she had seen a flash of white that had popped out from above the rib cage of the dead fish. There was a scuttling and dragging sound. When those quieter sounds slowed and finally stopped Lilac held a finger to her lips, casting a glance to Silas with her pointer finger still pressed firmly to her lips. The torchlight lit her face and Silas watched as she mouthed, “Saw something,” and then she pointed two fingers to her eyes and pantomimed her line of sight directly over the center of the bloated food source.

On bated breath they moved slowly, closer and closer toward the fish, eyes and ears straining for any sign of movement in their direction. Lilac’s resolve to run headlong toward the sound had weakened, and now she took tentative steps closer, but found that a cold sweat dripped down her back, made for clammy hands. She shivered, briefly, to ward off cold or to suppress fear, she wasn’t sure — she felt both.

The sound of chewing became more and more present at this distance. Lilac could nearly touch the fish, not that she’d want to, but she could. She pressed her right foot into the sand, it sank, the give of the beach made for tenuous footing. The light of the torch was nearing the head of the fish, would soon make its way beyond that threshold, revealing the secret of itself, if it hadn’t already been noticed bobbing this way and that as they walked. Lilac turned back and gave Silas a nod. “We run, screamin,’” she mouthed, then held her left hand above her left shoulder, she counted backwards.

Three.

Two.

One.

[justbeyondthebracken]

Part 2.

Silas and Lilac walked onward through the wide open caverns. They followed the small brook, watched it widen, grow deep enough to drown someone in. The water sat near motionless and the cavern grew damp. The occasional drop of water from high above would fall, landing silently upon them, splashing into the crevice with a mighty plop, or moving unbidden from stalactite to stalagmite — of which many had sprouted from floor and ceiling. The smell hadn’t disappeared either, and with time even began to become more pervasive, penetrating the flimsy excuse of hiding the scent with desert liquor and worn cloth. But Silas’ promise of coin kept one foot in front of the other, one hand white-knuckle-gripped about her axe and the other outstretched for balance.

They came then, finally, to the underground lake. There was a black sand beach and the waves did lapse, slowly, tenderly against the shore. There was, Lilac noticed, some stretch that appeared to be receiving a swath of light. Some sort of natural tunnel from high above that reached down into the depths, perhaps. Still, it wasn’t near enough to light anything for Silas and herself.

She was, however, mesmerized by an anomaly within the underground lake. Some distance out was a mass of glowing globules undulating near the surface. The slow and steady waves would lift the globules up the crest then fall slowly to the trough. “Huh,” she said, then clucked quietly to herself.

“Hmmm?” Silas replied, his eyes had been elsewhere, looking beyond her and toward their path to the glade. She didn’t need to know precisely where he looked, only that his thoughts were singular in this. He had spoken of the grotto, spoken of several of its variety. He was possessed by the very existence of these ‘peculiarities’ he called them. This expenditure was not the first time Lilac had heard Silas talk on the subject, this was just the first time he had deemed her old enough, wise enough, strong enough, some kind of enough, to be considered the escort him into the unknown.

Lilac turned around toward Silas, tapped him in the chest with the back of her hand and then pointed out into the lake.

“Strange,” he said. “They appear to be aglow, light from within. How fascinating?”

“Sure,’ she said, “S’fucking weird an’ all. Shit like that’s why you need help? Jus’ dunno what lurks down ‘ere?”

“Something like that,” he said with a smile.

His smile seemed unchanged, in darkness or light, or even over the years. It had been that same smile since she met him when she was only a kid. His hair just as grey then as now.

“Used ta do this kinda stuff on your lonesome?” Lilac asked, still watching the amorphous globs of light rise and fall.

“Used to, yes, but it started getting a bit lonely,” he said — still grinning. Lilac rolled her eyes at the answer. She’d never seen the man carry a weapon in all his years but he’d spoken of hiring help on more than one occasion. Even had help when he first explored this cavern here, too bulky to squeeze through a narrow passage and unwilling to go on by himself. Didn’t have no reason as to why. Lilac wondered at who he’d hired but didn’t think to ask any further questions.

