The Greylands: Volume VII

by Susan Skylark

The Greylands: Volume VII

  Susan Skylark

  Copyright 2016 Susan Skylark

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  Table of Contents:

  Upon the Stone

  Marked

  Other Books by this Author, website, etc.

  Sample Chapters

  Author’s Note: These are independent stories, though names and themes may be similar, there is no relation between them.

  Upon the Stone:

  The door creaked ominously on its single hinge in the driving wind while the disapproving clouds glowered uncomfortably overhead, low enough that one might almost reach up and touch their leaden gray fleece. The stone beneath his feet was black as a moonless night with no star for comfort or guide, and so was the bulk of the ruined fortress that hulked before him. He took an involuntary step back, ready to flee at the slightest provocation, and there were many in this dreadful place, but he had not come all this way to back down. He took a deep, steadying breath, caught hold of the thudding door, and stepped into the fortress. His heart gave such a lurch that he thought it might very well give out in terror, for what waited within was far worse than anything that had unsettled him without. The broken wall formed a ring, enclosing a floor of rough-hewn rock with a gory stone in the center the only feature; upon the fractured and uneven wall a hundred skulls grinned wryly from their perch. The macabre accouterments alone were enough to send the boy running, but the creature occupying the bulk of the space was even worse.

  The door slammed shut behind him, otherwise he would have fled that very moment, but he was trapped in this ring of death with a creature whose head was level with the crumbling wall, which stood as tall as a man and then half again as high. Its yellow, piggy eyes glowed slightly with hunger and vile intent while a cruel sneer marred its face, revealing too many pointed, greenish teeth. It clutched a fell axe in arms as big around as a horse’s leg and howled at him in a voice whose merest whisper would send a seasoned Knight slinking away in terror. Darkly it laughed, “lay down your head boy and rest a moment, then I’ll gnaw your bones and add your skull to my collection! Is this not why you came?” Its mockery faded into chiding laughter that sent a chill of horror up the lad’s spine. He looked uneasily back at the door but knew there could be no escape.

  The thing laughed again, worse this time if that were possible, and motioned towards the door, which then creaked slightly ajar, continued he in a voice full of scorn, “run if you will, little coward! Braver, stronger, and wiser folk than you have done just that!” Its laughter bit like a lash as the boy took a step towards his salvation, but he shuddered and forced himself to move towards the Stone, still wet with the blood of the last victim. The ogre quit laughing and sneered at the boy, “still here are we? Then let’s get on with it, shall we?” Taking a deep breath, the boy knelt before the grisly rock and laid his neck upon the altar. The monster laughed mirthlessly and hefted the axe. The boy heard the ogre’s grunt as it swung, he tensed for the blow, and then all was silence.

  The boy blinked, wondering what had happened. He waited for what seemed an eon, but still nothing happened. At last, he raised his head and glanced about, blinking once more in utter astonishment. Gone was the crumbling ruin and its grisly collection, there was no axe wielding monster tensed for the kill; the clouds were high and thin, a veil over the first bold stars, and away in the west a golden band, fringed in pink and scarlet, bade the sun farewell. The Stone still lay before him however, glistening black in the twilight with fresh blood. He shuddered and wondered why it was he lingered in this place or why he had come at all.

  “Will your heart fail you even now, child?” came a voice gentle and warm as a summer evening.

  He looked up into eyes so deep he might well drown therein and rejoice at his fate. Here were power, wisdom, strength, joy, humor, beauty, wonder, and so many things for which he had no name: deeper and broader and wider than the universe itself. Yet there was sorrow too, a sense of grief so great that it might well rend the world asunder, yet it was willingly borne, for it was the very price of Love. He shivered now in wonder, awe, and with an overwhelming sense of smallness, insignificance, and wretchedness, yet he knew that to this Person, he was immensely dear. So precious that He would spill out His own Life to rescue this hapless child of men from his own folly, and so He had done. The boy glanced again at the Stone and at last understood its significance, the importance of this place. He shuddered in abject dread, who was he to tread this sacred ground? The very reason for his coming was forgotten. He was a fool! A proud, cringing fool! He looked again into those fathomless eyes but found no condemnation there, only an amused smile that seemed to say, ‘do not be silly child, you could not come had I not Called you.’

  The boy trembled in relief and joy while simultaneously flinching at his own wretchedness. Those eyes now held grief indeed, but hope glimmered just beneath the surface and love suffused it all. He whispered like the stars in their silent chorus above, “I can take it, everything, but you must give it willingly and receive what I shall give in its stead.”

  The boy’s heart cried, ‘yes,’ even as his mind quailed, “but what if...?’ He silenced his overcautious mind as his soul cried out the more. The Man’s eyes fell to the bloody Stone and the boy’s gaze followed after. He blanched in horror, but knew what it was he must do. There was no other way, the price was too great, he could not pay it himself, the blood of Another was all that would suffice and it had been freely given. Now it must be as freely received. He steeled himself, looked once more into those wonderful eyes, radiant with Joy, and took the blood shed on his behalf upon his tongue. The world went dark and then there was nothing but Light.

  The light vanished in the west, the stars shone brightly above, and a little wind laughed and danced upon that silent mountaintop, keeping tryst with that lonely Stone.

  Bayard blinked blearily awake to the familiar cacophony of sparrows squabbling amongst themselves in the thatch above him; he sighed heavily, it had been a dream, nothing more. A long, grueling journey of a dream with a horrid crescendo and a wondrous finale, so wonderful that he deeply regretted his return to waking life. He smiled ruefully to himself, wondering if he had the courage to set out on a months’ long journey across vast stretches of wild and foreign country, all for the sake of a legend, and then to abandon everything he was, or thought he was, and embrace a philosophy so backwards to the way the world actually worked. He laughed again, but there was little heart in it, for some deep part of him wished acutely that it could be true. What else did he have to look forward to? He must accompany his half-brother on a journey no less arduous than his imagined trek, but once it was accomplished, he had no hope of a noble purpose or a worthy cause, merely a different life of toil and obscurity, exactly what he had here, just with a change of address. He sighed heavily once more, brushed the worst of the straw from his person, and descended from the drafty garret that was his bedchamber.

  He hastened outside to begin his chores, knowing they must set forth today but not before his work was done. Sitting impudently on one of the buckets he meant to use to fetch water was a magpie, preening himself as if he had not a care in the world. The boy shook his head at the foolish creature’s lack of vigilance and tried to shoo the pesky bird away, but it would not be shooed. It simply ceased its attention to its feathers and gazed at him with its too knowing eyes. The boy fell
to his knees in astonishment; he knew those eyes and they had no place in the head of this small carrion fowl. The bird seemed to smile, ruffled its feathers eagerly, and then cocked His head at the stymied youth, laughed He like all the brooks in the world, “a dream indeed! Come child, you cannot call something a dream just because it is incomprehensible to your current sensibilities; miracle would be far more apt. Yes, you did set forth on a journey of some months’ duration and then had a strange encounter on a certain mountaintop, and yes this is the morning after you set out. You are in very truth in two places at once, but what is that to the One who invented Time?”

  He flitted from His perch on the bucket to the boy’s shoulder and continued conversationally, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to walk about with the Creator of the Universe in avian form upon one’s shoulder, “take up your buckets lad, the day wastes. I can speak as you work. I know you fled this place to avoid just such a fate, but you must accompany your brother on this journey, even as your other self is off to climb a certain mountain. Last night you gave yourself fully to Me and this is what I would have of you, distasteful as if might seem to you at the moment. There is far more at work here than a simple dispute between brothers or the favor a father might show to one son but not the other. If you regret what you have done, now is the moment of your escape.” He cocked his head in question and felt a shudder of horror rack the lad’s thin frame as a look of terror in his eyes asked if he could truly be thus forsaken.

  The magpie chirruped a laugh, “nay lad, I will not cast you aside, only you can do that. I merely offer you a chance of escape, if you regret what it is you have done, for things will grow far stranger and more difficult once you embark upon this quest. Your soul is utterly doomed without Me, but I keep none against their will; each must choose his own fate. You can scorn Me, but I shall never forsake you. Will you do as I ask?” The boy nodded, wide-eyed and eager, even as he went about the mundane tasks to which he had daily attended for most of his life. The magpie squawked in joy, flitted into the air, and vanished into the trees that encroached upon the village. The boy stared after in wonder, but shook himself and returned to his chores ere the neighbors carried word to his mother that he was daydreaming when he should be attending to his work. Rejoicing for no reason any one else could comprehend, Bayard went about his business and had his tasks finished ere his half-brother Tyne had even arisen from his bed. And most astonishing of all, he was actually looking forward to the journey he had once fled home to escape.

  Tyne frowned at him as he emerged from his own room, wondering what the fool was so excited about. Anything that caused this much anticipation on the part of his elder half-brother must be quickly quashed on general principle, the fatherless wretch did not deserve to be happy, and more importantly, because Tyne enjoyed nothing more. Snarled he, “what are you so excited about?”

  Bayard froze in terror, was it that obvious? His heart gave another of those disconcerting lurches, but a more sensible voice whispered in his heart, ‘none can pluck you from My hand.’ He relaxed visibly and turned slowly to face his brother, schooling his features to neutrality, said he, “are you not eager to be gone? Do you not grow weary of life here? Come, brother! Our journey awaits!”

  Tyne roared, “never call me that! We may be born of the same woman but that is the end of our relationship. I am the Rider’s son; you belong to no one. As for the journey, what right have you to be excited? Only toil and servitude await you there, exactly what you have always known here. There can be little difference. Now go finish our preparations while I take my morning meal.”

  Bayard did not recoil in terror and shame as he once might have done, for he knew to Whom he belonged, regardless of what awaited him at journey’s end, and somehow, that made all the difference. Tyne stared at this unaccustomed lack of flinching and even went so far as to gape when the boy nearly skipped off to begin preparations for their journey. He shook himself, grumbled violently under his breath, and went to see if his mother had breakfast ready yet. She greeted him warmly upon his entering the kitchen and immediately set food before him, though unsettled as he was, he barely touched it. She watched him with worried eyes, wondering if his unease came of second thoughts about the perilous journey that lay before him. He felt her eyes upon him, scowled at her maternal weakness, and stormed from the room. She hastily set his chair upright, attended to his untouched food, and went back to her own tasks, knowing it was unwise to press her son further upon his disquiet.

  Bayard entered a few minutes later and asked after provisions for their journey. She studied the boy quietly, hiding her surprise, for she had never seen him so overtly cheerful, especially on the eve of a departure she knew he did not relish. She told him where to find the supplies she had carefully prepared and then asked as casually as she could, “what has Tyne in such a foul mood this morning?”

  Bayard actually grinned wryly, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “you will have to ask him; we are not exactly confidants.” Sensing the reason for the lady’s disquiet, he added, “the journey is not the issue, madam, rather I fear my own behavior has somehow upset him.” She sighed in relief, bid him take the food, and be gone. He sighed resignedly, took up the sack of food, and withdrew with a polite nod. She stonily watched him go and returned to her work with a lighter heart, knowing Tyne was simply being Tyne, always annoyed by something his elder sibling said or did, or failed to do. Which set her to wondering why her eldest son was suddenly so comfortable in his own skin and at peace with his once despised fate? It was a strange world indeed.

  Tyne returned some hours later, still grumbling to himself, but less agitated. Bayard had just put the final touches on their packing and looked to his half-brother expectantly. Snarled he, “finished at last are you? Took you long enough. I will tell my mother we are leaving and then we shall be off.” Bayard nodded silently as their mother emerged from the house, summoned by Tyne’s voice. Tears glistened unshed in her eyes but she said nothing of her own distress, rather she put on a brave face and wished her youngest son a quick and uneventful journey, sent greetings to his father, and asked if there was aught she could yet do for him.

  She turned to Bayard, and said in her stern, matronly way, “stay out of trouble, mind your manners, and listen to your brother.” She nodded once in approval at her own good sense, smiled warmly at Tyne, and then stood upon the doorstep to watch their departure.

  Bayard then tried to wrestle the ungainly pack onto his back, an exercise Tyne could not be bothered to assist, but finally got the thing in place. Tyne gave him an exasperated look, took up his own small satchel, and set off with Bayard following after like some bipedal pack animal. Their mother raised a kerchief to her eyes, waved it vigorously as Tyne marched off, and then withdrew into the house to weep in earnest. Bayard turned a last glimpse upon his childhood home, felt no deep sense of loss, and followed silently after into the brightening day.

  If the journey had had any other destination or some other companion, it would have been merry enough to satisfy any boy of an adventurous spirit and age. The weather was fine, the scenery bewitching, and they met very little in the way of discomfort or danger upon the way. But Tyne was a grim, condescending companion at best, and a tyrant the rest of the time. No sensible person went willingly to the capital city of Gormanth, only desperation, force, or necessity drove folk thither, but thence did Tyne go, eager to embrace his destiny, while Bayard was given no choice in the matter. As a child with no known father, his fate was to live and die as little more than a nameless slave, wholly dependent on the forbearance of others for even this meager existence. While Tyne was a son of the acclaimed and dreaded Rider, Bayard was nothing and no one, and could never be. Save that a small voice sang in his inmost heart, “you are Mine, I know your name, and you are more than life to Me.” It was this minor detail that made the journey bearable to Bayard, and even gave it some semblance of jo
y, though it was still fraught as often as not with its share of misery, though he found he could now tolerate it far more easily than he once had, which irked his brother no end.

  Bayard did not fault his mother for her harsh treatment of himself and the fawning indulgence with which she regarded his brother. She was merely following the strictures laid down by society and the patterns her own mother had taught her as a girl, not to mention the expectations of Tyne’s esteemed sire. In her eyes, she had only one true son, thus Bayard was merely a servant, an inconvenience best ignored, an embarrassment left over from a youthful indiscretion and the less noticed the better. Tyne was more than happy with this arrangement, and voluntarily, and perhaps far too eagerly, saw to it that Bayard ever and always was kept in his place. Thus it was that his newly born confidence and inexplicable, deep-seated joy unsettled Tyne no end. What right or reason had the wretch to be happy? How could he carry himself as if he owned the world when he could not claim even his soul as his own? The truth that Tyne could not comprehend was that the Owner and Maker of everything had called Bayard child, and thus he was in a way, the possessor of far more than any mortal mind can imagine. But most important of all, he knew Whose he was. He had a place and a purpose and a name, something of which he had never before been possessed, and it filled him with a joy his being could hardly contain.

  Tyne was about as joyous a companion as a bear with toothache, and perhaps an ulcer besides. Though he was drawing daily closer to his destiny, the day when all would look to him as they once looked upon his father, he found himself discontent, frustrated, and utterly wretched. His brother’s reasonless joy annoyed him, how could the wretch be happy when he had nothing, never had and never would? And yet Tyne was disconsolate, when he literally had the whole world before him. It was perplexing, it was unfair, and it made his usually grim demeanor far worse, but the more dreadfully Tyne treated his brother, and the more graciously he bore it, the worse his humor became; it was a vicious cycle and solely their arrival in the outlying villages surrounding Gormanth spared them both from fratricide. With journey’s end so near, Tyne smiled eagerly for the first time in months, feeling as if his destiny had arrived at long last, though there would still be years of hard work, plotting, and waiting to accomplish before he achieved his heart’s desire. He would supplant his father and be the next Rider, after all he was his father’s son, was he not?

  They both looked about them in wonder and a little dread, they had never seen so great a city nor so many people, and they were only on the outskirts; they had not even reached the city itself. Tyne asked directions of a portly baker, who scowled at the insolent youth but directed him away from the city proper, said he with a shudder, “his Lordship doesn’t dwell within the confines of the city. He wants and needs more room and privacy than Gormanth can afford. Follow this road out of town and you’ll come upon his castle before sunset, if you hurry.” Tyne grunted in response and set off as quickly as he could manage in the pressing crowd. The baker shook his head in exasperation and turned his attention back to the insipid woman who could not quite decide which type of bun she required to impress her guests.

  Bayard trudged on as patiently as the mule he felt, ever following Tyne’s hasty footsteps, though grateful that his pack had lightened as their food dwindled and strangely glad not to find their destination within this grim city, though who knew what to expect within the castle of such a dreadful person as rumor held his Lordship to be? At least in this city, there were other people about who had little or nothing to do with their sovereign, at least if they could help it. Within the man’s own abode, would there be anyone not held in his sway? With a last, reluctant look at the dwindling city behind them, he turned his gaze to Tyne’s eagerly striding form and wondered what waited at journey’s end. That Voice sang out anew, “whatever betide, I am always with you and await beyond all things.” He sighed, but this time in contentment, and plodded onwards.

  True to the baker’s words, they stood at the gates of a forbidding castle as the sun hastily vanished behind the distant hills. Bayard watched it go with a heavy heart, knowing there would be little enough of light or joy within this grim abode. Tyne was busy arguing his case with the gate guards, expecting all to fall prostrate before him when he announced himself the son and heir of the Rider. Scoffed one of the guards, “get in line, boy. The man has more sons than most villages have people. If what you say is true then you shall have your hearing, until then keep silent and leave your betters in peace.” The boy gaped like a stranded fish, aghast at both this revelation of his own insignificance and to be so treated by a man he had only moments before looked upon as an unimportant menial. Bayard actually felt sorry for his brother, his whole life people had told him he was important and special and he had never questioned their judgment; to be told bluntly by a man that you assume to be your inferior, especially after a months’ long journey, that you are nothing special must come as quite a shock. The guard used the silence of the boy’s continued astonishment to say, “you can spend the night with the gate keeper and someone will hear your case when an opportunity presents itself. Now off with you!”

  Bayard took Tyne by the shoulder and steered him in the direction the man had indicated, for once in his life Tyne did not resist or insult his brother but went as docilely as a blind ewe following the flock. Bayard knocked upon the door, briefly told their tale to the unassuming man who answered the summons, and then guided his speechless brother inside when the man stepped aside. He shut the door firmly behind them and pointed them to a pallet off to one side of the room, where Bayard immediately shucked off his burden and then returned to his silent and unmoving brother, still agape with shock and indignation. The gatekeeper studied the boy with a pitying smile and said, “just found out he wasn’t the only son of the Rider did he?” Bayard nodded and the man shook his head, “a pity they have to learn such a hard truth at so vulnerable a moment. The man could at least tell his countless offspring that they are far from unique.” He glanced about uneasily, smiled conspiratorially, and said, “but I think he enjoys the cruelty of it far more than he cares about the welfare of any of his offspring or even the entire get. What of you lad?”

  Bayard shook his head and said with an ironic smile, “according to our mother I have no father at all.”

  The man nodded matter-of-factly and said, “perhaps a better lot than your stymied half-brother there. At least you had no grand aspirations to destroy, but still a wretched lot in its own right. You’ll find nothing but toil and death here lad, I’d get me gone as quick as may be.”

  Bayard smiled wryly, “that was my intent sir, in fact I did run away from this very journey, but I found myself back where I began and bidden hither by One I dare not disoblige.”

  The man smiled grimly, “then well met indeed lad, though it will be a dangerous and difficult life in which you will soon find yourself, but if He has set you this task, it shall be worthwhile indeed.” He glanced uneasily at Tyne, who still stared blankly and whose mouth moved in unuttered curses, he shook his head sadly and then continued, “we had best make your brother as comfortable as we can. His lot is far more pitiable than your own, but not beyond our Master’s ability to redeem, if only he will let Him.” Bayard shook his head sadly at the miniscule possibility of that ever being the case, but leapt to his brother’s aid, smiling in spite of himself to have already discovered one friend within this forsaken place. He marveled at the thought, for he had never had a friend in his entire life, and smiled all the more. Thankfully Tyne was oblivious to all but his own problems, so Bayard’s renewed mirth could not further dampen his spirits. They put the unresisting boy to bed, still murmuring incoherently to himself, and then withdrew to the far side of the room where a fire blazed upon the hearth.

