by T. S. Church
Shortly afterward he began to sweat, a cold sweat that erupted from his pores and drenched the bedclothes. He was familiar with his ailment, and despite the potions that the druid had brewed for him, he knew he could not expect his condition to improve. He doubted that he would ever be rid of it.
Lying there, he recalled the taunts that his blood-brothers had heaped on him those many months ago, before he had escaped.
You can’t change what you are, Gar’rth. You’re one of us. You can’t change the way you’re born!
He had escaped, crossing rivers and borders, living off charity where he could before accepting the fact that he had to steal to survive. The one thing he never did was to harm an innocent person-that was a rule he would not break. He could never do that, for if he did then he knew he would be lost.
After the sweating came the spasms, which wracked his body as if there were something inside that hungered to be released. As he tasted his own blood in his mouth, he sniffed the mixture of crushed herbs that Ebenezer had prepared for him. Usually they soothed him, but now they affected him little.
It was the most violent attack his ailment had ever made against him, and he knew it would be worse the next time.
Crying was rare where he came from. It showed weakness, and a youth of Gar’rth’s age crying would have incurred a harsh punishment. But he was far away from that place. Covering himself entirely with the sweat-drenched blanket that was now cold against his skin, he wept, his black eyes pools of anguish.
EIGHT
The furnace bathed the room in a red glow of warmth, enough to heat the entire log cabin in winter, when the ground was frozen and the trees had shivered off their leaves.
But something had awakened him.
Living in isolation had given him a sense for trouble, and he could feel in his old bones that something was amiss. Something was coming-something dangerous.
The old dwarf’s hand shot out and grasped the heavy battle-axe that he never let out of his sight. The weapon was a comfort in his hands, yet as he stood he became aware of a sensation that he had rarely felt before. Cold fear knotted his stomach.
There was something outside the cabin, something truly terrible, something that exerted a fearsome presence through the stout wooden doors that he knew would not offer him any protection should the source of his fear decide to enter.
His mouth was dry and the words he had been preparing to shout died on his lips. Never in all his many decades of life had he felt such a presence.
Something sniffed at the door and the hardy dwarf stood back, whispering a half-remembered prayer to his most favoured deity, Guthix.
Let it come, he thought. It’ll find me ready to defend my home.
He did not feel the cold when he was hunting, and the only danger the snows presented was the possibility of leaving tracks for hunters to follow.
Only chance had put the gypsy caravan in his way. His mother had told him, years ago, that it was wrong to waste an opportunity. Ever since he had feasted on the family, he had watched warily as armed men searched the frozen woods and questioned travellers on the road.
His treats were becoming more of a risk.
This made the bloodlust stronger.
So strong had it become that the thought of taking an unprotected maiden or errant child no longer excited him. His dark thoughts had turned their attention to the isolated farmhouses and log cabins that populated the forested land between Falador and Taverley. How the residents would fear when he devoured a family in their own home!
The log cabin that he had decided upon was a squat building more isolated than any other. For two nights he had watched it from his vantage point on a steep rise. Tonight he had ventured closer.
But when he sniffed the door frame the scent was different. The occupant was not human, he realized, and he was unfamiliar with the smell.
No matter, he thought. Variety is what makes life interesting.
He jumped away from the cabin, gathering his strength in readiness to throw himself into the oakwood door.
The dwarf had fought worse than goblins in the dark caverns of his race’s mines, but something here was very wrong.
He heard the creature sniff the ground outside, just a few yards from him, and he heard it back slowly away from the door, most likely readying itself for an assault.
It’s intelligent, he thought to himself as the cold fear once more wound his stomach in a knot. It knows I am alone.
I have lived a hundred years, he told himself firmly, and if I am to die this night, then it shall be in the way in which I have lived my life-with my axe in my hands, facing my foe.
He took a deep breath and summoned his courage. Then he stepped toward the door to open it.
He stopped at the last second, his head turning in the night air. He could hear people-many people-stomping over the frozen earth and shouting.
Too many, he thought, and likely armed.
Through the trees he could see at least a dozen burning brands held aloft, and as the wind changed direction he caught their scent. They were human men given the false confidence that came with alcohol.
He wondered for a second whether he could take them, whether he could defeat all of them. But then he remembered what he had come into Asgarnia to do, and with a bitter glance back at the oak door, he fled across the clear ground and into the darkness.
Spoil yourself with children and maidens, he thought, but not groups of men.
The door clattered open and a wave of warm air flooded out from the cabin. The dwarf stood silhouetted by the red glow of the fireplace. His eyes swiftly adjusted themselves to the dim light under the trees where the moonlight could not penetrate. He caught sight of a cloaked figure vanishing silently into the darkness, running close to the ground.
“Who’s there?” he shouted in the common tongue, trying unsuccessfully to rid all trace of fear from his voice. He gazed intently in the direction the figure had gone, his eyes attuned to see in the darkness, but so thick were the trees that he could make nothing out.