“When ya wanna eat?”

“That certainly came about suddenly,” Silas said.

Lilac shrugged. Her stomach had been long growling, low rumbles hidden by the stamping of earth beneath their feet, by the flame flickering and crackling and whooshing through the air. “Dunno, hungry, I s’pose.”

Silas slumped his pack from his shoulder to the cavern floor and began to dig through a pocket. After a moment of giving it a go with one hand he passed Lilac the torch and began to dig with both hands. When he arrived upon his intended item he pulled it from the pack with vigor. “This should staunch your hunger pain... and if you thought your firewater was spiced... this might cauterize your esophagus.”

“My what?”

“Your throat. It’ll burn your throat,” Silas said. Lilac nodded then grabbed several strips of the dried meat from his grip.

Lilac lowered her mask, crinkled her nose for a second at the stench, then sniffed at the seasoned jerky. It had a zest to it, that she should tell, but there was something fruity about it. Almost tropical. She took a bite, clenched the dried meat with her molars, sunk her incisor in and gave a hard tug with her hand. She chewed and chewed, and then swallowed. Silas had been right, the heat was intense, and it lingered, but there was a sweetness to it that she couldn’t define.

“Where’d ya get this?” she asked, intrigued. “S’got a tropical flavor.”

“Oz’lin tribe people. They’re antlered folk, but welcoming of strangers, particularly those of us who don’t carry weapons.”

“Ain’t never heard of ‘em,” Lilac replied.

“And that’s no surprise. They reside in the tropical, sunnier climes. A land of fresh river fish and crustacean and the sweetest, juiciest fruit. They also grow several varieties of peppers — many of which feel hot enough to incinerate.”

Lilac nodded in response. She’d always sought out spice but most of the time she’d come up empty handed. Wasn’t exactly the type to be finding somebody else to cook her meals. Salt was about the only condiment she kept at hand. When she came through the pits it held high value considering the offerings proffered by the pit bosses. She sighed, reminiscing on the fighting. The glory was fine enough, but the winnings had helped her to settle, to find permanence.

“Course here y’are now, traipsing through some damned cave hours outside the city,” she whispered, mouth full of jerky. “Some lady y’are, Lilac.” She hadn’t intended Silas to hear her, and she was near to certain that he hadn’t, but she’d been wrong plenty of times in her life. Not as if it’d matter, he knew who she was, how she’d got where she’d got. She shrugged. She had just snapped another bite off into her mouth when the splash returned. This time it was followed by a wet, slapping thud.

“Sounds like a fish flapping out of water,” Silas said.

“Hopin’ like fuck y’ain’t wrong this time, Silas.”

[justbeyondthebracken]

Part 1.

“This torchlight ain’t enough,” she said. “Seemsta me that the light gets swallowed up right quick. can’t see much past 10 or so steps.”

“I know, I know,” the old man replied. He was behind her, four short steps away, always close enough to feel safe. Even if he wasn’t. “It’s close, my bones know it’s close.”

“Here’s to hopin’ y’ ain’t wrong, Silas. Don’t reckon you’ve got the coin to afford paying me to delve again another day. Don’tcha get me wrong, now,” she said, the trace of a grin curled partway up her check, stopped by a puckered scar, “I’d rob ya blind if takin’ ya as my employer weren’t so gods damned profitable.”

A loud splash echoed through the cavern. Lilac stopped, her muscles tensing. She was sweating, had been sweating, climbing about the twisting and turning tunnels. In one arm she held a crude looking great axe, a triangular shaped chip on one side. In her other she held a torch. Her arms felt heavy and tired and sweat and dust and other grime coated them. Her black hair was cropped close the the scalp save for two dangling braids that started just above her right ear. The number of times she’d been pulled about in the pits by those braids was innumerable but she had no other way, far as she saw it, to keep the the memories of a family left behind.