  They drew up a pair of ancient chairs as Bren asked of the lad, “so you have come at our Master’s behest?” The lad nodded eagerly and the man nodded grimly, continui
ng, “I wonder what this portends? Are we to see the end of his Lordship’s rule and that horrid Beast as well?” Bayard shuddered involuntarily at mention of the Dragon. The man said quietly, “right you are to be afraid lad, it is a dreadful thing to lay eyes upon the Monster. But in his own way, his Lordship is far worse. Do you know aught of him?” The boy shook his head and the man continued, “aye, he’s a wizard, a warlock most vile. He has reigned for five hundred years uncontested and uses the Beast to maintain his rule. The Rider is merely a man and is replaced every twenty years or so, when the former model wears out or is betrayed. There’s blood magic in the mix, there is no other way his Lordship could live so long or maintain control of such a beast.”

  Bayard asked with wide-eyes, “what will come of my brother, and of myself?”

  Bren glanced uneasily into the fire and then met the lad’s worried frown, “if your brother is as he claims, a true son of the Rider, and can prove it, he will be given a black tabard and admitted into the keeping of the castle guards for training in the warrior arts. One day he will join the guard or perhaps become a Knight, or he may even replace the Rider himself.” He paused and looked sadly at the boy, “you will undoubtedly be given a brown tabard and given into the care of the Steward. You will serve as a menial, drudge, or scullion with no hope of rising higher than a mere page, but few who wear the Brown remain in residence long enough to achieve even that. They tend to vanish within a year or two of their admittance into such service. I fear his Lordship makes a more sinister use of such lads than mere drudgery.” Bayard shuddered again and the man was silent in grim contemplation.

  Bren shook his head and continued, “but if our Master has called you here lad, there is certainly a reason for it.” He studied the boy and frowned, “you have seen the Stone.” It was not a question.

  The boy blinked in confusion, said he, “have not all who call upon the Name?”

  The man laughed heartily, “nay lad, few are bold enough or free enough to make that journey. I have never been farther than a day’s walk from this place; I serve even as my father and grandfather before me, though I leave no son to follow after me. Any who wish may cry out for our Lord’s mercy and receive it, but a very few feel called to journey afar and seek something far greater than any mortal mind can comprehend. What is it you have found lad? There are rumors, legends, myths, but I have never heard the truth of the matter.”

  The boy grinned ruefully, “I was hoping you could tell me. I hardly know what it is I have done, but eagerly do I await the full revelation.” Said he more seriously, “how does his Lordship look upon such matters, it cannot be kindly? Are there others of our persuasion in this forsaken place?”

  The man smiled broadly, “aye lad, right on both counts. His Lordship need not know everything that passes in a man’s heart and mind, and if he should find out about our little secret, well it won’t be just the brown clad scullions that mysteriously disappear. There are a few of us about, but we are a cautious lot, as you might imagine.”

  The boy frowned, “how is it you felt inclined to reveal yourself to me? How can you serve such a tyrant?”

  The man smiled to himself at the lad’s revelation of his naiveté, “we each must serve where we are called lad; the world would be a terrible place indeed if we only aided righteous men. We have the privilege to shine the light into the otherwise impenetrable darkness of this place, for our Master calls all men to Himself, not just the good and the true. How will they know if they do not hear? As to why I trusted you from the first? That I do not know, it just felt right. Perhaps it is because you have seen the Stone and our Master’s hand is firmly upon you, thus do I find myself inexplicably trusting you from the very moment you entered my door? Who knows, but it is no coincidence.”

  The boy pondered this for a long moment, frowned in consternation, and asked, “you mentioned something about the end of the Beast and his Lordship’s reign?”

  The man nodded, “it is one of those legends I spoke of, or perhaps it is a mere rumor or even true Prophecy, who am I to say? But it is said that when his Lordship came to power, after a long and brutal war, a prophet arose from amongst the people and denounced his bloody assumption of the throne. It is said the vociferous man was seized at his Lordship’s behest and was never seen again among living men, but before his disappearance, he uttered these words, “your undoing will come in a guise you least expect. From among the humblest shall he come, yet he has seen wonders of which the greatest cannot boast. Love will overthrow all that hate and greed have wrought; it shall quench the very fire of the Beast.” Of course at that time, there was as yet no Monster, so if the words were faithfully recorded, at least that much of the prophecy has come true. The Dragon eventually came and one day let us hope it shall be no more, perhaps soon.”

  The boy grinned in spite of himself, it all sounded so grand and epic, and certainly a thing far beyond his meager capabilities, but what did that matter to One who sent stars hurtling from their courses with a mere thought? Vague as it was, it could mean anyone or anything, but if he was to be part of it, why not? There had been far stranger heroes in the history of the world and far greater tales. He would do whatever was asked of him and watch eagerly as the full tale unfolded. They talked a bit more of things less epic and then retired, knowing morning could not be far off. And in this they were quite correct, for only a few hours later there came a great pounding upon the door of the humble cot, which jolted them all awake.

  The banging continued and then the door flew open just as the gatekeeper was about to open it; Bren was flung against the wall by the force of the suddenly opening door. He lay stunned for a moment, but hastily gained his feet and bowed respectfully to the primly dressed man and two guards who entered his miniscule abode. It was quite crowded but no one dared complain. At least Tyne seemed coherent this morning, if a bit subdued and sulky. The stranger said snidely, “which of you pathetic creatures dares command my attention?” The lads exchanged an uneasy look and the man snarled, “which of you lays claim to the Rider as his sire?”

  Tyne trembled visibly and said in a forced whisper, “I do.”

  The man nodded curtly and said, “then present your proof.”

  The boy dashed to his satchel, rummaged around with shaking hands, and produced a roll of parchment. He handed the scroll to the esteemed and grumpy personage and waited with bated breath as he unrolled it and eyed it skeptically. He shrugged his shoulders dismissively, carelessly tossed Tyne’s most treasured possession vaguely in the direction of its owner, and then said with a sneer, “very well. My myrmidons shall see to you. What of this other one?”

  Tyne managed a slight sneer, “a fatherless wretch, sir, and nothing more. A mere servant in my mother’s service, sent forth to aid my journey, though he was of little enough use thereon. Do with him as you wish, sir.”

  The Steward studied Bayard for a long, thoughtful moment and then nodded succinctly, “his Lordship can always use another drudge; he shall be clad in Brown.” He glanced at the shaky Bren, whose interlude with the door had not been appreciated by his aging bones. Said he thoughtfully, “gatekeeper, you have no one to replace you though you are failing quickly with age?” The man nodded, but made no reply to or defense against this inaccurate statement, for one did not gainsay the Steward, but getting on in years as he was, he was not exactly frail or looking into his grave. Continued the Steward, “I will give you the lone of this wretch until I have need of him elsewhere, perhaps he can be of use to you. At least you can keep him out of mischief.” He turned on his heel and vanished as quickly as he had come; the soldiers gathered up Tyne in their wake and forced him from the cottage, leaving Bren and Bayard to gape at one another.

  The old man smiled warmly, “well met lad, well met indeed! At least for a little while we can keep pleasant company together, even if I am failing.” They shared a merry laugh at this obvious falsehood and then they got down
to the very serious business of breakfast, over which the man explained much about life in the castle and of his new role therein. As they were finishing up the dishes, a timid knock came at the door. The pair exchanged a curious glance, wondering who would knock with so little vim in this dreadful place. Bren opened the door and admitted a boy clad in Brown. He made the proper courtesies and then presented the reason for his visit, holding another brown tabard out to the old man. The man thanked him and then asked if the lad might not spare a moment or two.

  The boy gaped, never imagining that so lowly a creature as himself might be invited to tea by so auspicious a man as the gatekeeper! Certainly he must stay if it would please the man. So it was that Kipril was drawn into their conspiracy. He gazed with wide eyes upon both the newest menial in the castle and his host. The latter he held in sheer awe because the man held a position so far above that of the Brown clad boy that he might as well be King, for all it mattered to the boy. Bayard was another case entirely, said Kipril with eyes so wide Bren feared they might fall from their sockets, “you have seen the Stone!” He sighed in wonder and longing, “such is my greatest desire, but who am I to look upon it or even attempt the journey?”

  Bayard barked a laugh, “who indeed? For am I not the son of a renowned sire, the apple of my mother’s eye, and the envy of my half-brother, a very son of the Rider?” The old man laughed heartily at this and the boy gasped, unsure whether the other lad was in jest or serious. Bayard smiled wryly at the boy, “I am naught but a fatherless wretch and a disgrace to all my relations, not that any have bothered to lay claim to me. If I can venture thither, anyone can.”

  Kipril said quietly, “but do I dare leave the succor of his Lordship, meager as it is?”

  Bren said grimly, “better to die upon the road than at the hands of your master.”

  The boy shuddered and said quietly, “true indeed, yet my heart holds me here for the moment. I would fain be off this minute, but yet have I something to accomplish here. Perhaps afterwards I shall have my chance.” He turned bright eyes upon Bayard, “upon what great quest do you now find yourself?”

  Bayard smiled slightly and shook his head, “your guess is as good as mine, but I am here at our Master’s behest and eagerly do I await His direction.”

  Kipril leapt to his feet, “I beg your pardon sirs, but I must hasten back to my place ere the Steward finds me tardy.” They both bid him a fond farewell as he dashed out the door, nervous as a kitten amid a throng of strange cats. Bayard took up the discarded brown garment and studied it with distaste, but knew he had no choice. He put it on and shared a grim look with Bren, but there was nothing else to be done.

  The Rider stood at the window of the highest tower in the castle, watching what might have been ants scurrying about their business in the courtyard below, but his attention was inwardly focused and he saw little of and cared less for the pathetic insects below. At his elbow the Steward stood silently, wondering if he dared speak, it would be treason but if he could gain a place in the Rider’s confidence, perhaps he could benefit when and if the Rider overthrew his Lordship. Finally the Rider growled, annoyed at the man’s continued presence, “what is it Fenwick?”

  The Steward shuddered at the coldness in the man’s voice but said as confidently as he could, “another of your sons arrived last night my lord.”

  “What is that to me?” snarled the preoccupied Rider.

  The Steward forged on tremulously, “do you know how his Lordship maintains his eternal youth and wards off death? How the Dragon was birthed at the first?”

  The Rider gazed stonily at the unfortunate Steward, who trembled under those nearly reptilian eyes, said he harshly, “of course I do you fool! Even the thickest of the scullions knows the fiend uses blood magic. What has any of this to do with me?”

  “Simple,” said the Steward, “your only hope of maintaining your position or rising above it is to do the same.”

  The Rider gaped in astonishment and then frowned thoughtfully, “I begin to see your point. I am not yet so frail that one of my wretched offspring can hope to supplant me, but that day will not be long in coming and then it will be my blood that binds him to the Dragon. But what if it was their blood first?” He laughed darkly, “an excellent point indeed Steward, I shall remember this one day and you will not be sorry, though perhaps our esteemed master will be. I will carefully consider this interesting alternative, it is certainly rife with possibilities.”

  The days passed quietly, too quietly Bayard thought, as he attended to his duties and realized how anticlimactic the end of his journey truly was. The gatekeeper laughed at his youthful impatience and said, “don’t be too eager for excitement lad, it is nowhere near so appealing as the stories hold it to be, and it will fall upon you when you least expect it or want it.” His gaze focused on a man riding up to the outer gate of the castle, of which he was keeper, and he said in surprise, “and here may be just the circumstance you have anticipated.”

  The man dismounted and led his horse through the open gate and stopped politely outside the gatekeeper’s door, though he could have easily ridden straight for the castle’s inner gate and the more important warders thereof. Said he, as the old man and the boy came out to attend him, “I was bidden to this place by my Master and thought to first inquire of you as to happenings herein.”

  Bren nodded solemnly and said, “come in sir, and we can discuss matters over tea. See to the man’s horse lad.” Bayard bowed smartly, took the reins of the impressive beast, and led him quickly away to the stables. He was uneager to leave the intriguing stranger, but knew the sooner he had the beast settled the sooner he could return.

  The man watched with amused interest as the horse was borne away and then turned to his host, “gladly will I take some refreshment with you, my good man.”

  They entered the house and soon the boy returned from his task and joined them. The man covertly studied the lad, as the boy puttered about with the tea things, smiling knowingly. Bren watched the man with interest, feeling a kinship to this man even as he had been drawn to the boy from the very first. Once they were all settled, the gatekeeper asked, “what exactly would you know, my lord?”

  The man shook his head ruefully and said, “I am just a man like yourself, sir, do not be so formal. Tell me what you can of this place, its master, and those herein.” His smile deepened, “and of yourself and the boy as well.”

  There was not much to tell but Bren told it in full, the man nodding in appreciation as each fact was revealed. At last he said, “I must attempt to enter the keep but it shall not go well with me.” He looked keenly at the boy, “what ever betide lad, do not despair, for no matter how impossible it might seem, I shall return for you.” The boy frowned at him in incomprehension, but before he could voice his consternation, the man stood, thanked them for their hospitality, and was out the door and striding boldly for the gate.

  The pair exchanged a perplexed look, rose as one, and hastened to the door to see what would come of the interview. The man approached the gate guards and asked after an audience with his Lordship. They laughed him to scorn but he insisted. One of the thugs took offense and grabbed a fistful of the man’s tunic, tearing the travel worn fabric. There came a collective gasp from the gathered guards at whatever the rent shirt revealed, though the horrified pair could not see it; the entire contingent of guards set upon the man and soon had him bound securely. All but two of them then marched him into the castle proper and sent a page running, that the Steward might be summoned to sit in judgment. Bren eyed the boy significantly and he nodded in understanding. Bayard dashed off behind the stable, climbed up on a stack of forgotten crates, and peered over the wall.

  The Steward was quite put out to be so summoned, but considering the severity of the matter, it was either that or disturb his Lordship, which was unthinkable. They presented the prisoner before him, and Bayard could now discern what it was that had upse
t them so; a small unicorn reared upon the man’s chest, just over his heart; it was wrought in silver ink that seemed to flash with a light of its own. The Steward shook his head grimly and said, “there can be but one doom for such a traitor. Stake him out for the Beast. He shall die by fire.”

  “Wait!” protested the condemned, “I was bidden to pass a word of warning on to your fell master.” One of the guards cuffed him roughly upside the head for his insolence, but he pressed on as they began to shove him from the courtyard, “the words spoken at the inception of his vile rule will soon be fulfilled, let him look to the fate of his own soul while there is still time.” They cuffed him again, this time far less gently, and he slumped senseless in their ungentle arms. Bayard stifled his gasp of horror and watched them drag the unconscious man from the keep. He descended from his perch and dashed silently after. The gatekeeper joined him and together they followed the soldiers out of the castle, across the road, and stood on the edge of the barren field that covered the far side of the highway. Most of the castle’s occupants joined them there in anticipation of what was to come. Bayard shuddered, but whether in horror at the bloodthirstiness of his companions or at the man’s prescribed doom, he was unsure.

  Once perhaps, long ago, something had grown upon that stony waste, but now it held nothing but blackened rock as far as the eye could see. Bayard had once questioned the gatekeeper about it, his answer had chilled his blood, and now he would see its intended use for himself. Then he remembered the man’s strange parting words and his horror was replaced by a fitful hope and a far greater perplexity. He glanced at his left hand neighbor and smiled to see that it was Kipril.

  The boy gave him a wan grin in return, uneasy about what was to come, whispered he, “this will be your first time watching such an execution?” Bayard nodded and the boy continued, “have you yet seen the Beast?” He shook his head and Kipril shuddered, “then prepare to be terrified.” He glanced at the sky and said in dread, “here it comes!”

  All eyes were drawn inexorably to the Beast, whether they would or not. The soldiers finished securing the prisoner to a great boulder in the midst of the waste, chaining him hand and foot to the great stone, and then they fled back to the relative safety of the trembling crowd. The man was just starting to rouse when he heard the roar of the Monster and felt the backdraft of its wings; he looked up in dismay as the Creature hovered overhead in patient study before making a wide circle back to its quarry. Upon its great back perched the miniscule form of the Rider, exultant in his role as executioner. He motioned and the hideous beast spouted flame upon the helpless man chained to the great stone.

  The gathered company turned their faces away from the inferno and coughed at the acrid smoke, their eyes watering in the reek. When they could look again, the Beast was gone and nothing remained but blackened stone, that would be too hot to touch for days to come. Bayard’s eyes were wet with tears but not from the noxious fumes. The old man put a comforting hand on his shoulder and guided him gently back to the gatehouse to mourn their loss; Kipril ghosted silently after.

  The Steward stood with his arms crossed as the silent throng returned, glowering at each and every one of them as they slunk back to their duties; they cringed in terror as they felt his chagrin and hastened back to their places. He hated the ordeal of such a spectacle and the inefficiency it caused amongst the staff, but there was no better way to keep order in his master’s household than with a little demonstration now and then. At last his eyes fell upon Kipril and he snarled, “what are you doing fool? His Lordship has been kept waiting this half hour and you will feel his wrath. Attend me this moment!”

  The boy shivered anew, knowing what such a summons must mean, but Bayard leapt between the two and pled, “must it be him, sir?”

  The man stared at the boy, as if he had never seen a mortal man before. Bren looked on from the thinning crowd of returning menials, his eyes wide with horror. What was the lad doing? The Steward was speechless, a phenomenon rarely observed in a man whose very tongue was a lash, at last he grated, “what do you mean?”

  Bayard drew himself up, “must it be this servant in particular, sir, or will any of us clad in Brown suffice?”

  The man gaped openly and Bayard caught Tyne’s gloating gaze for a moment, before the Steward said at last, “it does not matter which one, this creature was convenient but you shall suffice as well.” He scowled at the irksome boy, “for your impudence, you may take his place and we shall soon be well rid of you!” Tyne was nearly glowing with amusement, his joy would have been complete had his annoying brother trembled in terror, but alas he was to be sorely disappointed. The boy merely nodded in acceptance and fell in behind the Steward as he withdrew into the castle. Kipril and Bren stared after in grief and wonder, what was Bayard up to? Bren laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him into the gatehouse, away from prying eyes.

  But Kipril resisted his well-intentioned efforts, and said with a sad smile, “I am free at last. My duty, whatever it was, has been accomplished and now I may seek the Stone.”

  Bren gaped, “now?!”

  Kipril nodded eagerly but sadness tinged his voice, “I am loath to leave you so suddenly alone, sir, but I feel I must be on my way this very moment.”

  The old man nodded, smiled sadly, and said, “very well lad, you must do as you must. This is not the first grief I have borne nor shall it be the last. Fare thee well!” Kipril bowed deeply, smiled impishly, joyously flung aside his Brown, and fled like a bird from its cage. None but the thoughtful old man watched him go or cared that he had.

  The Steward led Bayard deep into the castle’s bowels, even lower than the dungeons, wherein rats and fungus flourished; this was a place even rats dared not go. Bayard felt the evil of this place to his very soul, as if a malicious fog engulfed the lowest reaches of the castle. They had passed through so many dark and twisting corridors that Bayard was utterly lost, but the Steward seemed confident in his steps. Eventually they stood before an unremarkable door of rotting wood on which the Steward timidly knocked. A voice sounded from within, though the words were muffled to incoherence by the thick oaken door. The Steward entered, bowed deeply, and then drew the shrinking boy in behind him.

  A man, cowled all in black, and of rather insignificant height, studied the pair for a moment, and then barked, “he will suffice. Send your menials down at the usual hour to dispose of the remnants.” The Steward bowed again and hastened out with a quavered, “as you wish it Sire,” and then slammed the door behind him with an ominous thud.