Still he could feel it. Out there, nearby, something was watching him.
Then he heard a shout, and as he walked a few yards from his cabin and onto the icy ground, out in the blackness, he saw a large body of men coming from the direction of the road.
The group was being deliberately noisy, as if the sound of their own drunken shouting was enough to protect them from whatever lurked in the darkness. For an instant the dwarf was relieved, pleased by the sudden approach of the men.
Perhaps they would let me join the hunt for the creature.
But then he noted the hostile looks and the gestures of anger that they made toward him. He recognised some of their faces, farmers from the surrounding country, lumberjacks and hunters he had lived amongst for years.
And he remembered why he kept to himself, more often than not.
As they strode up into the clearing in front of the cabin, he saw the looks of hatred on their faces. He was an experienced fighter, but he knew this many men would easily overwhelm him, unless he could get inside the cabin and into the escape tunnel that he had dug as a hidden exit, years before. It led out into the woods, a hundred yards or so to the east.
But he knew that running would be an admission of guilt in their eyes. Let them say what they will, he thought, shifting the weight of his axe more comfortably. Let me hear what my crime is.
A tall man strode forward, his purple robes unfamiliar to the dwarf. He raised his hands as the crowd shouted. Some began to throw stones at the cabin, while a few of the bolder youths walked closer, eyeing him intently.
Never before had he seen a mob, and it began to terrify him. Not the terror he had felt earlier, but a fear that was no less real, and he was lost for words.
More of the group turned their attention away from his home and toward the dwarf himself. One of them shouted and pointed accusingly in his direction.
“There is the creature!” the man in the purple robes
declared. “It must know about the murders. Let us force it to confess!”
Before he could react, the men surged forward, the smell of drink rife amongst them. His axe was impotent-he couldn’t risk killing any of them, for then he would surely be lost.
This must be a misunderstanding, he thought. A mistake.
“What are you talking about?” he shouted above the din. But they paid him no heed. His arms were seized, his axe taken from him, and he was lifted bodily off the ground, his protests ignored. Vicious hands tore at him and clenched fists clubbed him in drunken rage as a dozen men forced their way into his cabin.
He could hear the crashes of his handmade furniture being overturned and broken, and he knew then what they were looking for.
“Gold!”
A cry louder than the rest silenced them all.
He knew the find would spur them to greater efforts. Kicking feebly against his captors, the dwarf could hear men ripping up the wooden panels of the floor, using his own axe to destroy his home.
He had watched the men approach the cabin. He had heard enough of their words and seen enough of the looks on their faces to know that they had only unintentionally rescued the dwarf from becoming his next victim. He looked on with an amused growl, watching the events unfold with anticipation.
The thought that an innocent creature would pay for his crimes amused him. He lowered himself to the earth underneath a small group of fir trees, whose low-lying foliage concealed him against the whiteness of the snow.
His red tongue slowly made its way around his white teeth, hunger making him salivate. The clearing was beset by the scent of fear from the dwarf, from the mob, and even from the men in purple robes.
He had encountered such men before-men who preached human superiority and lied to achieve their ends. He examined the speaker, a man who was gesturing and talking with righteous animation, and in the darkness his red eyes glinted sadistically.
He was no longer interested in the dwarf.
The fire started accidentally.
One of the men, careless from intoxication, dropped his burning brand on the stack of dry straw that the dwarf used to bed his goats during the winter. As the flames roared the looters cried out in alarm and rushed outside, the last of them barely escaping as the roof collapsed behind him.
Some men clapped and halloed, their voices slurred and their eyes burning with aggression. Others looked suddenly downcast, as if the fire marked the end of a fever.
Quickly the mob began to disperse. Some dropped their plunder in the clearing, ashamed of their behaviour-though it could not be undone. The thought of the monster still loose in the land made them remember their loved ones, defenceless at home, not far away.
With growing alarm the mob vanished.
Lying in the snow, forgotten, the dwarf’s face was curiously expressionless as he watched the burning pyre that had once been his home. He shed no tears and he uttered no curses at those who had done this deed.
The leader of the mob, his pockets now heavy with coins and jewels, knelt by the dwarf while his fellow purple-robed men stood close by.
“You should see this as a warning,” he sneered. “Some of the men might regret what they’ve done tonight, but they will convince themselves they did the right thing-they always do. Yours is not the first home I’ve burned to the ground!”
He stood and brushed the snow from his robes, careful to check that none of the coins had fallen from his swollen pockets.
“Heed this warning and return to your people. Asgarnia is a human realm!” He kicked the dwarf in the ribs. “Your goats are ours now. We’ll eat them, as you have no more use for them.”
The dwarf watched as the twelve robed men departed, until they became shadows in the darkness, dragging his goats behind them. Standing, he looked back at his burning home, wondering what to do. Should he return to the mountains, or go to Falador to demand justice?
Neither option appealed to him. If he returned to the mountains, the men in purple would have won. If he went to Falador, then he would be humiliated. The monster had stirred up this fear, and it was the monster that would have to pay.