Lilac thrust the torch at Silas, “Hold ta this,” she hissed at Silas, trying at secrecy in a moment of terror. The old man, in his 60s, but still fit enough for a journey through Abernathy’s had to practically pry the torch from her dappled brown and white hands. Silas had always admired Lilac’s vitiligo, told himself he’d be hard pressed to pass her up if he were some considerable decades younger. Taking the torch in one hand he laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She flinched a moment, then her nerves settled.

“How far?” Lilac asked.

“How far to what?” Silas said, suppressing a shake as he did so.

“‘Til we’re gods damned there,” her fear a palpable thing, with barbs that seemed to latch onto any ol’ passerby.

“Well, that splash indicates the underground lake isn’t too far away. We’ll walk along that for some stretch, and then one final tunnel, width enough to fit two carriages side by side. That’s our cue. From there, ain’t more than a few minutes walk to the glade.”

Lilac harrumphed, then: “And just what do you reckon that splash was?” She turned her eyes on him, looking hard at the old man, his skin stretched tight over his body, none of the ill fitting sag of the jowls or arms flabby. Even at this age he looked as if he’d wield her axe nicely, if she deigned to let him, which she hadn’t. Still, without a liver spot or hair grown from his ears, he had little outside the grey in his hair and beard which identified him as anything other than middle-aged for a human.

“Hoping it was a fish,” he said, and Lilac watched as the prominent lump in this throat bobbed toward his chin and then down again.

“Shhhhhhit,” both quieting Silas and submitting a half-assed attempt at bravery that it was probably more than a fish.

Silas waved the torch out to his right, looking for something. She tensed, hoping that his search wouldn’t cause undo notice. “If’n it even fucking matters,” she said under her breath. Silas would’ve ordinarily been capable of hearing it but the sound of the flame as it resisted the air made a low groan as it passed. He gave a gentle press with his hand, urging Lilac forward, further toward the waterfront.

Knowing that the water existed, that somehow this enormous underground cavern contained the entirety of a body of water, was something that her brain struggled to fathom. One too many blows to the skull has that as consequence. Lilac sucked phlegm into her throat, spat onto the ground in resignation that onward was the only way forward.

Lilac didn’t move on in total darkness, the ever-moving flame of the torch seemed to swoop out, front to back to front to back to front to back and so on, repeating, so much so that she thought she might succumb to some hypnosis. Lilac decided against it, decided she just didn’t believe in it.

“Here we are,” Silas said, the volume of his voice far greater than she felt comfortable enduring. She spun and glared at him, shrugging his palm off of her shoulder and bringing a finger up to shush him. She pursed her lips in frustration then caught herself in time to see that Silas had found a tiny crevice that moved away from them. “We follow this, leads straight to the lake.”

She found herself nodding in acquiescence. A job was a job, and so on.

The two moved onwards, ears ever strained listening for another echoing splash but none came. When Lilac had finally let her guard rest more easily the sent of fetid water rose to her nostrils. Looking down into the crevice she saw water and mineral deposits in the malodorous brook. She was surprised she hadn’t noticed them before now with the gentle breeze pushing its way toward the fresh air beyond them at the mouth of the cave.

“I don’t remember this stench,” Silas murmured, shaking his head the whole time. “I know I’m old — it just doesn’t seem like something so easily dismissed.”

Lilac looked hesitantly about like some stinking beast was lurking in the darkness. She flicked her blade with thumb, felt the dry skin rub roughly against the axe, shredding away those flecks of skin near falling off, an old tic — one not worth breaking, should she slip up sometime and get more than those tiny pieces that got stuck in pockets, take a whole thumb or some such.

“Slip a shirt over yer nose or tie somethin’ ‘round it if’n it’s a problem for ya, Silas.”