  The sorcerer’s gaze felt like icy fingers running over Bayard’s skin and he flinched back from this vile worker of unspeakable evil. The man studied him for a very long time and then barked, “bare your chest boy.” Bayard frowned at this strange order but immediately complied, his skin prickling in the cold dankness of the subterranean chamber. The warlock smiled, a hideous permutation of a usually pleasant expression, and then said, “most excellent, indeed. We shall see what comes of our would-be Prophet, shall we? Well, I will, in a moment you won’t be troubled by such things, or anything else, for that matter.” The man laughed like Death itself.

  Two brawny figures, clad in rough woolens, carried a bulky bundle between them as they surreptitiously exited a small side gate in the castle’s outer wall. They stumbled along the rutted path in the darkness and then dropped their burden upon the dung heap located about a bowshot from the castle. They each took up a shovel and buried the carcass, lest its stench cause undue annoyance to his Lordship; once the corpse was completely buried, they hastened back to the castle and their waiting duties. Even here, the acrid Dragon smoke had drifted in, mingling with the evening mist and making it very unpleasant for anyone to linger long, let alone breath. Once the furtive menials had fled back to the keep, a light began to pulse like a beating heart in the midst of the noxious fog. The light continued to throb as it began to widen and elongate
, until it took on the form of a man.

  The light subsided but a shadowy figure remained, still draped in the smoky mist. He coughed as he inhaled a damp, acrid lungful of the noxious concoction but approached the dung heap as one on a mission, for so he was. He moved through the night with the ease of a cat and found the place where his quarry lay. He pushed aside the rotting manure, revealing the head and chest of a quickly stiffening boy with blankly staring eyes; his throat had been cut and he was pallid from exsanguination, so pale he seemed to glow in the wan light of the moon. The mysterious man shook his head grimly, the foul sorcerer had left nary a drop in the boy’s veins; a slow smile spread unseen across the man’s countenance as he contemplated just what that meant: the Prophecy would at last find fulfillment. Now for the Beast. But first, he had to attend to the boy.

  He placed a firm hand upon the murdered lad’s chest and it began to glow with a faint azure light. An answering glow began to pulse over the boy’s heart; the cold organ answered with its own steady beat. Bayard gasped back to life and blinked in surprise and horror as blood started to pour from the wound in his neck. The stranger hissed in surprise at his oversight and hastily raised his radiant hand to the gushing wound, which glowed in response and immediately sealed itself over with healthy skin. Bayard raised a tentative hand to his throat and gasped in wonder. He gaped in disbelief when he recognized the man that loomed over him as the same intrepid fellow whom the Dragon’s flames had reduced to a smoldering stain upon a certain boulder that very afternoon. Garren smiled amusedly at the overwrought boy and said, “welcome back lad, I am sure you have questions.”

  The boy nodded silently, his eyes wide, but was unable to sit up with half the dung heap still sitting atop his prone form. Garren soon had him dug out and helped him to his feet, and as he began brushing the clinging straw and debris from his person, he finally noticed the mark where Garren’s hand had been. He traced it with his fingers in disbelief, unsure of anything on this night of wonder and horror. Garren smiled warmly but let the boy ponder all that had happened, waiting for him to ask after all that mystified him. At last Bayard raised his eyes and met Garren’s gaze, glancing significantly at the man’s chest from time to time where an identical silver unicorn stood rampant. Garren laughed heartily, motioned that they should walk together, and allowed the boy to ask or keep silent as he would. At last he gasped out, “what is all this? I saw you die! What are you? What happened to me? Am I dead too?” He touched the mark reflexively, “what does this signify?”

  Garren smiled knowingly, remembering his own confusion many long years ago, said he, “good questions all. That mark signifies Whose you are and the commitment you have made in His service. Technically you died the day you willingly laid your neck upon the Stone and accepted His blood on your behalf, at least you died to yourself and all you once were, though physically it does not manifest itself until First Death, which is that from which you have just wakened. We are still men lad, still clad in flesh and bone, whatever our strange proclivities. You watched me die today as I have done countless times in our Master’s service, though Death can never truly keep us captive, for we always waken again to life anew and continue in the tasks our Master sets us.”

  Bayard stopped as the man revealed his secrets, listening in wonder and stunned disbelief. Garren smiled at his astonishment and knew it was too much to take in all at once. The boy whispered, “strange proclivities?”

  The man nodded, “aye lad, we are well equipped to handle any quest our Master might set before us. Have you noticed how well you can find your way in the dark? That is but one of our many skills.” The boy glanced about and only then realized it was pitch dark, for the moon had set and a veil of cloud obscured the stars. Garren smiled in amusement at his continued wonder, remembering his own initial astonishment.

  The boy whispered faintly, “He did say it would get stranger as my mission progressed.” He frowned, “what if I find this too strange and disconcerting?”

  Garren nodded in understanding, “go back to the Stone and vanish beyond Time and Mortality if you wish.”

  The boy nodded dully but did not seem eager to abandon his new occupation quite yet. Suddenly a knowing smile crossed his face and he said with growing eagerness, “how long exactly have you been doing this? This isn’t your first time delivering a message to his Lordship, is it?”

  Garren clapped the boy on the back exuberantly and barked a laugh, “that’s it lad, I believe you are starting to understand.” He smiled impishly in remembrance and said, “nay lad, my own quest began immediately after I delivered a certain Prophecy to a newly crowned usurper, approximately five hundred years ago.” He fingered his neck in remembrance, “he felt it high time my head was emancipated from the rest of me.” He smiled eagerly, “but now we get to watch as our Master’s warnings come to fruition.”

  Bayard frowned, “what do you mean? How can we overcome such a fiend?”

  Garren smiled grimly, “we cannot, but our Master can. The fell wizard maintains his Monster, his life, and his rule through the use of blood magic, which is strictly forbidden, especially to mortal men. He imbibes the blood of young men to maintain his facade of immortal youth; to him it is the very wine of life.” Here his voice grew ironic, “but the very blood with which he intends to prolong his life will ultimately spell his doom. His foul necromancy is incompatible with the blood of our Master’s servants, at least those who have laid everything upon the Stone and taken His blood upon themselves. It is veritable poison to one such as he, especially when you stepped in to spare your friend. Such evil cannot endure in the presence of Love.”

  The boy nodded in understanding, “that is why he demanded I bare my chest.” He smiled ironically, “he will be more surprised than I at the outcome of this night!”

  Garren said grimly, “his Lordship may well be out of the way, but there is still the matter of the Beast and its Rider. No doubt the current Rider will usurp the place of his former master and raise up a new Rider from amongst his numerous offspring. We must unmake the Creature or all is for naught. We shall simply have replaced one fiend with another. As long as the Monster endures, so too shall this terrible Kingdom.” Bayard shivered, remembering all the tales told of whole villages and rebellious armies consumed utterly by the flames for defying his Lordship. None dared stand against him, so terrible were the tales!

  He said in dismay, “how is the Beast to be overcome? Perhaps you can survive its flames in one way or another but how do we unmake the Dragon?”

  Garren said stonily, “in the same way it was made. It is not a thing of this mortal earth. It has no mind of its own, but rather needs the Rider to direct its every move and decision. Shortly after the Usurper came to power, he made the Beast to assure his rule. He convinced six of his best and vilest warriors to compete for his favor, the losers agreeing to forfeit their lives to create the Dragon; the victor went on to become the first Rider. Each succeeding Rider must make a blood offering to transfer control of the Beast to himself, often using the blood of the former Rider or one of his sons. So if the current Rider ascends the throne, one of his sons may well sacrifice another to take his place.”

  Bayard shivered, a grim future indeed if they could not destroy the Dragon. Garren continued quietly, “there is but one way to unmake the Beast and that is in the same way it was made.” Bayard met his solemn gaze with a look of horror. “Yes,” said Garren in a barely audible whisper, “five men must go willingly to their deaths, if the price is to be met.” Bayard smiled grimly and the man seemed to read his thoughts, “yes lad, our blood will suffice, but we must find three more if this mad scheme is to succeed, and soon, if a succession is to be avoided.”

  They had wended their way back to the outer gate of the castle, which was closed for the night, but a candle burned defiantly in the gatekeeper’s window. The pair exchanged an eager look and Garren called quietly at the window, “ho t
here! Is anyone still awake?”

  A hand took up the candle and the door was flung wide as Bren peered blindly into the night. “Who goes?” queried he in a voice rough with grief and weariness.

  Bayard’s smile ought to have split his face in two, but he cried in quiet joy, “I hear tell that you are looking for a new page. Perhaps I might suffice?”

  The man gasped upon recognizing the voice and quickly opened the smaller gate beside the main entrance, through which a single man might pass. The pair ghosted into the outer courtyard of the castle and the gate clanged shut behind them. The man studied the pair in the light of his candle; he blanched so much in surprise and terror that he might well have been a ghost himself. He shook himself and ushered them into his unassuming abode. He studied them quietly once the door was safely shut and the shades were drawn. They were certainly the men he had thought them to be, but how they came to appear among the living was more than he could say.

  Garren smiled pitiably at his conundrum and hastily drew out a chair for the stymied man while Bayard went to brew some tea, that it might revive the man from this overt shock. A few minutes later the man was glancing back and forth between them and taking careful sips of the rejuvenating liquid; he was actually smiling, for he had received back his dead and they were certainly not ghosts. He felt the steady throb of their hearts and the warmth of their hands and smiles, and knew these were no undead fiends or wandering spirits. They would not say how it was they had survived or conquered death, but he was content to have them back and was wise enough not to ask too many awkward questions.

  Said Bren at last, “so what is to come of all this? Shall the Prophecy be fulfilled at last?”

  Garren nodded eagerly, “it has already begun. His Lordship has sealed his own doom this night in his poor choice of victim for his latest blood rites.” His voice grew grave, “yet the Beast remains.”

  Bren nodded, “by blood it was made and only by blood can it be unmade.” He smiled grimly, “count me in gentlemen, but will we suffice?”

  Garren shook his head, “nay sir, we need two more.”

  Bren said thoughtfully, “there is an old soldier, a beggar and outcast, formerly of his Lordship’s guard, but cast aside when he was crippled in his Lordship’s service. He is still a man of duty and has lately come into our Master’s keeping. Perhaps he would find such a duty to his liking. I shall ask him immediately and bring him back here if he is amenable, meanwhile you two try to think of someone, anyone who might act as the fifth.” He gave them an ecstatic grin and then vanished into the dull grey light of predawn. As he opened the smaller gate, there came a gasp of pure wonder and they heard him say eagerly, “get inside lad, get inside! I must be off at once but I shall return shortly.” The gate banged shut and Kipril entered the cottage, agape to see who waited within.

  Bayard and Garren exchanged a knowing look and then quickly greeted the boy. Bayard said excitedly, “you have seen the Stone!” Kipril nodded, too overwhelmed and happy to speak.

  He shook his head, trying to comprehend that it was indeed the same night he had left and that his friends were truly alive. At last he said, “can this day get any stranger?”

  Garren grinned, “that it can lad, that it can. You are just the man we’ve been waiting for.” Kipril didn’t understand, but his heart gave an eager thump and his smile was answer enough.

  Bren returned, as the sun peeked over the far hills, with a limping soldier in tow. As the door closed behind the ragged man, Bren said grimly, “we have our army, now how do we march to war?” All eyes turned to Garren, who smiled in anticipation, but before he could answer, there arose an outcry from the castle. It was Bren’s turn to smile grimly, “his Lordship is dead. It has begun.”

  “Come,” said Garren, “we have little time. Let us to the Beast!” They stared at him in horror, but knew he had the right of it.

  They draped themselves in the rough woolens of the castle’s heavy laborers and cast cloaks about themselves, to conceal the identity of those who should not be able to wander about of their own accord. Entering the castle by the same gate the drudges had used the previous night to dispose of his Lordship’s latest victim, they easily penetrated the castle proper and made their way uncontested into the lowest reaches of the dungeons. The air was heavy with the scent of death and dragon smoke and grew more so as they approached the Creature’s lair. Initially they heard sounds of conflict and the clashing of weapons above, but no one bothered with a company of menials about some task in the bowels of the keep when the crown was being contested.

  The Dragon slept whenever the Rider was not present to give it direction and thought. It laired beneath the castle, coming and going through a great tunnel dug specifically for that purpose. Men could access the cavern via the dungeons if they wished to avoid the bulk of the Monster itself, which any rational creature would. They could hardly breath in the fumes from the Beast, but at last they stood facing the insensible monstrosity. Bren asked, “now what? We are here but the Beast might as well be a log for all the volition it has without the Rider.”

  Came a laughing sneer, “oh, I think not! And here I thought I would have to drag someone down here somehow when you have so thoughtfully volunteered.” Tyne stepped out of the shadows cast by a few, scattered torches and smiled as if he had just conquered the world. Continued he, “while the others fight for the crown, I shall assume the Ridership and then take the crown at my leisure, but first I need blood. On your knees, all of you!”

  The small company exchanged grim looks, shrugged, and did as they were bidden. Each had silently wondered how they would meet their end, and at last it seemed they had an answer. Tyne cast back their hoods and confiscated any weapons in their keeping, starting in surprise to discover both Garren and Bayard among his captives. His smile deepened, “my, my, this is a bit of fortune unlooked for! I will not only get to kill the insolent stranger but also my pesky brother when I had thought someone else had already had that pleasure.” He circled his captives, thoughtfully scratching his chin, said he, “in theory I only need the blood of one, but I need neither witnesses nor prisoners. Shedding a little extra can not hurt in the least.” He grinned villainously and drew his sword, “besides, I will enjoy it immensely, what other reason do I need?”

  They neither struggled nor protested but fell as sheep to the slaughter, one after the other hewn down in their turn. Bren was the last to feel the sword pierce his heart, as he fell gasping and felt his life slipping away, a satisfied smile touched his lips that he could be of such service to his Master and his fellow men. The blood price met, Tyne turned eager eyes upon the Beast, waiting for some stirring of awareness or acknowledgement, but as the final victim shuddered and lay still, the Dragon gave a hideous roar and was engulfed by black flames that consumed the very rock upon which the castle’s foundations stood. The entire structure collapsed in on itself, forever ending the argument over who would be next to reign, for none survived to contest the question.

  Amid the smoke and settling dust, two lights throbbed in the darkness and soon resolved themselves into two misty, luminescent man shapes. They searched the debris and found the remains of a boy, charred beyond recognition. The younger looked to the elder, who shook his head minutely and the boy nodded. What they intended could not be accomplished in this tomb without trapping their friend within, so each took hold of the scorched youth, fading into mist and moonlight with their deceased burden, and vanishing from that place of darkness and death. The gatekeeper and the old soldier were permanently interred therein, though their spirits were fled and even now, looked upon an eternal morning with joy unfathomable.

  The moon was high and only a few bold stars dared look on as the pair reappeared in the waking world, again garbed in mortal flesh. They lay down their burden and Garren nodded his encouragement. Bayard gave him a nervous smile, but touched his dead friend with a glowing hand, unsure exactly what pa
rt of the former servant he was touching and hoping it would suffice. The unrecognizable lump suddenly glowed with an azure light and knit itself into some semblance of a man. The boy blinked his suddenly restored eyes and smiled awkwardly at his companions, who laughed for very joy as they helped him to his feet. The lad glanced about and smiled up at the moon, said he, “so this is how you two managed to cheat death.” He sighed, “and our other companions?”

  Garren smiled heartily, “in our Master’s keeping. We need not mourn my friend, for they could not be safer or happier. It is we who foolishly linger on in this forsaken world long past our time. But come, we have our Master’s business to be about.” He glanced glumly at the ruined castle and sighed, “and my horse was in the stable when it collapsed, a pity that.”

  Bayard grinned, “I suppose you will just have to walk like the rest of us peasants.”

  Garren nodded, “for the time being I suppose I must, but come lads, you have much to learn ere you are allowed to wander off alone.”

  Kipril brightened significantly, “that is a relief, I hardly know what it is I have begun.”

  Bayard laughed, “that makes two of us.”

  Garren draped one arm encouragingly around each set of shoulders, “that is why I am here: to teach you to be proper Messengers.” He smiled ruefully, “even if I am unhorsed. Come lads, the night wastes.” The boys exchanged an eager glance and then followed happily after their new mentor.

  The sun was on the rise by the time they reached Gormanth; it shone brightly on a land newly freed of unnatural terror, but none yet knew his Lordship and his Beast were gone or what would come of the realm with no apparent heir. The lads drew close to Garren as he led them into the heart of the bustling city, even this early in the morning the streets were thronged with people. It was a dirty, crowded, and sinister place and the neophyte Messengers were loath to spend any time at all within its confines. “Come lads,” said Garren cheerily, “the terrors of the mortal world should hold little sway over you now. Have you not faced death and emerged triumphant? What worse can befall a mortal man?”

  Bayard smiled wryly, “it is not so much that I fear what may happen in such a dreadful place, but rather I am country bred and little used to so many people and buildings all atop one another!” Kipril nodded his agreement.

  Garren laughed heartily, causing several passersby to look at him askance, for few were those who found anything humorous or delightful in a world ruled by his Lordship and haunted by the Dragon. He checked his mirth, not wanting to draw attention, and said quietly, “you’ll see far stranger things than a crowded city in the course of your service lads. I forget how overwhelming it all is, so long have I been in this service, but come, we must see the Captain.” The pair of neophytes exchanged a grim look and shivered in dread. Garren could not help but smile, “easy lads, he is no more dreadful than I. You have looked the Creator in the eye and lived to tell the tale, and He is far more awful than any mere man.” They appeared to relax marginally, but Garren knew that only getting the interview over with as quickly as possible would truly put their fears to rest.

  In one of the more rundown of the outlying districts, they stopped before a three-story building that leant heavily upon its neighbor. The boys exchanged another of those grim glances and Garren shook his head with a smile on his face, saying, “appearances can be deceiving lads. It is time you started taking miracles for granted. You no longer exist in a world completely ruled by the laws of Time and Space. We are allowed to bend those rules and sometimes break them entirely. While the Captain resides within, he doesn’t exactly reside within. This building is one of many doorways into the Captain’s headquarters, but where exactly he is actually located, even I do not know. The boys looked rather flummoxed at this explanation but they had little choice but to trust Garren and hope they would eventually figure out the intricacies of their new occupation.

  As Garren stepped into the doorway he vanished. The boys gaped but hastened after, colliding with the back of the man as he stood speaking quietly with a pair of guards. They gave the unseemly pair a stony look as Garren smiled knowingly, then asked, “is the Captain in?”

  One of the guards, still eyeing the lads skeptically, said at last, “he is, but now may not be the best time to intrude upon him.”

  Garren nodded, but there was a questioning look in his eyes at this peculiar statement, said he, “I would like to see him, if I may?”

  The guards exchanged an unreadable look but then shrugged; it was not their place to deny admittance to anyone with a need to see the Captain. The man who had spoken held up his hand, now radiant with an azure light; Garren held up his own and touched it to the guard’s. His own palm glowed in response, the unicorn hidden beneath his tunic was alight, and even his eyes sparkled with it. Garren withdrew his hand and looked to the boys, said he, “you must do the same lads.” They looked at him blankly, he smiled, “just a precaution to keep servants of evil away from the Captain.” The boys nodded and each in turn touched their hand to that of the guard. Satisfied that they were not vile fiends in disguise, the guards stepped aside and allowed them to ascend the stairs. Garren did not like the grim looks that followed their retreat; something was far amiss, but what could it be? He knocked upon the door at the top of the stairs and opened it when a gruff voice called, “come!”