He brushed off the snow, giving a final look at the tiny figures of purple-robed men as they disappeared in the darkness. His foot tripped on something heavy in the snow. Leaning down he found his axe, which had been dropped when the mob had fled the fire. Carefully he picked it up, weighing it in his hands gratefully.
It’s funny, he thought to himself, but I could have sworn there were only twelve purple-robed men. Not thirteen.
NINE
The men lay close to the fire, their blankets covering their heads to keep the cold away.
Only the speaker sat upright, his mind pondering the value of the stolen goods. He smiled, wondering whether there were any other dwarfs nearby living in isolation, a convenient target for the stirred hatred of men.
He shivered and moved closer to the fire, contemplating if he should try to sleep once more. He cast a jealous eye to his fellows, each perfectly still, corpse-like, hidden beneath their thick blankets.
He was about to stand when a movement caught his eye. It was the guard, his purple robes hanging loosely about him. The speaker watched him move toward the glow of the fire. The guard sat down opposite, his head bowed, his face hidden in shadow.
“It was a good day,” the speaker said. “A few more like that and we will be rich men.”
The guard laughed, sounding satisfied with everything the night had offered. Then he swivelled his head, peering into the shadows around them, expectantly. Watching him, the speaker continued.
“Wake your replacement and get some sleep,” he ordered. “The monster may take lone women and children, but there are twelve of us and we are all well armed.”
The guard nodded, and yawned.
“This killer is perfect for us to rally people to our cause,” the speaker added. “With the fear so rife we can make the whole of this land monster-free!” He checked himself as his voice rose, a habit from his speeches.
Swiftly he cast an eye over the silent men. Despite his words, not one of them had stirred. That was odd. He knew two or three of them were light sleepers. Then it occurred to him that even the overweight Thwait was not snoring. That was unusual.
He stood up and kicked the obese figure under the blanket, pushing back the cloth that covered him. As he did so he gave a cry and staggered back, his gold coins forgotten. Thwait lay still, unmoving, the blood already dry on his exposed throat, that had been torn open in his sleep.
“Wake! Wake!” the speaker yelled, fumbling for his dagger, pulling back the blanket of the man nearest him. He recoiled instantly when he saw another torn throat, the lifeless eyes staring up at him.
The guard had not moved. As the speaker turned in his direction, he raised his head. Burning red eyes stared hungrily from the shadow beneath the cowl.
“They cannot hear you, speaker.” He spoke harshly, like a feral animal holding back his instinct to enjoy the moment. “None of them can.”
“Where is the guard?” the speaker stuttered, knowing that no weapon he possessed could possibly be of any defence against the creature that had done this.
“I tore open his throat like all the rest, and left him where he fell.”
The speaker felt the tears blurring his eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to be the hunter!
“No!” he said as he wept. “Please, take the money, take the jewels. Take everything. You don’t need me for anything!”
“You are right. I don’t need you,” the dark figure said. “But I am a monster, aren’t I?”
The cowl fell away from the face. The speaker shouted for mercy as the burning eyes narrowed and the long tongue shot forward to taste his hot tears.
He let the man scream, relishing each second.
Let the cries awake the countryside, he thought. Let the people of this land know that I can take whom I wish, unopposed.
It lasted for nearly two minutes. Then the scream ended abruptly, the sudden silence sending the birds flying from their nests, their cries a witness to the atrocity under the first of the dawn light.
A minute later, several goats left the clearing and headed north.
Theodore had not slept. So much had happened in the three days since the girl had arrived-the appearance of the monster, the return of Castimir, his introduction to Ebenezer and to Gar’rth.
He wondered if this was what life was like for a knight all the time. Indeed, he hoped so, for he had loved every minute of his small adventure.
Except for the gypsy caravan. His thoughts darkened at the memory of such gruesome sights. Then again, he remembered, a knight’s life had to be like that. Such evil would remind him of his duty, to ensure that it would never be repeated.
He left Taverley before daybreak, intending to get as far south as he could before halting. Ebenezer had sent Gar’rth to prepare the mare, but she had shied away from him. Even Castimir’s yak, indifferent to much that was going on around him, pushed himself to the farthest end of his enclosure in an effort to be away from the feral youth.
Only when Theodore had soothed the mare would she let Gar’rth fit her saddle. It took careful instructions issued by example for Gar’rth to see how it was done. Theodore wondered what kind of life Gar’rth must have lived to have never saddled a horse before.
As he left the stable the youth bowed his head.
“Thank you, Gar’rth,” Theodore said. He was startled to see the surprise that his words had provoked. Was the young man really such a stranger to kindness and common decency?
Castimir was standing in the courtyard, and Theodore embraced him. The young wizard’s red hair was dishevelled from his sleep, his eyes half-shut as he said goodbye to his childhood friend there under the dawn sky. Even Ebenezer bid him a fond farewell, and Theodore, not wanting to leave with any ill words between them, took the alchemist’s hand.