Silas looked to her and she had already taken to tying a few scraps of linen around her nose and mouth. She pulled the stopper off of her flask and tipped it back. She sloshed it around, only a swallow left, and handed it to Silas. “Firewater,” she said. “It’ll burn a bit but there’s a lingerin’ of cinnamon, oughta help cut some a the smell.”

Silas took the flask and gave a tentative sniff. “This is desert concoction, yes?” Lilac nodded in response. Silas put the stopper into the flask then tucked it into the crook of his arm. He reached into his pack and pulled a spare shirt from within. He grabbed the shirt, putting his face through the neck hole and stopping, pulling the arms back around his head and tying them off, giving himself a full face covering. With his face and nose covered and only his eyes exposed he pulled the flask back, removed the stopper and took a pull. His lips smacked against the wet cloth of his shirt-mask, then his face contorted as the burning started, but thereafter he was left with the spicy cinnamon smell.

“Push on then,” Lilac said.

[justbeyondthebracken]

I watch the rain fall in blinding waves from the window of my room. The drops coalesce into sheets, liquid executioner’s blades falling from the clouds, battering the window, shaking the shutters with violence. I sip at the kav, the mug warm in my hands. Sitting, facing my window, watching sheet after sheet fall, several strides from the crackling heat of the fire, my breath blows plumes of steam and I imagine that I too can float off until I dissipate.

I wish I could vanish. I want to vanish. All for different reasons.

I will myself to vanish. Watch as my hands disappear first, leaving the mug of kav floating in the air. This is my will now. My desire is to be so invisible as to be almost unnoticed, to go without detection. The tendrils of invisibility writhe and wriggle down my forearms, move past my elbows, snake-tongue-dancing-to-understand as it licks my shoulders, moves up my neck, covers my throat, my face, down my chest, covering me entirely, after a time.

So I advance upon the mirror. The nude form I expect to see is nowhere to be seen. The steam of the kav stops as I near the fire but the mug itself is suspended, an inorganic bird mid-flight.

I am fucking invincible.

Beside the window is a table. Upon that table is a leather satchel and held within a series of rags dipped into bottles, twined about the top to keep the contents from spilling. Can I will this object to invisibility? No, no, I cannot. I try anyway, just as I tried myself. The result is not as expected. Or it is. At this point in time how can I be sure. I shut the satchel, holding it upright to preserve the liquids. A spill is a setback.

Pulling a cloak from its hook upon the wall I tie it around my neck, the clasps cool on my collarbones. I moved to the window, floorboard giving an irritated growl in reply, then remove the latch that held it shut. I tuck the satchel into a pocket sewn into the cloak and then throw the window open. The wind pushes it back, threatens to dash me upon the very walls of my room, but I have embraced the violence, I am prepared for this moment. Right arm up, dragging the corner of my cloak over my nose and mouth, shielding my face, and then step out onto the rooftop. The clay shingles are slick, water running in tiny rivers to one wide waterfall that drops to rock below.

Scurry and scamper like that rat that I am. Fingers nails scratching and scraping the clay, looking for any purchase and finding none, slipping and sliding on the bony arse of a man, me, who could probably stand to eat now and then.

This is, of course, the moment where falling off the roof and falling to my death on the streets of Agonth penetrate my thoughts with intensity. Now is when I die. Fitting to wind up dead and unseen, little difference than before.

But, oh, what cruel fates have intervened with malignancy. Where I should have fallen to my death found me sliding to an idle stop just before the precipice. I can only shrug.

With a sigh followed by several deep breaths I steady myself, steady my breathing, try to reassemble my poise. The rain slams against me, against my invisible skin, runs down my body, giving me the form of some watered spirit, some demon sent from one god or another. A faithful representation of a half-truth.

Looking below the roofline I spot the window ledge, slide over the span between me and it, and lower myself, toes grasping to find purchase, and with time they do. Reversing my already tenuous grasp upon the roof I move my right arm, followed by the left, to grab the the underside of the overhand. Crouched between roof and window I am a bare-arsed, cloak-flapping water-slapping fool on this night, in this weather. Even still.