  A grizzled man in his middle years sat behind a desk and glowered at the opening door, ready to excoriate whoever it was that was so bold or foolish as to disturb him at that particular moment. His reprimand died aborning as Garren entered, and for a moment a wan smile of remembered warmth touched his face, but it was quickly lost, as the man took in his Captain and astonishment shone in his eyes. Said the Captain gruffly, “what is it you want? I am too busy to be bothered with minor details.”

  Garren, silent for a moment in shock, quickly overcame his amazement and said quietly, “just checking in Sir, and I thought you would like to meet our two newest recruits.”

  The man eyed the terrified boys without interest, noting even they could feel that something was dreadfully amiss, and said in dismissal, “very good, you may go.”

  But Garren did not move, said he, “Sir, the Prophecy has been fulfilled.”

  The Captain scowled at his old friend’s continued presence and said, “which Prophecy? There are so many one can hardly keep track of them all!”

  Garren replied, “his Lordship has been overthrown, the Beast unmade, and his entire castle has crumbled to dust.”

  At least this jolted the Captain out of his grim introspection, said he in growing anticipation, “and none has claimed the crown?”

  Garren shook his head, “nay Sir, all within the castle were killed when it collapsed and word has not yet spread even to the city.”

  Garren flinched at the avaricious look that entered his Captain’s eyes, said he with a brittle laugh, “very good, we shall lay claim to it immediately.”

  Garren gaped, “we, Sir?”

  The Captain snarled, “well I, if you must be so precise. Who has a greater claim to it? Is it not our blood and toil that allows these mortal men to live on in oblivious peace? Who better to guide them into an era of peace and prosperity?”

  Garren frowned and took a step towards the desk, “we are not allowed to interfere in the affairs of mortal men, sir. That includes ruling over them! What is wrong with you?”

  The Captain scoffed a laugh, “wrong? Everything is wrong! We toil and die for these wretched men yet none knows it or cares. They live as they wish, take what they want, and do as it pleases them while we are bound by an unending list of rules and regulations. I am tired of it! I will take what I want and do as I please. Why must my pleasure be sacrificed for the sake of these unwitting sheep?”

  Garren’s heart grew cold, hearing such words from the mouth of his own Captain, said he quietly, “because it is what our Master asks of those in this service and it is to this that you
have agreed. It is time you stepped down, sir.”

  The Captain was on his feet and bellowed, “step down! Are you daft? It was I that wakened you from death’s cold embrace, it was I that trained you, and this is how you repay me? This is your conception of loyalty?”

  The guards thundered up the stairs and flung open the door, but did not enter as they watched the Captain berate his one time apprentice. Bayard and Kipril huddled in the corner, eyes wide. Garren said with quiet vehemence, “my loyalty is first and foremost to our Master, and in defying Him you cannot hope to lead His servants any longer. It is time you stepped down.”

  The Captain laughed bitterly, “and who would replace me, you? Is that why you have come? Are you raising up your own followers to oust me?” He stared harshly at the boys and then hissed, “I do not need you and I certainly don’t need the one I once called Lord, nay, I need only myself! I will take the crown and the world shall tremble at my feet...” He trailed off with a hideous shriek, clutched his chest, and fell to his knees, weeping bitterly.

  The guards rushed forward to aid their piteous Captain, but they were driven back as the window shattered, admitting darkness as it had once let in the light. A voice like Death laughed, “poor, poor wretch, do you see now the folly of your ways? How could you trust him at all or ever? Now look at you!”

  The quivering men in the room, unable to discern any form or feature in this darkness made solid, looked in horror upon what had once been the Captain. The wretched man was now little more than a small, writhing wormlike creature wailing in despair. The darkness stooped like a bird and grasped the agonized wretch in what might have been a beak. Garren and the guards drew their swords, ready to leap to the former Captain’s rescue but the darkness laughed, freezing them where they stood. Bayard gaped in horror, for they had been turned to stone. He then felt those horrid eyes upon himself, as did Kipril; the voice sneered, “let us see your precious Master’s light heal them now! There can be no cure in what I have wrought and the same shall be your fate unless you bow before me this instant!”

  Trembling in terror, the neophyte Messengers looked upon the stony faces of their comrades with dread, their faces forever frozen in looks of astonishment and fear, but more so did they look with pity upon the writhing creature yet clutched by the darkness. Bayard bowed his head in resignation and grief, and whispered, “I have but one Master and Lord and to Him alone will I bend the knee.”

  Kipril cried, “be gone fiend, you have no part in us!”

  The darkness laughed them to scorn and vanished out the shattered window with its prey, leaving five statues as its only witnesses. Outside, the sun resumed its shining and after a moment of uncanny silence, the birds resumed their singing, for the darkness had passed like a cloud over the sun and was no more. A dove fluttered to the sill of the shattered window and glanced about in placid curiosity, seemingly attracted to the statuary like iron filings to a magnet. It took wing and landed on the shoulder of the nearest stone figure, and like water freed from its icy captivity, Garren crumpled to his knees, flesh and blood once more. He stared at the fate of his companions in horror, but one by one, the dove lit on each and freed them from their stony repose. Bayard blinked in no little terror to awake to find a certain Bird perched atop his head. The others actually smiled at his discomfiture, but were secretly glad it was not they themselves that were thus perched upon.

  The next moment, a great light engulfed them all and they found themselves standing in a pleasant wood in the late morning. Said the Unicorn that now stood in their midst, as each man went to one knee before Him, “I am in need of a new Captain.”

  Garren felt His eyes upon his bowed head and shivered at the unspoken question. He raised his nervous gaze to that of his Master, who smiled in amused understanding at His conflicted servant. “Child,” said He as gentle as down floating on the wind, “I will not ask you to do something that is reprehensible to you. Your heart still yearns to be abroad in My service, rather than acting as counselor and guide to those under your command and to those who would seek Wisdom and Truth. Yet you would do whatever I ask without hesitation or question.” He laughed like softly falling rain, “fear not, I shall not ask it of you so you need not dread answering Me.” Garren visibly relaxed and He grinned all the more.

  He turned His wondrous eyes upon the two kneeling guards, saying, “there is enough work to be done in the wide world that you will be of far more use to Me in the field rather than warding a door. Will you go?” They nearly glowed with joy as their eyes met His and immediately they vanished in a brilliant flash of light.

  He turned to His remaining servants, “come, I will show you what I intend.” His voice was so full of joy and anticipation that they could hardly contain their curiosity, but they stood and followed after, silent in sheer awe. After a short walk they came to a quaint little cottage set back in the woods with a joyous brook singing along one side of a half wild garden, riotous with innumerable flowers. “Come!” cried He with the Voice that commands the sunrise. The door immediately opened and two men stepped blinking into the sunshine. The three Messengers felt their hearts leap for joy as they recognized the former gatekeeper and the once crippled soldier. Great was their joy in the meeting and their Master’s joy in theirs.

  Once His children had satisfied their immediate excitement, He continued with every eye rapt upon His, “the former Captain was still a mortal man and hence able to turn away from Me, if that was his wish, which he proved at the last. Henceforth I shall set over my Messengers a man who cannot be corrupted, tempted, or otherwise drawn from My keeping, as he is already beyond such mortal shortcomings.” He turned laughing eyes upon Garren and continued, “he is also a man whose heart is content to advise, encourage, and guide all those who seek his counsel. I will also give him the aid and wisdom of another faithful heart, something every good leader requires.” He smiled upon them all, each felt his soul quiver in pure wonder, and then He was gone.

  Bren, no longer a man in his failing years but vibrant as any youth, chivied them all inside that they might talk at leisure like civilized people. Guyare, the former cripple, skipped inside like a frisky colt. The Messengers exchanged a wondering look and followed after. Once they were all settled and sipping their requisite tea, Bren began, “you must tell us of your adventures since our parting.”

  Garren told the full tale, which still horrified him to recollect, for the Captain had been a dear friend. Bayard shivered, “what happened to him? Can such be our fate?”

  Garren shook his head sadly, “any man who denies the Master will one day find his soul consumed utterly by the darkness, but for those of us who have tasted His blood, shared in His death, and sworn ourselves to His service, it is a grim fate indeed. As we have been gifted, so too can we be cursed. If we forsake our Master and pursue our own whims, so too shall His power forsake us. We have crossed the threshold of death and only our Master’s power keeps it continually at bay, but should we recant, so too shall His protection be withdrawn and death will have its due. But it must be our conscious choice to do so, it cannot be forced upon us.”

  Kipril frowned in consternation, “what did He mean when He said our new Captain shall be one beyond such corruption?”

  Bren laughed, “He means me. You three still dabble in mortality and are thus corruptible, if you choose to be, as did the late Captain. As far as mortal thinking goes, I am dead and gone. I have seen that Far Shore and the Eternal Morning. Things of earth will never have a hold over me again, for I have witnessed things a mortal mind cannot even imagine. Hence I can guide and direct you more adventurous lads without fear that I will lead you astray, for I can do naught but our Master’s will. Guyare here is to serve as my aide, advisor, and messenger, as I have need.”

  The old soldier smiled, “you’ll make a far better Captain than my former master.” He looked at his vibrant form and laughed, “and it will be a nice change nev
er to grow old.”

  Bayard asked Garren, “you seemed rather surprised when you first saw the Captain, was it just his changed attitude or was it something more? Do we age like normal men?”

  Garren smiled proudly at the lad’s attentiveness to detail, said he, “I was overwrought by his changed demeanor no doubt, but I was also astonished at his apparent age. He should have been a man in his prime, the years do not touch us as they do other men, though we are yet clad in flesh. It was but another testimony to his change of heart; I should have realized it from the first, but I was blinded by my former regard and esteem and could not believe it of him.” There was an uncomfortable silence for some moments as they each thought upon the man’s grim fate, before the subject turned to lighter matters.

  Bren stood and began retrieving teacups, the mortified boys jumped to their feet to help. He shooed the pesky youths away with a good-natured, “be gone ye ruffians, I am not such an old man any more that I cannot wash a few dishes, besides it is my house and you are my guests, so you have no right to touch the washing up without my leave.” He smiled, “let that be my first official order as Captain of this unruly lot.” Then he looked to Garren with questioning eyes, “what exactly do you lot require by way of sleep, food, and all of that?” He barked a rueful laugh, “I am now the fearless leader of this outfit but know nothing of those I command!”

  Garren grinned, “I will be happy to apprise you of anything you wish, but my merry companions here are as clueless about their circumstances as our new captain.” He offered a smart salute and smiled broadly. Bren retreated to the kitchen, muttering about upstart young officers; the others followed after, exchanging amused glances.

  It was rather crowded, but they all made themselves at home while Bren washed up, Garren began in answer, the newest Messengers listening keenly, “we are still counted as mortal men, though we are not allowed to interfere overly much in their affairs unless bidden to do so by our Master. We can neither marry, have children, reign over men, nor have a permanent home among them. Sleep and food are required, but we need far less than once we did. While we can die, as you have witnessed, it is no longer a permanent state.” He smiled knowingly at his nearly drooling apprentices, then continued, “we are also possessed of a few rather odd but quite useful skills. Our senses are keen, we can see like a cat in the dark, and our physical forms are stronger, faster, and more resilient than are a mortal man’s wont.”

  He raised a hand and it began to glow blue with the now familiar light of their Master’s power, finished he, “but this is what truly sets us apart.”

  Kipril asked with ill-contained wonder, “what can we do with it?”

  Garren laughed and Bren shook his head ruefully at the boy’s exuberance. Said the former with a chuckle, “that you will learn soon enough lad. It has already restored you to form and function and assured our fellows that we are one of their own.”

  Bayard frowned thoughtfully, “if it can heal us, can it not be used to help others likewise?”

  Garren shook his head, “nay lad, that it cannot, unless it be our Master’s will to do so. I could no more have made Guyare run than fly. In peculiar cases your mission might require just such a feat and then it will be allowed, but in general, our healing abilities are confined to those who have seen the Stone.”

  Kipril asked, “what exactly is the Stone? Why must we venture thither to enter this service? Why the illusions?”

  Garren nodded, “I wonder that you have not already asked that, but things have been so exciting of late, I suppose you have had little time to ask and far too many other things to ask about. The Stone, as you might have guessed, was where our Master Himself was sacrificed for the sins of all mankind; it is still wet with His blood to this day. Once it was the heart of a mighty kingdom, but all that now remains is legend and that fateful Stone. He became a mortal Himself, walked among us for a time, and was put to death by those who were jealous of His power and influence, but Death could not hold Him and thereby has He conquered it and so may any who call upon His name.

  Any may cry out for His forgiveness and redemption, but it takes a peculiar sort of man to abandon the common trappings of a mortal life to enter service with the Messengers. Many are called, most ignore it and go on with their lives, some venture thither only to balk at the last, and a very few actually join our ranks. The illusions are there to try each candidate’s heart, to know of a certainty that they will remain faithful, come what may. It will weed out any who might be prone to doing as our late captain has done, usually it has been quite successful, but we are still fickle and corruptible men despite all that. But you need not fear lads, as long as your hearts remain true.”

  Bayard nodded eagerly, “how long shall we remain in your keeping?”

  Garren shook his head, “that is not for me to decide, but usually for several years, until you have learned what you must and are confident enough to venture forth alone. It is a strange life, and takes some getting used to, but I can think of nothing more worthwhile.” He looked upon Bren and Guyare with an intrigued smile, “at least this side of eternity.” They smiled like cats, mysterious and too knowing.

  Kipril queried, “when does our service end?”

  Garren shook his head, “when you betray our Master, at the End of Time, or when you tire of it, return to the Stone, and forever abandon this mortal sphere.”

  Bayard asked with a smile, “what is it we do besides die at the hands of vile wizards and power-hungry brothers?”

  Garren shrugged, “our missions are many and varied. I have never had any two the same. We are usually sent to a certain person or place that is or will soon be under the influence of evil; we may try and prevent that evil or bring it to an end. Sometimes we are sent with a message to a particular person or group of people, hence our name.”

  Kipril sighed, “I suppose it is one of those things, like our Master’s light, that we must learn by doing and one of the reasons for an apprenticeship?”

  Garren smiled, “where is the fun in learning everything all at once? If life holds no mystery, it holds little interest. Is not half the fun of a gift the anticipation of getting it and wondering what it holds?” The boys exchanged a glum look, too young to fully comprehend his meaning and like little boys, wanting nothing more than to open all their presents at that exact moment. Their elders exchanged an amused grin behind their backs but said nothing more about, ‘kids!’

  Bayard broke the silence and asked, “what of the realm? Who shall reign? Will there be a civil war?”

  Garren shook his head, “countries and kings mean little to us now, outside our current assignment. You will see them rise and fall, if you serve long enough.” He said very quietly, “it is the same with mortal men. While we serve them with all we are, we cannot ever truly be accepted among them; we will never marry, have children, or even befriend them, for our duty will soon sunder us if Time itself does not. I have served five hundred years as a Messenger and the whole world has changed utterly in that time, countless generations have passed and any who once knew me are long dead.” Here he brightened, “which is also a reason for the apprenticeship I think, it offers companionship to those of us who have been so long alone and helps ease our newest recruits into a life quite foreign to their previous sensibilities. You are in the world but not of it, active in human society but never a part of it.” He smiled at Bren, “and then there is always our merry captain to consult if ever you need direction, guidance, or just someone to talk to.”

  Kipril looked at said captain with a smile, and asked thoughtfully, “how then do we get our missions?”

  Garren said with a shrug, “sometimes we hear from our captain or the Master Himself, but usually we just seem to fall into them, much as you two felt drawn to a certain Stone.” He yawned, “I think we had all best get some sleep, not that we need much, but even we must go to bed occasionally. It has been a rather eventful few days.”

>   Bayard laughed, “I’ve only died twice, been turned to stone, overthrown a King, toppled a Kingdom, and slain a Dragon. Nothing too grueling, certainly.” Garren gave him a patient look, the scamp grinned wickedly, and hastened off to bed with Kipril close behind.

  They were up again by nightfall, feeling much refreshed, if a bit peckish. Bren had a hearty supper waiting for them, forcing Garren to quip, “I did not think cooking a requisite for your position, Sir.”

  The former gatekeeper gave him a patient look and answered, “I have been far longer a gatekeeper and host than I have a captain. Old habits die hard me thinks. Of course, I think I shall be of far more value for my hospitality than for my wisdom pertaining to the warrior arts.”

  Guyare laughed, “that is what you have me for, my friend. I can’t cook to save my life, so I think we shall make an acceptable team.”

  They were just about to dig in when a knock sounded at the door. Five pairs of eyes looked up keenly, Bren leapt to his feet and hastened to the summons, giving the young rogues a warning glance to stay seated. They smiled impishly at him but remained in their places. He opened the door and found a lad of an age with Bayard and Kipril standing awkwardly on the doorstep. The boy glanced at the laden table eagerly, but crushed the cap in his hands and shifted his feet with nervous fervor. Bren could be an intimidating fellow when he wished it, which made him an invaluable gatekeeper, but he was also possessed of a great heart and a warmth none suspected, making him an even better host. Said he gently, “come in lad, you must be cold and no doubt hungry. We were just sitting down to supper and you are welcome to join us. Tell us your tale when it pleases you.” The boy’s eyes glowed in gratitude as Bren welcomed him amongst them and seated him between the other boys, who eagerly made room for him.

  He paused a moment, unsure what to do, but Bren handed him a plate, and as the others began to help themselves, he lost all timidity and joined in. At last, warmed by the fire and his merry companions, the edge taken off his hunger, the boy said at last, “I wish to thank you all for your warm provision. I have not eaten in days nor had such merry company since I left home.” Kyan continued to tell his tale of a large but poor family and of his setting forth to seek his fortune, of an indifferent or even hostile world, of a long journey with no end in sight, and his joy at finding such welcome in a wood some called wild and others haunted.

  Bren said warmly, “what is it you seek lad? You are certainly welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  The boy shook his head, “I do not rightly know. I just knew my future was not to remain at home. My mother can barely feed the lot of us and I did not wish to be a burden any longer, though it broke her heart to see me go.” He said this last with a wistful tear in his eye. Bayard sighed heavily, wondering what it was to have a mother who missed you when you were gone. Kyan continued, “I will probably leave on the morrow, but am very grateful for all you have done on my behalf.” They spent the rest of the night in lively conversation, though the boy begged exhaustion and withdrew to bed after some hours, leaving the rest to mull over the future.

  Kyan awoke to find an equally hearty breakfast laid out for him and a generous supply of trail-worthy food packed and awaiting his departure. As he ate, Garren asked, “do you mind company lad?”

  The boy gaped, “sir, I hardly know where it is I go and would hate to importune you in the least.”

  Garren laughed easily, “nay lad, you won’t be an inconvenience and whither we wander matters little to me, but I feel a need to be off myself and would welcome some company.”

  The boy nearly glowed with excitement, “then certainly, sir, I would be honored.”

  Garren smiled, “I hope you don’t mind me dragging those two irrepressible rapscallions along as well?” The boy grinned all the more, eager to have companions his own age. They talked of many things as the boy finished his breakfast while said rapscallions had yet to make an appearance. When asked after his young charges, Garren smiled and said, “they are attending to a few last minute details ere we set forth; they should be along shortly. I hope.”

  Garren had sent the pair off into the woods ere sunrise, in the damp and cold of predawn, with explicit instructions not to return until they had accomplished what he asked. They were both excited and a little intimidated by his orders, but they obeyed and hoped soon to have mastered a vital skill in their new occupation. “Horses!” said Kipril with a shake of his head, “five horses. Would not one beast be effort enough?”

  Bayard grinned, “perhaps, but this is not just an exercise but also in preparation of our upcoming journey. Besides, one beast would not give us near the practice that five must; he wants us to be proficient in the skill not just amateurs.”