To come to even footing on the cold, hard packed dirt not yet trod upon by hoof and wagon wheel and with the detritus and shit of the chamber pots not yet flowing down these artificial tributaries of rot and disease I am able to find my destination with feet cleaned by the rain every footstep.

When I arrive I listen at the door but hear so little. Only the noise of the rain pitter-pattering against the roof, against the walls, washing over them. I move to a window and cast a furtive glance into the home. The embers of a low fire burned in the fireplace, but I had already watched the hissing chimney. I saw no candles. Saw no wakeful eyes wide open upon a face gripped with the terror of the storm. Not empty, then, but asleep.

I try the window but it’s latched. I could try to undo it but that seems... difficult without all of my tools. So I try the door and find it unlocked. Cute. So cute to feel so safe.

There is no need to adjust to the darkness but it seems almost unbearably hot and stuff. To be polite I hang my cloak on the hook near the door. The dripping droplets of water the rhythm of the boat against the dock, the ferryman has come.

Ollo is fat and snores. He is a pig. He is cruel.

I lay my satchel down at the table and pull out a small bottle, remove the twine, and administer several droplets into his open mouth. It is easy. Come morning he will not wake. I will collect my payment and feel no remorse for this job.

Wrap the twine once, twice, three times around the bottle, slip it into the satchel and walk to the door — these things come easy. I put the cloak back on and arch my back at the cold of the cloth. A quick intake fo breath, startled when I shouldn’t be.

In the time the rain has leased by the shape of me still exists. I had made it but four houses away when a voice rang out, “Gods man, you’re stark naked in the middle of a storm! Haven’t you any decency?”

I ran toward the guard.

I wish I could vanish. I just want to vanish.

[justbeyondthebracken]

The domed roof of the hut sagged under the weight of the snow. Every so often Swift and Steady would rise from his pallet of pine needles, hoping that he would not wake his lover, and brush snow from the smoke hole. When the snow piled it become stuffy and the lingering scent of thickened smoke became sickening. The bark and reeds covering the hut were successful in cutting the morning’s bitter wind. The deerskin flap was held firmly in place with hooks, the wind occasionally buffeting against it, sucking it in than out and creating the occasional slapping sound. It was this sound that had woken Swift and Steady to begin with, this sound that had reminded him that the smoke inhalation was irritating and would disrupt his sleep. Not that it mattered, the sun was close to rising now and he found that sleep alluded him.

Swift and Steady looked up his lover. Admired the way his antlers hung off the pillow, the soft, velvety fuzz that he occasionally stroked as they embraced. Swift and Steady knelt at the pallet and caressed the antler with his knuckles, with the back of his hand, and smiled. His lover stirred, eyes squeezed shut, lips curled in the naive smile of sleep that could not anticipate the hardships of the day. His lover reached out, found no purchase in a body next to him, and curled his knees toward his chest, a pill bug beneath the woolen blankets.

———

Swift and Steady donned the ornamental crown of his tribesmen. He had been crowned chieftain by the elders and today he was to perform one facet of his duties: treaty with the civilized.

It was important that the sacred lands, that the burial grounds of his people remain their own to hunt, to gather, to grow and cultivate. Intrusion upon these lands would be an affront to his father and his father before him. These great men and women who wore the ceremonial crown of his tribesmen before him and who had held the line when the wolves of the castle came to circle their prey.

Blessed by Sunlight moved closely to his side. He found the empty space between palm and hip and laced his fingers into Swift and Steady’s fingers. He give a quick squeeze, strong, firm, but tender. The two men looked to each other, each just glancing from the corner of his eye, to find his partner steadfast beside him. Swift and Steady leaned slightly, pressed his shoulder into Blessed by Sunlight’s shoulder, leaned his antlers toward his partner until they rubbed gently, then straightened.