  Kipril shook his head again, rolled his eyes, but soon hastened deeper into the wood in search of a misty patch with which they might experiment. The wood suddenly opened onto a narrow meadow through which a slow brook meandered at its leisure and here a bank of mist idled ere the coming of the sun dispersed it. The boys dashed into its midst and shared an eager grin, each tentatively raising a hand as Garren had instructed them. They had asked if he might show them instead, but he insisted this was a skill learned by doing, not by watching. A slight glow appeared on each palm, bright in the gloom, as each concentrated on precisely what it was he wanted. The mist surrounding each hand began to glow and dance in response. They exchanged an excited smile, like two little boys together discovering some new mischief.

  Bayard managed to thicken a patch of mist into a blobbish mass that might have been a child’s rendition of a horse in clay, but it dispersed as he lost concentration as Kipril burst out laughing. He frowned in annoyance at his companion, who had not even accomplished that much, before they both returned to their work with a will. An hour later, after several miserable creatures with no legs, too many legs, legs too short, a neck like a giraffe, and other such deformities had materialized and been dispersed, at last Bayard produced something that looked like an actual horse, only it was translucent, glowed slightly with azure light, and was blurred around the edges. One last bit of concentration and the thing whinnied eagerly, became solid, and stepped out of the fog, bucking and frisking as if it had been in a stall all winter. Kipril smiled excitedly, barely maintaining his concentration upon his own work in progress, but at last his creature too whickered in greeting and was soon kicking up its heels in the meadow alongside Bayard’s. Three more beasts soon materialized, each more quickly and of finer quality than the last. When the final creature dashed from the fog and raced around the perimeter of the lea, they felt confidant in their abilities to at least use this manifestation of their Master’s power.

  Kipril frowned, “were we not also told to acquire the various tack and accouterments our fine herd will require?”

  Bayard nodded, “yes, but I don’t think we need form them out of mist.” He called one of the beasts over and it complied immediately, standing patiently before not only its master but its maker as well. His hand began to glow once more as he raised it to the animal’s shoulder. The horse neither flinched nor drew aside, but the whole creature soon glowed with the same azure light. Bayard frowned in concentration and suddenly the light thickened and deepened in color upon the creature’s back and head. A moment later, a fully outfitted horse stood before him, tossing his head impatiently to be off. The boy smiled and met Kipril’s dancing gaze with his own. Soon each of the mist-born horses was saddled and ready to go.

  Kipril gasped, “I almost forgot! We were supposed to somehow arm and outfit ourselves as well.”

  Bayard grinned, “if we can do it with the horses, why not ourselves? Our physical forms are wrought of the same stuff!” He touched his cheek with his hand and suddenly his clothes began to glow and change, settling into garments far more suited for long wear and rough travel. He smiled impishly at the sword that now hung at his hip.

  Kipril grinned, “do you even know how
to use that thing?”

  Bayard shrugged, “what do you think our apprenticeship is for? Come, get dressed and we will be off!” Kipril shrugged, adjusted his garb as easily as Bayard had done, though he felt slightly awkward with a sword he did not know how to use balanced on his hip, but then called over the pair of horses he had wrought as Bayard gathered up his own trio. Each mounted one horse, neither any more used to riding than they were to using a sword, and then took up the reins of the spares. Thankfully, as they were not real horses but rather phantoms wrought of light and mist, the beasts were rather docile and willing mounts, perfect for beginners. They emerged from the wood and left the horses outside the cottage, rushing inside to fetch Garren, eager to see what he would think of their handiwork.

  Everyone came out to inspect the morning’s work, their mentor seemed quite pleased with their efforts while Bren and Guyare exchanged pleased smiles, and Kyan gaped in wonder, never having imagined that his new companions would give him the loan of such a beast. As the pack animal was loaded with their requisite supplies, they said their goodbyes and were soon in their saddles. Bren had not been very forthcoming in where he had found all they would need for their journey, but assured them that they would not be importuning him in the least by taking it. With a final nod, Garren bid the Captain and his aide a fond farewell and led the small party off into the rising day. Bayard waved until Bren was out of sight, feeling at last what it must be like to depart and have someone wishing you well and looking forward to your return. He sighed happily at the thought and his horse frisked in response, picking up his mood.

  Garren fell back beside him and whispered, “with these mist-wrought beasts you need to be careful of what you think, for they are quite sensitive to the moods and whims of their maker. Even my mount got a little excited with whatever it was you were feeling.” Bayard grinned sheepishly and Garren clapped him on the back, “easy lad, that is what this apprenticeship is all about! You are doing splendidly, this is not an easy skill to master yet your beasts are as good as my own.” The boy glowed with pleasure and his three horses tossed their heads and whickered eagerly. The man smiled wryly, shook his head, gave the lad a knowing look, and then urged his horse alongside Kyan’s.

  Kyan was nearly bouncing in his saddle, happily riding one of Kipril’s beasts and safe from Bayard’s inadvertently fractious outbursts, neophyte rider that he was, said he in wonder, “how can this be? I have companions, horses, and supplies! It is truly a miracle. Now all we need is a worthy quest and it will be an adventure indeed!”

  Garren nodded, “that is what I wished to speak with you about. Have you any notion of a destination? We are free to follow you whither you will and our services and beasts are at your disposal.”

  The boy thanked him profusely and Garren spent several minutes trying to get a word in edgewise, assuring him that he had had thanks enough and to spare. At last the lad said thoughtfully, “I had some vague notion of searching for the infamous Stone, but never thought it a sensible idea. It is only a legend after all and what is accomplished by finding the old relic, if it even exists? I had hoped some realistic path would open itself to me, but with the curious companions I have acquired, that nonsensical part of me is now stirring and I fear some absurd quest will be the result.”

  Garren laughed heartily, “aye lad, many of life’s paths seem silly, ridiculous, or pointless at the first, but reveal themselves to be wondrous indeed. The old stories are full of such tales, what is one more? If you were free to go whither you would and do there whatever you might, what would it be?”

  The boy grinned eagerly, “well, this is a proper story indeed. I have acquired mysterious companions, miraculous provisions for my journey, and a wizened sage to offer advice upon the way. Now all we lack is a quest. What of this Stone? My old grandmother told many a tale associated with it, and I believe the dear creature actually believed them true! I feel a strange sense of destiny, a draw almost as it were, to that particular legend but cannot explain why. If nothing more epic presents itself, let us make for the Stone, wherever it lies. Know you anything of the matter?”

  Garren smiled as one lost in distant memory, said he in a vague murmur, more to himself than for his companion’s benefit, “aye lad, the Stone is real and the tales true; blessed is the heart that holds them dear. Ignore or disbelieve them to your own peril. I can lead you to the Stone, but what you will find upon that mountain I cannot say, for no two men have ever told the same tale of what they have experienced there. It is not a journey to be accomplished lightly or in jest, for it is perilous and well may cost you everything, more than your life, yea, your very soul. What think you lad?”

  Kyan frowned thoughtfully, “my childish heart once hoped all that gran spoke was true, and yet you, a seasoned warrior and man of the world, agree that the tales told by old wives are the very truth?”

  Garren chuckled, “nay lad, I did not say all myths, legends, gossip, and tall tales passed on before the fire of an evening are the very Truth. Rather I tell you the Stone and the tales surrounding it are True, the very heart of every tale ever told or yet to be; the most important story in all creation and perhaps beyond it.”

  “Ah,” said the boy, “and my childish yearning for it to be so?”

  Garren smiled warmly, “we are told that only a child-like heart may claim the promise and enter the Kingdom. Age and experience do not necessarily mean wisdom, but rather can harden our hearts and poison our minds against those things that are most important. Trust your old gran lad and your childish intuition, and more so the One of whom the tales speak.”

  The boy sighed, “I must think on what you have said, but it is encouraging to know that I am not a fool to find such tales intriguing and to hope that they might be true. For you are no fool and yet you believe.”

  Garren bowed his head in acknowledgement, and said as he turned his horse aside, “I will happily answer any questions you might have or if you have something you wish to discuss further, you need but ask. Shall we ride towards the Stone then, at least for now?” The boy smiled broadly and the man rode off with a merry laugh.

  They stopped to rest and eat briefly in the midafternoon. Kyan was thoughtfully silent as he nibbled on his midday meal while Garren insisted his apprentices begin learning the rudiments of the sword. Kyan watched curiously as his companions flailed about with the weapons, wondering idly if either would lose a hand or worse. They mounted up and rode until the light began to fail. As they made camp, the three lads spoke eagerly together and jested amongst themselves. Garren watched their budding friendship with interest, wondering what strange fate awaited the unsuspecting Kyan, for few mortal men ever acquired a guard and escort of three Messengers and few sought the Stone unless Called, a phenomenon which did not come upon an unbelieving heart.

  “He has been Called,” chirruped a magpie perched in the lowest branches of a nearby maple. Garren’s heart leapt in joy to know Who this bird was, as He continued, “but it is not the Call of the Messenger. Rather I have Called him to be King.” Garren gaped and the Bird laughed, “hence the precautions and provisions for his journey. He must choose whom he will serve: Me, himself, or the darkness. You three shall see that he survives to make that choice, but cannot interfere in his decision, save to speak with him upon various matters, if that be his wish. He will feel My call stirring in his heart, his own selfish thoughts will intrude, so too will My Enemy seek to own him; he must choose which shall be his master. As he chooses, so shall go the Kingdom.” And then He was gone.

  Garren withdrew from the deepening shadows and approached the fire the lads now had merrily burning in the midst of their small camp. Only when Kyan was soundly asleep did he tell his apprentices of the revelations surrounding their quest. Bayard grinned, “the lad has a quest indeed, though he thinks himself merely on a self-imposed lark to spare his mother further expense when he might well end by saving or destroying a Kingdom!”
He frowned, “what can the Stone mean to him if he is not seeking it as we did?”

  Garren shook his head, “the Stone is far more than a trysting place for future Messengers, many and varied are the stories told thereof. It would be an ideal place for the lad to finally declare the intentions of his heart, whether it be for our Master or against Him.”

  Kipril shivered, “what of this mention of the darkness seeking him out?”

  Garren said in quiet dread, “this boy has a destiny and that will attract our Master’s enemies, who love nothing more than to corrupt that which our Master intends for good. It may only be shadowy whispers heard in his heart or mind, or there may be a manifestation of some sort that the boy must endure. We can only avail him if the servants of evil intend him physical harm or to force the issue. If they merely tempt, threaten, and lie, we must let the boy do as he will.”

  Bayard said thoughtfully, “we have yet to be embroiled in any sort of combat, can we harm or thwart a mortal foe?”

  Garren nodded, “we can cause superficial injury and momentary pain to a mortal opponent, but any lethal or crippling injury we render will be mitigated to a mere scratch, but enough to momentarily drive off any fiends intent on harming or seizing our wards.” He smiled roguishly, “or until they make off with our decoy.”

  Kipril frowned in perplexity while Bayard wore a slight, thoughtful smile, said he, “we can form horses out of mist, change our clothes with a thought, why not our faces?”

  Garren clapped him on the back, “precisely lad and a skill which you two should practice, that it might avail us if we should have need of it upon this little adventure.”

  The lads exchanged a merry grin and spent the better part of the night amusing themselves thus, Garren finding no little delight in their antics. Eventually he chivied them to bed and stood watch himself; he could sleep another night. They were up with the first birds and in their saddles not long thereafter. Several weeks passed quietly in this vein, but as promised, the idyllic journey did not long remain so, for they were nearing a certain mountain where destinies were forged or lost.

  The weather was fine and the habitations of men so few and far between in those lands, that they had slept under the dome of heaven since the night they vacated the captain’s homely cottage, but Garren felt an itch to mingle with his fellow men this night. He broached the subject to all three of the lads, but only Bayard was eager to accompany him to the local inn for a night among their own kind. Kipril said with a grin, “spend this beautiful night choking on pipe smoke listening to complete strangers grouse about the price of pigs? Yes, that sounds intriguing indeed!” Kyan nodded his agreement and it was swiftly decided that Garren and Bayard would return before midnight while the others enjoyed a quiet evening with only the crickets for company.

  As the pair set off, Bayard said with a frown, “this is no mere lark, is it?”

  Garren smiled grimly, “nay lad, tonight the plot thickens. Do you think you could disguise yourself as the future King?” He barked a laugh to see that the lad had already done just that, unasked, and so much did he resemble Kyan that Garren almost turned back to assure himself that he had accompanied the right lad.

  Bayard smiled eagerly, “it shall be interesting to see what our enemies make of my disguise.”

  Garren nodded, “the night shall tell. I hope Kipril knows what to do when we do not return.”

  Bayard grinned with fiendish anticipation, “we know our parts; he shall know his. There shall be surprises indeed this night, but I think they shall be on the side of our enemies.” Garren nodded his agreement but schooled his face to a bland smile as they approached the inn.

  Kyan retired early, pleading exhaustion and a headache while Kipril watched the night, uneasy for the first time in days; he felt something evil stirring and wished with all his heart Garren were there, but somehow he knew that neither of his friends would be returning, at least not this evening. He shuddered and offered a silent prayer in hopes that he was ready for whatever the night would reveal. He glanced at the sleeping Kyan, who seemed to be having uneasy dreams, tossing, turning, and muttering as he was. Then he turned his gaze outwards, but he knew this was not an enemy he could fight, neither would it come from without the camp or in physical form, at least not yet.

  Kyan wandered in a grey land of a perpetual autumn twilight with leaden clouds lowering ominously overhead while beneath his feet, great puffs of equally drab dust erupted with each step, for there had never been even the thought of rain or moisture in this grim land. Occasionally a bitter wind gusted, driving the powdery dust before it in great clouds, blowing grit mercilessly into the eyes, mouth, and nose of the weary wanderer. He was tired, oh so tired, weary as death. He would do anything to rest. Then even the wan, sad light vanished, leaving only utter blackness. The wind howled like a thing possessed with the bite of winter in its breath. Then the darkness laughed. Kyan shuddered in terror, for that laugh was far worse than the wailing wind, but he refrained from running blindly, rather he stood his ground, waiting for whatever lurked to pounce or consume him utterly.

  Came the voice, “will you lay your head upon the block little wretch and spill out your blood for one you do not know?”

  The boy shivered but knew the thing, whatever it was, spoke of things to come, said he with quavering voice, “what would you have of me?”

  The darkness chortled, “I of you? Nothing! Wretch! Rather it is for you to beg mercy of me! Come willingly and it will spare you much pain, for the end can only be the same. You will die unless you come to me. He will promise all manner of wonderful things, but in the end it will all be for naught. They all die, all those He claims to love and protect. Their blood fuels His horrible schemes, only I can spare you from such a fate, but I do not take just anyone. You could run from both of us, Him and I, but I shall find you regardless. Come willingly and I might be generous.” It chuckled like bubbles rising in a putrid pond, “then again, I might not.”

  Kyan trembled uncontrollably, he did not know who this infamous ‘He’ was but neither did he like or trust this taunting, invisible voice. At least he knew that much. Said he with a boldness that astonished him, “do your worst, I shall never be yours.” There came a deep, ominous laugh that prophesied horrors unimaginable for his folly, but Kyan did not care. Whatever betide, it must be better than begging this thing for mercy, a trait he was certain the thing did not possess. He woke with that thunderous, mirthless rumble still echoing in his heart and mind. Cried he into the thick darkness about him, “am I utterly forsaken?”

  Kipril’s gentle voice came immediately in reassurance, “fear not, you are neither alone nor in immediate peril.” Kyan heard a wry smile in the voice, “save perhaps from blood thirsty insects.” Kyan relaxed immediately, now aware of the comforting noises common to a summer night all about him. He rolled over and slept soundly the whole night through. But that feeling of dread intensified threefold when he awoke to find their companions had not returned. Kipril said grimly, “we cannot wait. Things are dreadfully amiss; we must make for the Stone with all haste.” Kyan was about to protest that they could not abandon their companions, but then he remembered the horror of his dream that was far more real than waking life, shuddered, and nodded dully. Whatever waited at this infamous Stone, it must be destiny indeed for such efforts to be made to either thwart or corrupt him. He nodded gravely and immediately set about breaking camp.

  Bayard, in guise like Kyan, and Garren sat at a table in the middle of the common room, listening vaguely to the indifferent singer in one corner and watching a trio of tradesmen at their game of darts in another. The evening passed slowly and uneventfully enough that Bayard mused that Kyan and Kipril had probably had the right idea, but he knew without question that he was supposed to be in this place, disguised as he was. It only waited to be seen why. The answer quite rudely interrupted his introspection as three unwashed and rather burly villains surrou
nded their table. Snarled the widest of the ruffians, “would you be so kind as to come with us?”

  Garren was surreptitiously reaching for his sword, when he cried out in anguish and collapsed with a knife in his ribs. The man demanded again, “are you coming or need we become rough?”

  Bayard glared at them, glanced uneasily at the unmoving form of his friend, and then the world erupted into a brilliant light before falling suddenly into pain and darkness. The thugs bore the unconscious form of their captive out into the night, the last rogue dragging the corpse along and dumping it unceremoniously in the brush along one side of the clearing wherein their horses were tethered. They threw the slumped Bayard across a saddle and thundered off into the night. The inn patrons huddled down behind various tables and furniture, hoping to avoid any share in the disturbance, so there was no one to raise an outcry or resist the fiends. Silence enwrapped the night once more, Garren lay oblivious amongst the ferns and bramble, but a magpie flitted out of a nearby tree and lit on the dead man’s chest. Though far from nocturnal, this Bird had no difficulty seeing at night, for it was His handiwork. He pecked the unmoving form and they vanished together in a flash of brilliant blue. When at last the inn patrons emerged, they found nothing but churned earth and crushed vegetation to say that the villains had ever been.

  For two days, the pair ascended into the foothills and then the mountain itself. They spoke little, and then only in whispers, as if they feared unseen ears. Both felt an oppressive sense of both dread and eagerness pressing upon them and much did they wonder what awaited them at the Stone. As twilight fell on the second day, Kyan cried out in alarm. Kipril drew rein just behind him and studied the creature that loomed out of the darkness with more curiosity than dread, for he had seen the monster before. They had come to a bifurcation in the path, the main trail would lead to the Stone while the other circled around the slope and out of sight. He had planned to push on as long as they could, hoping that his keen night vision and the rising moon would allow them to reach the Stone this night, but the creature lurking ahead barred their way.

  Kyan was atremble, with eyes for nothing but the minotaur standing unmoving on the path before them. It blinked ox-like eyes that glowed faintly golden in the moonlight, but which were far too keen for anything of a bovine persuasion. It growled, “ye seek the Stone?” Kyan nodded in dread. The thing snarled, “then be on your way.” He eyed Kipril stonily, “your companion shall go no further.” Kipril nodded once in acknowledgement, knowing the creature would see despite the darkness.

  At last Kyan found his voice, “I will not abandon my friend to your mercy or lack thereof!”

  The creature shook its head and laughed grimly, “and how would you gainsay me lad? You must seek your destiny alone, as this one must pursue his.”

  Kyan quivered in absolute terror but whispered, “we shall face this end together.”

  The minotaur actually smiled, though grimly, “nay lad, it shall not be. I applaud your courage, you will need it with what awaits ahead, but it shall not avail you here. Things shall be as they must.”

  He had been slowly moving towards the pair and now stood at Kipril’s stirrup, the mist-wrought horse taking no fright at the beast’s approach. The boy felt no fear but was quite thoroughly astonished to see an all too familiar light appear bluely upon the monster’s hairy palm. The creature touched his radiant appendage to Kipril’s leg, he felt an answering pulse from the mark upon his chest, and then his entire being throbbed with the light, became the light, and vanished therewith. Kyan cried, “no!” But the minotaur had vanished along with the Messenger, leaving him utterly alone. There was nothing to do but go on and discover what awaited him at this infamous Stone and see if it was worth the price. With a heavy heart he turned his horse along the main path and followed it ever onwards.