“Have my scouts reported,” Blessed by Sunlight asked.

“Not yet,” Swift and Steady replied. “But the day has only recently graced us with the light of dawn. The King Regent will be slow in arriving. He is unaccustomed to cruelties of winter this far from the amenities of his castle.

“The wind drifts are half a man tall in some places,” said Blessed by Sunlight. His reply was no more than a nod from Swift and Steady.

The smells of the breaking fast of the tribesmen pulled Swift and Steady from his thoughtfulness. His stomach was the thousand knots of a bird’s nest. He groaned. Equal parts hunger and nervousness. Blessed by Sunlight sensed his unease. “You hunger but fear the retribution of your stomach?”

Swift and Steady provided another nod then adjusted the floral crown that wrapped about his antlers. Purple crocus, hellebores, berry laden holly and juniper. Come spring this crown which spoke for his people would take on a new life as the warmer, wetter months ushered in flora of new varieties.

A young woman dressed in camouflaging clothing, clothing that was sun bleached to a stark white with dark lines to mimic the bramble and branches of the woods, emerged from the tree line surrounding the clearing. “They arrive, brother.”

“Have you informed the elders?” Swift and Steady asked.

“I have made it known to them that arrival is imminent,” she replied.

Blessed by Sunlight squeezed Swift and Steady’s hand, a hand grown clammy with cold sweat. It is a small comfort to be by your side, Swift and Steady mused. He squeezed back.

His sister stared at him, her gaze lingered on the lovers, worry — a paragraph quickly written atop her brow. “You think I’m wrong, you don’t believe what the gods have told me? You don’t believe that the elders have sold me, have sold us — all of us, to be enslaved so they can know comfort before death?” His whisper was cold, acerbic.

“In my life I have never doubted you, brother. I only worry that what comes to pass may be our undoing regardless of outcome.”

Swift and Steady’s eyes softened. This moment of fear could infect them all, a darkening cloud spreading amongst them, a torrential storm to flood out the gates of strength and wash them all away.

“Today, sister, we fight against tyranny, against rulers who have little respect for the ways of our people. Against rules who would have us shave our proud antlers to nubbins simply to integrate into their society. Whose tyranny is further forced upon us by elders tempted by the honey pot of greed,” he paused listening. The song of the summer bird whistled through the mellow murmurs of morning. “The time is now.”

— — —

The King Regent wore the colors of his highness, a deep purple and rosebud red. The namesake red flower was stitched into the tabard of the bannermen beside him. The purple tabards did little to hid the chainmail beneath, though it was no sign of aggression it did not ease the mind of Swift and Steady as he wondered at the outcome of this day.

“Lord,” Swift and Steady said, nodding his head in accordance to the politics of the court. In this Swift and Steady saw himself, carried himself as an equal. “For generations the people of your kingdom have traded with my people, even before there was castle proper, so the oral histories have told me. I stand before you as chieftain. I am chosen by the elders as the highest emissary to you and your king whenever conflict should arrive. I am Swift and Steady, high chieftain of the Uk’uroth tribe.”

The King Regent nodded. Swift and Steady continued, “Today we meet to make treatise until the next mid-winter. After we have agreed upon terms we will, as always and ever, invite you to share in our customs of song and story, and to dine with us.” He stopped, gave time for the King Regent to reply but silence rang out for an uncomfortable moment. Swift and Steady let the silence linger and then spoke again, “I suspect you have the terms...”

The King Regent raised his arm high into the air and swiped in an arc away from his body. The summer birds sang in a chorus befitting a morning typically followed by the longest of days, yet winter still held fast. There was a scramble in the woodlands about them. The sounds of drawn bowstrings thrummed but no arrow met its target. Men and women grunted, shouted in pain, and then the silence, the awkward, uncomfortable silence returned — this time Swift and Steady held his tongue.