  Bayard awoke with a throbbing head, not helped in the least by the jolting trot of the horse beneath him; he thought a lame ox might have a smoother gait. Someone noticed the captive was awake and celebrated his revival with another ungentle whack to the back of his skull. He obligingly retreated again into oblivion. When he awoke again, he was tied securely to a spindly tree, one of the few to be found on this barren stretch of the road, with the rogues encamped a stone’s throw up slope from him. They did not bother themselves about him until they were ready to set off the following day. They tossed him a few pieces of biscuit and a bit of dried meat; he was offered a short draught of fetid water from a leaking skin and then forced into the saddle of a spare horse; his hands were securely bound and the reins held by one of the thugs. They said nothing to him and spent two days traveling thus, reaching a place Bayard knew all too well as evening fell on the second day. With a shudder, he wondered what purpose could bring such rogues as these to the Stone.

  At last they paid their captive some heed. They cut his bonds and drug him bodily from his horse, forcing him to kneel before the Stone, as he had done of his own accord what seemed ages ago. The widest of the ruffians drew his sword as his companions kept the captive in a forced crouch before the notorious Stone.

  “Now,” said he, sword at the ready, “it is time to determine your fate and the destiny of a kingdom. Will you bow before our master, as he has so graciously asked you to do, or shall this nation be bereft of its King ere he is ever crowned?”

  Bayard said boldly, “I have but one Master and I shall bow before no other.”

  The villain shrugged indifferently, hefted his sword, and said, “then on your feet at least and die like a man.”

  The fiends holding Bayard forced him to stand facing the sword-wielding scoundrel, who then drove his blade with such force into the boy’s abdomen that it came out the other side, pushing the boy back atop the Stone, and actually buried itself in solid rock. The boy’s agonized cry was as music to the murderer’s ears, but the killer grew rather annoyed when he tried to withdraw his weapon but it held fast in the Stone. He took a step back to study his handiwork, his eyes wide with wonder and fear, unable to comprehend what had just happened. The boy clutched futilely at the blade pinning him to the Stone, agony written in his face and eyes. The rogue’s eyes widened as a great bellow rent the night; abandoning the sword and his victim, he and his cronies dashed off with all the speed terror could lend. Bayard lay panting and limp, unheeding of all else. He felt a firm but gentle hand upon his shoulder, vaguely recalled golden eyes gleaming in the darkness, heard a murmured, “easy lad,” and then the light consumed him.

  The minotaur stood over the Stone, the sword still stuck fast though the agonized Messenger had vanished, but it was not a boy he saw, rather a man, the Man with eyes full of love and sorrow beyond the world’s comprehension, and it was he that had pierced Him through. Tears glistened unshed in the creature’s eyes and a sad smile touched his lips, that had been centuries ago, and it was far from the end of the tale. A sudden noise brought him back to the present and he glanced about in the darkness, straining his ears for a repetition of the incongruous noise. It came again and his gaze pierced the perpetrator as surely as the sword had Bayard.

  A tremulous, weeping cry arose from the distraught form, “why?!”

  The creature allowed his features to melt into something less hideous, this was no time for an ogre or a minotaur, but rather it was the face of the man he had once been, said he gently, but anticipation was ill-contained in his voice, “come out of the shadows lad and face your destiny.”

  The boy squeaked, whether in dismay or horror, the man knew not, but he crept from his hiding place and gave the figment before the Stone a grim, grievous look, as if his very soul might break asunder. Whispered he, “why?”

  The man asked quietly, “why what?”

  Kyan hiccupped a swallowed sob, “why the threats, the taunts, the blood? Why did a man wearing my face, yet who was not me, find himself pierced upon this accursed Stone? Why all the mystery? What is so important about me or this rock? What ha
s come of my friends?”

  The man smiled gravely, “lad, whether you will or not, you are the appointed King of this realm. You must decide to take up the sword and crown or to run away and let war and chaos have its due. His Lordship and his fell beast are this night undone but there is none to claim the crown, save what old prophets have sung: the Blade, buried in Stone, shall pierce him who is tyrant’s bane and beast’s unmaking; he who pulls it forth, the rightful King shall be.”

  The boy glanced dully at the sword buried in the Stone and said in a quivering voice, “you expect me to pull that wretched sword from the Stone? Me? Are you mad?”

  The man shook his head, “nay lad, it is my Master’s will, not my own idea. He has Called you to this, your friends have sacrificed to see that you came to this place and time unhindered. It is your choice whether to take up the sword or let all fall into ruin.”

  The boy gaped in disbelief, “but what of my friends? That man with my face? Those fiends?”

  The man shook his head grimly, “they were set upon stopping you at any cost; the boy took your place that you need not die here this night.”

  The boy shook his head in wonder, “but how could he look so like me?”

  The man smiled wryly, “did you not see the face I previously wore? It is a skill peculiar to a certain order of my Master’s servants, this ability to change our features at will. It was the same with this man, who is in fact one of your missing friends.”

  The boy’s eyes held hope as the east the dawn, “do they yet live? The other you consumed with light?”

  The man’s eyes danced, “yes lad, your friends are whole and living, set upon a quest vital to the success of this scheme, if you choose to accept it, that is?”

  The boy bore a weak smile, “I will not serve the darkness; I in myself am nothing and could be no fit King. That leaves me but one choice, but have I the courage?”

  The man said quietly, “if you do not, thousands will suffer and likely die.”

  The boy eyed him grimly, “nothing like a little pressure and emotional coercion!”

  The man laughed ruefully, “sorry lad, but it is the very truth of the matter.”

  The boy nodded vaguely, but his eyes narrowed, and he asked, “what is your part in all of this? How can you utterly consume a man with light?”

  The man smiled, knowing the boy was playing for time, still struggling with his own heart, said he, “I ward the Stone, and have since the day my Master died upon it, by my hand.”

  The boy gaped, “you?! How is that possible? That was centuries ago and your hand bears His blood?!”

  The man smiled sadly, “aye lad, I was horrified when I realized He was no mere criminal but rather an innocent man sacrificed for political convenience, nay not a mere man, but the Man, the Maker Himself made flesh. I was set to take my own life, but a vision of Him spared me that horrid end and I flung myself upon His mercy. He set me over this Stone, to advise, guide, and protect those that come seeking it. Those of my order do not age and if we should die, it is not a permanent condition, as you will witness when your friends return.”

  The boy gaped in wonder, but he seemed at last to have come to a decision, for though he was still nervous, he was far more relaxed in tone and bearing. The sun was beginning to rise as he grasped the hilt and pulled forth the blade. The mist that had shrouded the pair suddenly evaporated as he laid his hand to the hilt, and a gasp of wonder and a shout of joy filled the air, as suddenly the entire mountainside was crowded with people. Kyan fell to his knees before the Stone in astonishment and the Warder of the Stone stepped forth, hand extended to receive the sword. The boy gave up the blade without hesitation, still perplexed at the sudden appearance of so many people and their inexplicable joy at what he had done.

  Said the Warder with all solemnity, “you have been Called to the Kingship, do you now accept it?” The boy nodded with all his heart but found he had no voice. The man smiled deeply, as he intoned, “and in whose name will you serve?”

  This time the boy found his tongue and stammered, “I will serve Him who called me to this place and time, He whose blood yet stains this Stone, spilled on behalf of all men that would seek it.”

  Said the Warder gravely, “take then the Blood shed on thy behalf, and bind yourself to Him that you might rule as He would have you.”

  The boy did as he was bidden while the silent throng watched in awe and dread, erupting again in murmured joy after he had done so. The next moment he felt the flat of the sword touch first one shoulder and then the other, as the uncanny man announced, “you are this day knighted into the Order of the Stone, long may you serve thus.” The boy’s eyes were wide, he could hardly believe himself King, but to his overwrought sensibilities a Knighthood was somehow even more unfathomable. He barely had presence of mind enough to take back the sword, which he fumblingly slid into the scabbard that had inexplicably appeared at his side. The next moment the man was bending over him, his hands glowing intensely blue; a silver circlet appeared in his hands, seemingly wrought of that strange light, and as he placed it on Kyan’s head, he intoned solemnly, “and now do I crown thee the true and rightful King of all this Realm, long held in thrall by a tyrant and his unholy beast. Rise and accept the witness and acclaim of these, your subjects.” As the crown settled on his brow, Kyan felt the light ripple through his entire being and his heart answered with a strange, resonating throb.

  Kyan rose without thought or fear, too stunned for either, and turned to face the throng. They fell to their knees before him and Kyan could do naught but gape, but the Warder was at his side, smiling slightly in amusement, and whispered quietly. The boy shook himself out of his astonishment, schooled his features to joyful solemnity, and motioned for the host to rise, which they did with much jubilant shouting and a flurry of tossed caps. He could not help but grin, as unkingly as that might seem, it felt the only thing appropriate for this joyous moment. His grin became smile indeed when a trio of men stepped out of the throng, each clad in a white tabard bearing a rampant silver unicorn; one bore a banner with the same crest and all three grinned like fools in their joy and excitement. They bowed, the eldest stepped forward and saluted, “forgive our tardiness Sire, but we have returned and are reporting for duty, if you will have us, that is?” Then Kyan did a very unkingly thing indeed as he stepped forth and threw himself into Garren’s arms. Bayard and Kipril grinned madly at one another for a moment and then joined the joyous greeting. They could worry about protocol on the morrow.

  The crowd watched the reunion with amusement and perplexity, whistling and shouting its enthusiasm for such a greathearted king. Many had traveled far for this moment, half skeptical that it could truly be; they were quite delighted to find the spectacle far more than they ever anticipated and looked forward to telling their children to the fourth generation what it was they had seen. As the Messengers withdrew and stepped quite respectfully off to one side, a small crowd stepped out of the larger mass, this one far more timid and unsure but no less eager. Kyan gaped once more, thankful that he had no court officials yet to throw into fits of apoplexy for his utter lack of decorum befitting a royal personage, for his entire family had somehow made the long and arduous trek to appear at this precise moment. He swallowed his shock and motioned joyously for his timid kin to come forth. They erupted into merry haste and nearly buried him in their enthusiasm.

  At last the greetings and reunions were accomplished and the Warder, as acting Steward, announced that it was time to eat, which brought even more cheering from the excited crowd. Kyan gaped once more, wondering where they were to find a ready laid feast for so many in such a desolate spot, but as in all else, what was needed was already provided. A quaint cottage, one he gapingly recognized as the starting point of this bizarre adventure, stood off in the distance with countless tables heavily laden with food standing ready before the door. A familiar pair of men stood on the doorstep, smiling broadly and wa
ving excitedly. The onlookers took one look and hastened to be the first in line, leaving the King to his servants and immediate kin, who laughed heartily at this sudden revelation of where his subjects’ true affections lay. Once the ravening horde had had its fill, only then did the King’s party make their stately way to the tables still groaning under the weight of such provision. Kyan grinned at Garren around a forkful of food, “I have the odd feeling that this adventure has hardly begun.” The man’s roguish smile was answer enough.

  The celebration lasted for several days, during which none lacked for food; the fine weather and heather clad slopes offered ideal conditions for sleeping where stars might watch. Eventually, most of the celebrants began to drift home, bearing glad tidings of all they had seen to their far-flung kith and kin. A few adventurous lads and no few men experienced in the ways of the sword remained behind, feeling they might be of service to their King. Garren talked quietly with the latter while his two apprentices spoke eagerly with the former. By the time the King’s party was ready to set forth, he was surrounded by a respectable guard. Kyan stood beside his horse, making his final farewells to the Warder of the Stone and the Captain of the Messengers. Said he, “will you not come with me?” He grimaced nervously, “I can use all the faithful souls I can find at the moment.”

  The Warder slapped him on the back with a broad grin, “nay lad, I cannot leave the mountain nor abandon the Stone; my duty lies here. But our Master has brought you faithfully thus far, as He shall ever guide you. Trust Him and you cannot go astray.”

  The Captain grinned, his Aide beside him, “we shall be wherever we are needed lad, perhaps our paths shall cross again in days to come, and if not, then there shall come a Day when all faithful hearts shall never again be sundered. Fare thee well!”

  Kyan looked questioningly to Garren, the new Captain of his Guard, who nodded once in answer to his silent query. The party was ready and only awaited the King’s pleasure to set forth. Kyan smiled in farewell to those that would remain, climbed aback his horse, and the party set off with hope in the morning. As the horses vanished around a bend in the path, two lads remained behind, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, occasionally exchanging embarrassed glances but otherwise staring awkwardly at the ground. The Captain and his Aide exchanged a knowing grin, bid farewell to the Warder, and entered the Cottage, which vanished thereupon, leaving the antsy lads alone with the Warder upon that stark hillside. Said he, “why do you linger behind lads and look as if you were guilty of some great crime besides?”

  They exchanged a rueful smile and then glanced hopefully at the man, only blinking slightly to see that the Cottage had vanished, having seen so many strange things in the past few days that a vanishing house was hardly interesting, said Ithril, “we would know more sir.”

  The Warder frowned slightly, “more of what lad?”

  Piped Corbin, “the Stone! The magic that seems to wrap it about, its part in the overthrow of his Lordship and the Beast, and its choosing of a King.”

  The Warder shook his head, “there is no magic in the Stone lads, rather it is He who died upon it that gives it any meaning at all. Would you too sacrifice your lives upon that altar to solve your mysteries?”

  The lads exchanged an uneasy but eager glance, said Ithril, “that I would.”

  Corbin stared at his feet, kicking uneasily at the ground with one toe, “I am not so sure.”

  The Warder nodded grimly, “if you are certain lad, hie yourself up the ridge and see what awaits you thither.” He said gravely to Corbin, “abide you here lad or go home in peace, for if you are not certain of your courage, the Stone holds nothing for you.”

  Corbin met his stony eyes for a moment and nodded soberly, “tarry I will, at least until I am certain of my own heart.” He glanced about in wonder, for the man had vanished. Ithril gave him a sad but joyous smile, and then raced upslope to discover his own destiny. Corbin watched him go until he disappeared over a far hill and then sank upon the heather, his brow furrowed in solemn thought. As evening settled around him, he rose and followed his friend beyond that distant rise.

  Ithril found the spot where the Stone lay a far different place than it was the morning the Sword had been drawn forth and the King crowned. A bitter wind gusted out of the north and dark clouds, heavy laden with snow, hid the once bright sun. He shivered more in dread than cold, but eagerly sought that for which he had come. Innumerable stones lay scattered about the barren waste, and only as he searched frantically among them for the proper Stone did he realize what they were: gravestones, toppled and broken. He heard a rumble like stone being ground to dust and looked to the source, only to recoil in terror, for a great wyrm had raised itself from among the scree and stared at him with scornful, hungry eyes, and in a voice like thunder it grated, “is this what you truly seek?”

  The boy quivered in terror, glanced down in horror, and stared in astonishment at the blood covered Stone at his feet. He knew he could flee this very moment and escape unscathed or he could kneel before the Stone and offer himself up like a lamb to the hideous dragon that loomed over him. He glanced once more at the monster, as his knees buckled before the Stone; the creature’s answering smile was far more hideous than its scorn. Ithril swallowed hard but held firmly to his chosen fate, waiting impatiently for the promised doom. It was the incongruous song of a lark in that place that drew his eyes from the bloody Stone before him up into those of He who had wrought him; he shivered in terror and delight.

  The King’s party made camp at the base of the mountain that night and Kyan hoped at last to get some answers, but first he had to listen patiently as a terrified and joyous messenger brought word that indeed, the Tyrant and his Beast had been overthrown. The envoy was astonished to hear the news that there was a King indeed, who even now was intent on establishing his reign over the stolen realm and that all interested parties were to meet him in Gormanth ere the month was out to settle the matter once and for all. The man spent the night in the camp, speaking with those who had witnessed the event, and the next morning went his way rejoicing, no longer afraid, and able to tell one and all that his Lordship was overthrown and a King had indeed arisen. So it was that word continued to spread of the King’s coming, and Kyan at last found himself alone with his Messengers, with many an unasked question roiling in his mind.

  Garren smiled at him knowingly while the two apprentices grinned like fools, knowing he was fit to burst with curiosity. His Majesty slumped in a camp chair, thoughtfully provided by the Captain with all the rest of their paraphernalia, and asked, eyeing Garren intently, “can I at last hear the full tale?”

  Garren, perched upon a stack of crates, smiled deeply, “aye lad, that you may.” He watched the new King to see if he took any offense at his informal tone, continuing easily when he did not, “I will fill in the details as best I can and you may ask after anything that still puzzles you.” The boy nodded eagerly and Garren began his tale, telling of the overthrow of his Lordship and the Beast, of how the Messengers could truly be active in more than one tale and place at any given moment, and of all that had happened since their parting.

  The boy nodded and often gaped as each part of the tale was revealed, at last he asked, “and what were each of you about after our parting? The Warder said it was somehow vital to the establishment of my throne?”

  Garren nodded, “aye lad, for without us, no one would have witnessed your retrieval of the Sword or your coronation, thus no one would know that Prophecy had been fulfilled. We have each spent several months wandering the realm,” here he paused to let the boy’s astonishment pass, before continuing, “spreading word of what was to come and that any so interested, should hie themselves to the Stone to stand witness forthwith. And as you have seen, many have answered, including your entire family and many a man willing to serve you in some fashion. Many others have gone forth as witnesses to all corners of the realm. By the time we arrive in Gormanth,
none should be surprised at your coming and hopefully no one will act rashly to take over where his Lordship left off.”

  Kyan was silent for some moments as he absorbed what the man had said, but at length he asked, “the Warder was possessed of many uncanny abilities and seemed to imply that you were as well. Your return from death is witness enough to that.” Here he paused, unsure of how to voice his thoughts.

  Garren saved him the trouble, saying thoughtfully, “you know that you have not come away from this unchanged yourself.” The boy unconsciously touched the place over his heart at these words but nodded intently, said Garren with a reminiscent smile, “you bear the mark of one sworn to the Stone, by the very blood of our Master, but you have been Called to something quite different than a common Messenger, such as we three. A newly sworn Messenger must first die before his calling and skills begin to manifest, but in your unique situation they were given with the Crown, as such, you are still very much a mortal man, whereas we can no longer have a permanent place within human society, save where our duty takes us; you may yet take a wife, father children, maim and kill other men, and most especially rule a nation, all of which are to us strictly forbidden.”

  He let the boy contemplate his words for a time and then continued, “but neither are you possessed of the full skillset of the Messengers. You cannot change your face and form at will or need. Death is not a minor inconvenience but rather, as for all men, the end of your mortal existence, save that as one marked by the Stone, you may then enter service with the Messengers, but your kingly duties shall then pass to another, regardless.”

  Said the boy with a thoughtful frown, “what of my children and heir? Shall these uncanny skills pass by blood and become part of my family legacy?”

  Garren shook his head, “nay lad, it must be a conscious decision on the part of each of us. Rather, pass your crown on to the one best suited to it, not to your firstborn as tradition dictates, only then shall your legacy be long and blessed. Your successors will be imbued with such skills only if they have done as you: swearing themselves to our Master’s service by the Blood and the Stone, otherwise they shall be as any other King of men.”

  Kyan yawned, but asked one last question, “how long will I have the honor of your company?”

  Garren shrugged, “who knows? You have many enemies Sire, and until your throne is established and your Kingdom secure, you are vulnerable indeed. We are at your service until we are bidden elsewhere or you retire from the crown.” The King yawned again and he reluctantly agreed to go to bed at his servants’ insistence, feeling far more a recalcitrant child at that moment than a King. With the King abed and his apprentices warding his sleep, Garren felt drawn inexplicable into the night and up the mountain. The sentries eyed him curiously but let him pass without comment, a silent shadow in the night.

  Ithril sat among the heather in the twilight, uncertain exactly where he was or what had happened. Had it all been a hideous and glorious dream, or was it truly real? The crunch of feet on the stony ground drew him from his reverie and revealed Corbin sliding awkwardly down the hillside upon which he sat. He met the other’s beaming gaze with one of his own and their smiles said more than words ever could. It had not been a dream nor had Corbin’s courage failed at the last. Corbin settled beside him among the heather and whispered joyfully, “it is indeed true!” Ithril nodded in eager reply and they sat quietly together as the night drew on and watched the stars bejewel the heavens, fully content with the world and their place in it, whatever that might prove to be, for little did they know of that which they had done.

  They must have dozed off, for they woke to find the sun on the rise and heard a bellowing voice demanding satisfaction. They exchanged an intrigued look and hastened to their feet, suddenly finding themselves surrounded by grim looking men with weapons at the ready. The bawler, and leader of the company, glared at these disturbers of his display but drew his own weapon and approached the intruders, as curious as he was perturbed by their interruption. He studied the pair but was not impressed, for they appeared nothing more than a pair of scruffy peasant children who had been sleeping amongst the heather, for that is what they were.

  Said he with all pride, “stand forth knaves and declare yourselves!” They blinked at him blankly, without comprehension. Snarled he, proffering his sword, “what are you doing lingering amongst the heather on this haunted mountain? Have you any idea who I am?” They shook their heads and shrugged vaguely. He rolled his eyes and sighed, but continued in a scornful voice, “I am the Rider’s son and heir! I am here to fulfill prophecy that I might displace my father and his fell master.” They stared at him agape, wondering if he knew aught of what he boasted.

  Ithril at last found his tongue, said he, “but the Rider had many sons, how is any to know his true heir? Not that it matters, for the Beast is destroyed and his Lordship overthrown, along with most of the Rider’s sons and their sire.”

  It was the man’s turn to gape, stuttered he, “what is this you say? How know you this? Can it be true?”

  Corbin nodded, “aye it is true, we had word of it from those who saw it happen. That is why we linger here, for we watched as the Sword was drawn forth and the King crowned. His party departed not long ago and we have tarried after upon our own ramblings.”

  “The King?!” barked the Rider’s son, “but I am to be King! I will find the Stone and draw forth the Sword, as it is written!”

  Ithril shook his head, as if speaking to a rather dense neighbor, “so it is written, but not of you!”

  The man snarled, “so say you, but I have as much right to the throne as any upstart without even a title or a proper lineage. Is he of noble birth or at least a Knight or son of some fell lord?”

  Corbin shook his head and smiled roguishly, “he was knighted the very day he was crowned, but he is a peasant born and bred, my lord.”

  The man hefted his sword and smiled grimly, “we shall see if he is worthy of the crown then. I am at least the son of a noble lady with the Rider as my sire. I shall challenge him to single combat for the crown.”

  Ithril snorted, “you will be denied. You have no claim to the throne whatsoever. Be gone and find something worthwhile to do with your life, for this pursuit can only end in disaster.”

  Gorvin sneered, “little you know, fool! I shall be King, one way or another, for it has been promised me by one whom even one so insolent as you would dare not defy. But first let me see this Stone for myself and then I shall deal with your so-called King.”

  Corbin shook his head adamantly, but his words died aborning, as another bellow rent the morning air with all the vehemence of an enraged bull, “what do you want?”

  All eyes turned to look upon the enraged minotaur and even the neophyte Messengers, who knew better, took a step back in apprehension. Gorvin mastered himself, and said snidely, “ah beast, I was warned of your presence upon this forsaken mountain and am ready to deal with you as I must. Tell me whither lies the Stone and it need not go badly for you.”

  The creature gaped, never having met a man who dared demand anything of so terrifying a vision, not even begging for his life; most were terrified into silence, if not flight. Said he crisply, with a derisive snort, “you will not find the Stone, even if you search every inch of this mountainside and spend all your allotted days therein. Only those my Master Calls can find it thus. Be gone, for there is naught here for such as thee.”

  Gorvin held his sword to Corbin’s throat and snarled, “reveal to me the Stone or I shall gladly shed innocent blood upon your sacred mountain.”

  The creature smiled insipidly, flicked one great ear lazily back, and said with a shrug, “do as you wish, his would not be the first nor shall it be the last.”

  Gorvin’s sword slumped as his hand went limp in incomprehension, “his life means nothing to you?”

  The monster shrugged again and began to turn away, “what is one mortal more or less to m
e? Search if you will, but it is futile.”

  Gorvin clutched his sword firmly once again and lunged at the minotaur. The beast bellowed in agony as the blade struck true and fell gasping to the earth, grated he, “what has this accomplished?”

  The insolent youth cleaned his bloodied blade on Ithril’s cloak and shrugged with a cruel smile, “I have just slain the fearsome Beast of the Mountain, if nothing else it shall impress the ladies no end and may just aid my claim to the throne.” But there came no answer, as the Warder’s eyes stared vacantly. Gorvin shrugged again, smiled upon his handiwork, and ordered his men to bring the captives, for they must at least search for the Stone. He turned eager eyes upon the pair and said, “you have seen the Stone. Lead me hence!”

  Corbin gazed sadly at the slain Warder, then shook his head, “the creature spoke truly, the Stone can only be found by those who have some needful business therewith. You do not and will search in vain.”

  Gorvin snarled, “we shall try this day at least. Lead on to the place where you last beheld it.” The pair exchanged a look, shrugged, and led the way. The company marched grimly after, whispering darkly in their master’s wake, uneasy at his rash pursuit. They crested the rise and the lads pointed down into the valley below.

  Corbin said, “it lies amidst this vale. Can you see it?”

  Gorvin scowled but ordered his men onwards, but after an hour of combing the dell, he had to admit that perhaps it was hopeless. Growled he at Ithril, “you can see it even now?” The boy nodded, unable to keep the smile from his face. The next moment he was rising unsteadily to his feet after Gorvin’s hard smack, snarled the furious youth, “what business then do you have with the Stone that you can see it when your betters cannot?” Ithril shrugged and received another smack for his trouble. Gorvin towered over the prone boy and grated, “very well, I shall see Prophecy fulfilled one way or another. If I cannot do this with the Stone, we shall do it without.” He smiled darkly, “and I fear you will not enjoy what is to come.” He shuddered then in dread, “I had hoped to avoid this myself but there seems to be no other choice.” His smile became grim indeed, “but it shall be far the worse for you.”

  They spent the balance of the day trekking back down the mountainside in search of the ancient tombs that marred the far side of the slope. Twilight was falling and the moon had not yet risen when they reached their destination, Gorvin nodded in satisfaction but shuddered in absolute dread. He drew his dagger and slashed his own palm, then had his men restrain Ithril as he repeated the procedure with the struggling boy. The boy clutched his bleeding hand and glared at Gorvin, who smiled mirthlessly in return, said he, “into the crypt with you.” Ithril shuddered, but knew if he did not go willingly they would force him, so he decided it had best be of his own accord. He gave Corbin a last, grim smile and vanished into the indicated tomb; Gorvin tossed the dagger after him as his minions slid a great stone slab over the opening with a thunderous crash. And then they waited.

  Ithril blinked in the utter darkness, feeling something more dreadful than Death lurking in the corners, laughing at him. Something moved in the blackness, a blot darker than the night itself. It continued to laugh and mock the terrified boy as it slowly approached. Scorn and doubt and horror roiled in the boy’s mind. Where was his Master now? The boy shuddered and fell trembling to his knees as the thing latched onto him like a leech. He felt it absorbing him greedily, as a starved dog devours a haunch of meat; he grew thinner and less real and suddenly all was blackness, nothing but infinite dark. Ithril’s bones clattered to the stony floor while the shadow that now wore flesh smiled in malicious satisfaction. Then it bellowed with a great voice and demanded to be freed of its interment, an order with which Gorvin’s minions tremblingly complied. Corbin stared in horror as Ithril emerged, only it was not his friend. Gorvin stared in wonder and horror of his own, especially the latter, when the creature smiled, said the Doppelganger with grim satisfaction, “have we not a King to slay?” Gorvin’s smile was as horrid as that of the creature as they hastened off in search of the new King.

  Garren found the Warder stiff and cold, drenched in the heavy dew of predawn; his glowing hand was bright in the gloom ere the sun’s rising. The beast came alive with a roar, ready to tear the intruder limb from limb. He shook himself, blinked in surprise, and then smiled wholeheartedly to see who it was that had wakened him, a man once more. The Warder grinned ruefully at his old friend, “it is not often I have to endure that.” He barked a laugh, “few are they that can boast that they have bested the Beast of the Mountain!”

  Garren slapped him on the back and grinned in return, “though this is novel to you, most of the rest of us experience it on a far too regular basis. Not that it is ever pleasant, however. What happened?”

  The Warder shook his head, “some upstart knight came looking for the Stone, I told him the search was futile but he insisted. When I still refused to help him, he took it amiss. He claimed to be one of the Rider’s get and had been promised the crown by some dark prophet or other and seems determined to get his due, no matter the cost. He had two newly sworn Messengers in tow; I doubt it will go well with them.”

  A horrid shriek and a bitter chill suddenly rent the air, driving the pair to the ground; something within their very souls cried aloud in near despair and complete horror, sensing that something awful and unholy had been unleashed upon the earth. Garren stared at the Warder in dread, “what was that?”

  The Warder shuddered as he hastened to his feet, “it can be but one thing, and if it is what I fear, then our new King might very well be doomed unless our Master sees fit to intercede Himself, for we are of no consequence to such a demon.”

  Garren’s eyes were wide in horror, for he knew as well as his companion that it was a demon indeed and that they had no chance against so mighty a foe. But his Master had not raised up this boy merely to let him fall so soon. There would be a rescue, there must! He shuddered but tried to ignore these dark postulations and hastened after his friend, towards the source of the disquiet feeling. Uneager to find the fiend in its lair but unable to deny the sense of duty that drew them thither, for there was something they must accomplish in that awful place. With their unnatural speed, they found the abandoned tombs not long after sunrise and felt drawn to one in particular. From the feel of the place, this was where the Fiend found entrance into the mortal world but there was no trace of it or those who had welcomed it into a world otherwise physically denied it. The pair exchanged a grim look and entered the tomb.

  A pile of discarded bones in one corner caught their eyes, as these were relatively fresh while all other remnants of the ancient dead were now little more than dust. They exchanged another grave look, but Garren stepped forth, radiant hand extended. Azure light engulfed the skeleton and soon it was clad in flesh once more. Ithril found himself suddenly looking up into their friendly faces and wanted to dance for joy. He settled with taking Garren’s hand and being drawn to his feet. He shuddered, “what was that thing? What did it do to me?”

  Garren said grimly, “it is a thing of spirit, immortal and evil beyond comprehension, drawn into our reality at the behest of a fool who thinks to use it for his own gain. Mortals have no business meddling with things so far beyond our ken. It has clad itself in your likeness and used your blood to draw itself into our world.”

  The Warder asked, “what of your friend?”

  Ithril shivered, “he is still in company with the rogue who summoned the Fiend; they intend to take the crown.”

  Garren looked grim indeed, “then let us pray for a miracle, for naught can we do against such a Foe!” They shared a grave look and hastened from that place; the Warder returned to his duties while Garren and Ithril rushed off to find the King’s party ere it was too late, not that they could do anything but carry a warning.

  The Fiend put itself in charge of the party from the moment it emerged from the tomb and none dared g
ainsay it. The creature studied each member of the company as a bear studies a beehive. It frowned when its gaze settled on Corbin, snarled he to Gorvin, “what use have you for this wretch? Have you any idea what he is?”

  Gorvin shrugged, “his friend proved useful in your case, I thought perhaps he might prove the same. We can kill him now if you wish.”

  The Fiend studied the boy intently, “no, it matters not and he might yet prove useful.” His smile grew fiendish, “I have a better use for him, at least one far more amusing. Death is actually a boon to these piteous creatures and I would not grant him that could I help it. Rather let him be marked with my master’s own crest, let his pathetic lord see His sworn servant marked with His enemy’s brand!”

  Corbin took a step back but the thing in Ithril’s skin leapt upon him like a striking snake and he felt something branded into the flesh over his heart as the creature touched him. The Fiend released him with a cruel laugh, as he stared down in horror at a snarling serpent burned into his skin. Corbin felt a wave of nausea wash over him and the men in the company drew back as if some evil aura surrounded him, which in fact it did. The Fiend hissed in delight, “there boy! You are marked for my master’s use and until that day, no one will ever feel easy in your presence and all will flee in terror have they the chance. You will be an outcast and a pariah among men all the rest of your days.” His smile broadened, “and I doubt that mark will sit well with either your own well-being or endear you to your colleagues.” Corbin lay where he had fallen and wept in horror and misery, praying for mercy and wondering what would come of him. They could not take away that which the Stone had imparted, could they?

  They forced him to his feet and they set out with all speed, until the moon set and they were forced to rest for a few hours, but they were off again as soon as there was light enough to see. Corbin had never been more miserable or lonely, but somewhere deep within, he knew Whose he was and this brought him a Peace he could hardly begin to fathom. All he need do was trust and that he would do with all the strength that was left him, which wasn’t much, considering how physically ill that vile mark seemed to make him. Stumbling as he went, he pushed on as fast as his captors could make him.

  Garren had not returned by the time the sun was up and the King was impatient to be off, suddenly uneasy in the shadow of the mountain. His remaining Messengers had the same urgent sense of foreboding and agreed wholeheartedly that they must away and that the Captain must catch up when he found the chance. The King said grimly as he mounted his horse, “where has he gone?”

  Bayard said quietly, “he had some urgent quest to fulfill last night and will return as soon as he can.” He glanced around nervously but none were close enough to hear, “Sire, I have the uncanny feeling that something dreadful is intent upon your destruction and I believe we shall be powerless to stop it, even were we a thousand strong.” Kyan swallowed hard, climbed into his saddle, and ordered the party forward, agreeing fully with the young Messenger’s apprehension. So what was to be done about it? Grim were their thoughts that day and only reluctantly did they stop for the night, wishing to be as far from the mountain or whatever it had birthed as they could get, yet also knowing physical distance was no impediment to such a foe.

  In the gloom of predawn, every heart in the camp would have stopped in terror were it physically possible. A shadow seemed to fall upon them all and their very thoughts froze in fear. It rushed into the King’s tent like a storm driven wind, snatched the King, and bore him just as suddenly into the dark before the dawn. The moment the creature was fled with its prisoner, a great wail of terror and despair arose from every mortal throat. Only one man, a grizzled, one-eyed soldier, seemed indifferent to the Fiend; he took up his sword and followed sedately after the fled horror.

  Garren and Ithril hurried into the camp not a moment after, anguish and dread written in their faces and eyes. So horrified was the camp that not even the sentries challenged them upon their entry. They hastened to the King’s tent and found Kipril sitting upon the empty cot with a guilty grin on his face, but there was an uneasy light in his eyes. Hope at last gleamed in Garren’s eyes as he asked, “what has happened, lad?”

  Kipril was on his feet in a moment, much relieved at the return of his master, said he all aflutter, “that thing?! What is it? Can it be beaten?” He shuddered in dread, “can it unmake a Messenger?”

  Garren barked a laugh and then quieted his perturbed apprentice, “so that is the game is it? Where have you stashed his Majesty?” He smiled slightly, “Bayard won’t enjoy what is to come but it won’t be the first time either; he shall be no worse for wear.”

  Kipril relaxed visibly and said, “we thought the King might benefit from spending some quality time with the lads in training for the Royal Guard.”

  Garren beamed and quickly explained to the flummoxed Ithril what exactly had come to pass, said he, “let us keep this to ourselves until this Fiend is no longer a threat.”

  The lads nodded eagerly and then their attention was drawn without, as a deep voice boomed, “I hereby lay claim to the throne!”

  Garren rolled his eyes at such theatrics and withdrew from the tent to restore order to the camp and see what the intruder wanted. Gorvin stood in the midst of the camp with his minions about him, gloating within an inch of his life; none had the nerve or heart to challenge him, save the grim looking captain, whose mere presence was enough to snap the King’s party out of their astonishment and horror, if only to stare in curiosity from one to the other. Snapped Garren, “what right have you to claim anything? Rather you had best beg mercy, though there can be none in such a case, for there is but one price for what you have wrought. Your entire party is condemned to death!”

  This was not the reception Gorvin had anticipated and he openly gaped at this insolent fool who refused to be cowed, even after such a demonstration of his power. Growled he, “who are you to treat with me?”

  Garren smiled grimly, his sword in hand, “I do not treat with you, don’t be ridiculous! There shall be neither mercy nor quarter given. I suggest you all make peace with your Maker and prepare to face the doom prescribed for such dealings!”

  Gorvin snarled in answer and flung himself upon the upstart Captain, which roused both the King’s party and his own vile minions into action, the latter knowing themselves doomed men if they lost and being rather unhinged by their master’s fell dealings, they were fearsome foes indeed. But they were far outnumbered and only two of the beleaguered party survived, and that only by raising their hands and withdrawing bodily from the fray; Gorvin was wounded but not mortally so, he lay clutching his side and snarling imprecations at Garren, who stood above him, sword at the ready. Then all were driven trembling to their knees by a brilliant flash of light and an all-consuming darkness. When the birds resumed their singing and their hearts again began to beat, the shadow that lay heavy upon them all was suddenly lifted. Garren caught the eyes of Ithril and Kipril, and they seemed to twinkle in very joy, ‘a miracle indeed!’ For the Fiend was undone, though none ever saw the grizzled soldier after or remembered seeing him before.

  Then did the King step forth to pass judgment upon the surviving villains. Gorvin snarled and hissed like a cornered cat and was summarily hung for his fell dealings. The two lesser minions were brought forth, though even the most seasoned soldiers seemed uneasy in the presence of the younger. Even the Messengers drew back at the aura of evil that surrounded the boy, who seemed quite ill besides. Ithril gaped, “Corbin! What is wrong?”

  The lad was on his knees beside the other prisoner before the King, said he tremulously, “that thing...it marked me somehow...”

  Garren turned grim eyes to Ithril, “is this the other the Warder spoke of?” Ithril nodded and Garren stepped towards the foul feeling lad and gently drew back the collar of his tunic, just above the heart. He gasped, “marked indeed! This is a horror and an affront!” He asked the boy gravely, “
you did not willingly take this mark upon yourself?”

  The boy shook his head adamantly, his eyes pleading to be believed. Garren nodded stonily, “then there is yet hope for you.” He shuddered, “there is but one way to be rid of such a mark, and as you are condemned already, I do not see any hindrance in its removal.”

  Ithril gasped, “you will still pass sentence upon him, as if he were a willing partaker in this rogue’s vile witchery?”

  Garren said gravely, “all such knowledge must pass from the earth. It was forbidden ages ago and was nearly the end of mankind then, would you risk such again?” He smiled ironically, “besides, it is the only way to remove that horrid mark from his person. He does not belong to the dark but to our Master and this we shall soon prove.” He turned to the King, “would you question them further, Majesty?”

  Kyan eyed the pair grimly, Corbin with no little pity, said he, “let us be done with this regrettable business.” He eyed the unnamed survivor, “have you any last words? Why did you refrain from fighting when all your companions chose to die in battle?”

  The bandit nervously glanced from the ground to the King and back again, saying with a shrug, “well Highness, I never felt right about what my late master intended, but a man needs to make a living you understand, though it seems to have cost me my life at that.” He smiled wanly at the irony and continued, “I know I must die for my involvement in such foul schemes, unwitting as it was, but might I ask a favor of you, Highness? Is it too much to ask that I might seek that Stone my master was so intent on finding and meet my end there? It calls to me somehow you see, and I would find it ere the end, if I might.”

  The King smiled slightly and turned questioning eyes to Garren, who wore a speculative look, “it should be possible, Sire.”

  The King nodded and turned back to the man, saying, “I grant you a reprieve of a day and a night. Seek the Stone if you would, but know that regardless of what you do or whither you wander, at the appointed time, you shall drop dead where you stand. Will that suffice?”

  The man nodded eagerly and the King raised his hand, its blue light reflected in the astonished man’s eyes. The King touched it to the man’s heart and felt it throb in answer. It would cease its beating exactly one day hence, allowing the man his dying wish and satisfying justice therewith. The man stood, bowed, and said in farewell, “thank you Majesty, your wisdom and grace are an example to us all. May the Master bless and prolong your reign.” He vanished from the camp in search of the Stone, joyful even in the face of death, but before he dashed off, Garren drew him aside and quietly whispered in his ear. He smiled and nodded in thanks, and fled forthwith.

  The King turned sad eyes upon Corbin, “I am sorry it has come to this. Have you a preferred means of death?”

  The boy actually smiled, though obviously miserable, “whatever the means Highness, I welcome it.”

  The King exchanged a questioning look with Garren, who nodded solemnly. Said the King quietly, again raising his radiant hand, “will this suffice?”

  Corbin nodded and did not flinch back as the King placed his hand over the boy’s heart. The light penetrated to his very core and he felt his heart throbbing in time with the pulsing light. His eyes widened momentarily in surprise as he inhaled sharply and then slumped forward. The light engulfed the boy and grew too bright to look upon for a moment and then faded as the King withdrew his hand. Corbin lifted his head and looked about in wonder, the still gaping front of his tunic revealing a rampant silver unicorn rather than a snarling serpent. The others exchanged a wondering look and Ithril gaped, “that’s it?”

  Garren clapped him on the back, “aye lad, no one said it need be drawn out and gruesome.” He frowned thoughtfully, “I wonder where Bayard has gotten to? I suppose he shall turn up in good time. For all I know he’s fallen into another adventure.”

  Corbin stood and exchanged an eager smile with his comrades and then bowed solemnly to the King, “thank you, Highness.”

  Kyan blinked, still overawed by his own actions this day, never having dreamt he would one day pass sentence on a man nor carry out justice with his own hand, but such was the prerogative of the King. He smiled awkwardly, even more astonished that the condemned would actually thank him for meting out justice. Garren laughed heartily at their confounded looks and soon all were lost to relieved mirth for some time thereafter. At last the King motioned them to silence and suggested that they had best see about putting the camp in order and getting under way. The bandits were duly buried, the King’s followers heartened to see him hale and whole in their midst, and soon enough the party set forth. At Garren’s suggestion, Corbin now wore a slightly different face, that he not arouse uneasy questions amongst those who might recognize him as a late member of Gorvin’s party, as all such were supposedly buried near their former campsite.

  One moment Bayard, guised like the King, was chatting with Kipril in the Royal tent and the next, he was overwhelmed by utter darkness. When next he was aware of anything but a cold, fathomless night, he heard a mocking voice saying, “well little King, what shall come of you now? How fits your crown? Where is the Master to whom you have sworn yourself? Shall you not die ere your reign begins and another take your throne? Is not all futile? Even now will you beg mercy?”

  Bayard stared into those horrid eyes and knew there was no mercy therein. The creature looked vaguely like one of the many lads that had answered the call to witness the King’s advent, but this creature was no mortal man. He could not answer, even had he words, for the creature nearly crushed his throat in its immovable grasp and even breathing was difficult. His gaze wandered idly as he pondered what, if anything, he could do in this dire situation; he thought the creature must have secreted himself in some sort of tomb or cave. He smiled at the irony, at least he might have a proper interment this time.

  The Fiend hissed at his smile, “what is so amusing, wretch? Will you acquiesce?”

  A rumble of grim laughter filled the little tomb and both turned to look at this unexpected sound, as a one eyed, unshaven soldier standing in the doorway said with ill-suppressed mirth, “what have you there?”

  The Fiend snarled, “be gone! He is mine by right of blood! I will do with him as I please!”

  The soldier shrugged and loosed his sword, “that well may be but you cannot go traipsing about in the mortal world in this stolen form.” He hefted the weapon, “I am here to rectify that.”

  The Fiend turned an infuriated look upon the intruder and then glared anew at Bayard, “why does he care so little about your fate?”

  Bayard could no longer hide his own smile and the creature knew he had been had. He flung the imposter against the far wall with such force that nearly every bone in his body broke with the impact. For a moment, Bayard was aware of a light emanating from the grizzled soldier so radiant that he might well have gone blind had not death seized him the next instant. Unseen by any mortal eye, the radiant being struck at his foe, which had become a shadow black enough to consume all light, all light except this awful display, for the next moment the shade howled in fury and vanished physically from the mortal sphere. The radiant creature, an old soldier once more, smiled to himself, sheathed his blade, and whistled tunelessly as he withdrew from the tomb. He nodded cheerily at the Warder of the Stone as he came rushing down the hill, all-aflutter, freezing the man in his tracks. He blinked and stared and blinked again.

  The old soldier smiled in amusement, gave the astonished man another nod, and continued on his way, saying as he went, “you’ll find your lad within, no worse for wear I should think.” Then he vanished into the sudden brilliance as the sun crested the rise.

  The flummoxed Warder stared at the new risen sun in wonder, perplexed but inexplicably overjoyed for a moment. Then he shook himself and hastened into the tomb upon his own quest. A furtive shadow followed unseen in his wake. He found the boy within, a limp heap of crushed humanity with a look of
sheer awe frozen upon his face. The Warder smiled in spite of himself and laid a hand upon the lad’s breast. An answering blue radiance danced over the boy’s person, mending broken bones and setting his heart throbbing once more. He drew a deep breath and his staring eyes blinked, holding life anew. The Warder smiled and drew the lad to his feet.

  But ere any word was spoken, a timid but demanding voice quavered, “well met necromancer, indeed well met! You are just the man my master has sent me to find. Now if you do not mind, I have a few questions pertaining to your craft.”

  The pair of Messengers studied the birdlike, colorless fellow that skulked just inside the doorway, trembling in eagerness and terror both. They exchanged an amused grin, and then the Warder said not ungently, “well lad, I must be off. I have other pressing business but you can entertain our guest and answer his questions, I am sure.” He gave Bayard a far too amused smile at his predicament and strode from the tomb without a backwards glance.

  The timid little man stepped aside to let him pass, not daring to impede such a personage but then turned eager eyes upon Bayard, said he, “now demon, do as your master bade thee!”

  Bayard blinked and then smiled wanly at the man’s assumption, said he, “you know not of what you speak sir, but I shall answer you at your leisure, but first let us seek a place less redolent of death and darkness. The sun is astir and the air fresh without.”

  Tuttle shrugged indifferently, as if it mattered not in the least whither this interview took place, but stepped aside and allowed Bayard to precede him out into the brightening day. The boy glanced about at the light and life around him and basked for a moment in the sheer wonder of it all. At last, he turned back to his curious companion and asked, “who are you, who is your master, and what is this grim task he has set you?”

  The imperious but twitchy Tuttle had settled himself on a nearby stone, notebook and pen in hand, his legs precisely crossed. Said he in some astonishment, “it is you who are bidden to speak Demon. Now do as your master bids!”

  Bayard’s smile deepened as he took in the ironic scene, the man’s fustiness, and his dedication to his cause, no matter how bizarre or dangerous. The boy crossed his arms and said steadily, “I am no demon, sir, simply a man like yourself. And neither am I beholden to speak of certain matters to you if I do not wish it, rather I will tell you all you wish to hear but I would beg a little civility in recompense. Again, I ask who you are and what you wish?”

  The man studied him for a time, still rather puzzled by the events of the morning, but intrigued by the vision before him. He had seen the creature roused from the dead, yet he felt far more akin to a mortal man than to any creature that was used to roaming the vales beyond time. “I am not,” said he at last in a thoughtful, ponderous voice, “prone to believing, as some do, in the immortality of the mortal soul. I admit there well may be creatures beyond our comprehension, creatures not trapped within this mortal sphere, of which we can know little or nothing about, to whom we can be but ants, but I do not believe a man continues to exist in any form after death. Therefore you cannot be a man. Thus, you must be, as I have rightly called you, a demon or other creature from beyond my own reality.”

  Bayard laughed outright at this preposterous statement, for the proof was before the man’s very eyes yet even so he refused to see it, rather depending on his own excuses to rationalize the impossible. Just because one did not believe something in no way made it less possible or less true. The man seemed rather affronted at this outburst but it also made him wonder anew if a demon or other dweller from regions beyond the mortal stars would act in such a perfunctory manner, as if he were nothing but an impetuous boy! Controlling his mirth, the boy quipped, “now sir, you have yet to answer my questions. While your own metaphysics are fascinating, if flawed, you have yet to tell me of your quest.”

  The man sighed as a martyr might, and at last gave in to the demands of the uncooperative boy. It was not his habit to answer questions from anyone but his master, it was the place of all lesser beings to answer immediately to his own demands for information, but he must placate the demon if he was to have his due, so placate he would, said he as one under dire strain, “my master is a great lord in a distant province and I am his Secretary. He has tasked me with a most important task, upon which his life and the fate of his only child might very well depend. I came to this Haunted Mountain in hopes of discovering the means of vanquishing or at least eluding death for as long as mortally possible. His Lordship seems to have managed it and my master would know the means to that end. You, though I would have much preferred your master the necromancer, may prove an excellent source of information, or so I hope.”

  Bayard shuddered, “have you any idea the cost of what you propose? Is your master so desperate for such power that he would indulge in blood magic to obtain his goal?”

  Master Tuttle paled, quite a feat for one already devoid of much color, and said quietly, “I can but gain the information for my esteemed master, the use he makes of it is his own affair.”

  Bayard shook his head grimly, “then come let us speak at length with some who have glimpsed those far shores whose existence you doubt.”

  The prim little secretary rose fluidly and said with a reproving sniff, “my personal beliefs have nothing to do with the matter, I am on a fact finding mission for my master and I must record all I find, whether I agree with it or not. Lead on demon, I would speak to these knowledgeable beings you boast of.”

  Bayard grinned wryly and took a few steps towards the cottage that stood not far from the tombs. Tuttle blinked in astonishment, for none lived on the Haunted mountain and he was quite certain there had not been a cottage standing there a moment before. He mastered himself and followed the irksome demon into the inexplicable structure. The boy did not bother to knock but walked straight into the house, as if it were his grandmother’s own quaint abode. Tuttle shook his head at this atrocious breach of protocol but ghosted silently after. Two men of indeterminable age sat at their leisure in the main room of the cottage, as if awaiting this very occurrence. Bayard tossed them a salute; the man on the left answered with a quick nod while the other rose so abruptly his chair fell over with the violence of his rising. He rushed forward, greeted the boy exuberantly, and eyed the stranger curiously. The boy hastened off to make tea, leaving Tuttle alone with the pair, both studying him as if they had never beheld a secretary before.

  At last, the man who had greeted the boy with such warmth, said, “well, you had best have a seat then while the lad sees to the refreshments. How can we be of service?”

  Tuttle cleared his throat and drew himself up to his rather insignificant height while trying to appear imperious, said he though failing utterly, “the demon here thinks you can aid me in my quest. You see, my master wishes to discover how his Lordship has evaded death all these years. His very life and that of his maiden daughter depend upon my success in this matter.”

  The pair exchanged an amused grin at the mention of Bayard’s new pseudonym but it turned to horror as the man finished. Master Tuttle was not amused, “what is so distressing about my quest?”

  Bren shook his head grimly, “lad, have you any idea what it is you ask?” He glanced momentarily in the direction of the boy, who was still readying the tea, “or the cost of such knowledge?”

  Tuttle shook his head in exasperation, “my master must judge the cost for himself! It is the only way to save his daughter from the Rider’s vile clutches and himself from an untimely grave.”

  Bren relaxed visibly at this, “is that all? Have you not heard? His Lordship, his fell Beast, and the Rider are all of them dead! Whatever their vile schemes for your master and his, they can be of no account any longer. As to his untimely death, it is not for mortal men to determine the length of their days upon the earth; each of us must yield to death in our turn.”

  Tuttle at last accepted a seat, or rather fell into the nearest availa
ble chair in shock and relief, whispered he as the boy brought in the tea, “can it be?”

  Bren began helping himself and said with a smile, “aye lad, that it is. We each had our part in his undoing.”

  Bayard had only heard part of the conversation, but seeing the shock on Tuttle’s face, he quickly handed him a cup of tea, which he downed in one gulp then Bayard promptly refilled. Stuttered he at last, “you are then Knights of renown and great power?”

  The three exchanged a very amused grin, then Bren said, “nay lad, we are just men, like you. It was blood magic that kept his Lordship in the prime of health and maintained his Beast, but it was willing blood that ended his tyranny.”

  The Secretary, paler than ever, tried to sit primly in his chair but only managed a spineless slump, said he, “blood?”

  Bayard grinned, “I told you these gentlemen were just the people to help you in your search for such information, for they have experienced it first hand.” His smile vanished, “as have I.”

  Bren shook his head, “that is the cost of evading death. Would your master have the blood of such as we on his hands? Is it worth the cost?”

  Master Tuttle regained a trace of his composure in defense of his master’s honor, “his main concern was the safety of his daughter, whom the Rider was to claim as his bride, if ever the mood took him. He suffers from some wasting disease of the lungs and if he must succumb to the inevitable, he is at peace with that, but feared for his daughter once he was gone. He will not shed the blood of innocents to avoid the fate common to all men.”

  Bren nodded and said with a slight smile, “very good lad, very good, then perhaps we can be of assistance to you and your master. But what of you?”

  The Secretary was taken aback, “me? What of me?”

  Bren grinned like a madman, “you might be just a gatherer of information, but you are possessed of a soul as much as your master, what is to come of that? You can’t go poking into such philosophical details without wondering about your own destiny now, can you?”

  Tuttle was decidedly uncomfortable and even adjusted his collar, hoping it would make this tight, warm feeling go away, but it only reinforced his palpable anxiety for all those watching. Bayard came to his rescue, “Master Tuttle is a fervent skeptic when it comes to all such claims, despite all proofs to the contrary.”

  Tuttle gave him a grateful look for setting his feet once more upon solid ground, said he with an insipid laugh, “that is it precisely and I would beg that you not pester me about the details. I shall gather the requested data for my master and then be on my way.”

  Bren shrugged, “do as you like lad, no one shall force you to believe anything you would rather not. I just thought you might be curious, that’s all.”

  Tuttle cleared his throat and seemed rather relieved, “I thank you for your concerns, but I assure you, they are quite unnecessary. I am quite content with my lot and am merely curious on my master’s behalf.”

  Just then there came a timid knock at the door. Bayard glanced at the Captain and his Aide, they shrugged and he hastened to open it. Without stood a rascally looking man with a look of wild glee on his face, mixed with no little fear. Said he without preamble, “I was bidden here in quest for the Stone.”

  Bayard frowned slightly at this uncanny request but stepped aside to let the man in. It was not lost upon him that a wooded glade lay without with the sun on the rise, rather than treeless, rocky slopes. Without hesitation, the man rattled off his entire tale and ended with, “and there is no way I can ascend the mountain and find the Stone ere the appointed time.”

  Bren grinned, “that is why you were directed here lad. Time does no pass within as it does in the outer world nor is this cottage fixed within place or time. It appears when and where it is needed. When you feel it is time to be moving on, you’ll have more than enough time to find that which you seek and do there what you must.” He glanced curiously at the Secretary, who gaped in disbelief at the impossible tale, and then said with a smile, “in fact, I think you shall not go alone. The lad can show you whither lies your quarry while Master Tuttle may find it an intriguing bit of information to pass along to his Lord. You can even ride if you wish it.”

  The man collapsed in yet another chair, overwhelmed with joy. He gratefully took a cup of tea and chatted with the Captain and Guyare as if he had known them all his life. Bayard slipped outside to see if he could scrounge up those horses the Captain insisted upon while Tuttle sat wide-eyed, listening to the others talk. Bayard soon returned and during a lull in the conversation, interjected, “we can leave whenever you are ready, sir.”

  The man stood up, shook hands gratefully all around, and followed the lad out into the afternoon sun, starting when he saw they stood on a forsaken mountainside rather than in a young forest; Tuttle followed silently after, frowning in perplexity. They both gaped at the trio of horses standing there, awaiting their pleasure. The former rogue shrugged, grinned, and climbed aback the nearest beast, said he, “I’ve seen many a strange thing in the last few days, what is one more?”

  Tuttle frowned the more, but climbed into his own saddle and Bayard followed suit. They turned the horses and followed Bayard as he skirted the mountain, drawn inexorably to the Stone. The sky clouded over and the wind came up, gusting cold and mournful in the rising gloom of the fading afternoon. As full dark crept upon them, Bayard drew rein on a rise looking down into a mist bound vale. Said he, as his companions drew up alongside him, “below lies the Stone. You must proceed alone and meet there what fate awaits you. We will bide here, awaiting your return.”

  Tuttle made to protest, wanting to witness first hand the powers of this mythic Stone, but there was such a look of grave solemnity in the boy’s eyes that he dared not voice his consternation. The terrified scoundrel nodded grimly, vacated his saddle, and made his stumbling way into the valley, soon obscured by the darkness and fog. Tuttle fretted at last, “so we will just sit here in the dark and wait to see if he ever comes forth?”

  Bayard turned stony eyes upon him, “you may do as you wish Master Secretary, but my orders are clear.”

  “Orders!” scoffed the little man, “under whose banner do you ride then? Who can conquer death? Who can give the dead new life?”

  Bayard said quietly, “He who shed His blood upon that Stone to spare ours. The Maker of Life Himself.”

  Tuttle smiled coldly, “tales, merely tales to bring comfort to those who are not strong enough to face the harshness of reality.”

  Bayard wished to laugh aloud but dared not offend his companion so grievously, said he with fervent joy, “tales indeed, but still true. And yes, they are a comfort to those of us who find this grim, despairing world a place unfit for mortal men, for it is unfit and was never meant to be this way, but our own folly has rendered it thus. He has opened the door into a world that is far more a home for our estranged race, we need only go in.” Tuttle’s only response was to sniff in derision. They sat their saddles and waited.

  The clouds dispersed with the dawn, and as the first wan grey fingers of morning crept into the vale, a silent and astonished figure crawled up the hillside to where the silent watchers awaited him. Bayard dismounted and Tuttle likewise when they saw him coming, hurrying down the slope to meet him. As the sun’s bright head rose at last above a distant ridge, the man ceased his travails, gave Bayard a last wry smile, and slumped unmoving in the heather. The pair continued their descent and found the man dead where he lay, the King’s sentence having come to fulfillment.

  Tuttle shook his head scornfully and said, “is this then your answer? The man is dead! What did he hope to find upon your accursed Stone?”

  Bayard smiled knowingly, “hope itself. Now are you fully content the man is dead and shall move no more? That he might not again draw breath of his own accord?”

  “What are you babbling about?” said Tuttle, his normal composure shaken rather dreadfully by recent events. He
had hoped for far more from a night’s watching than a corpse at his feet. Sighed he, “of course he is dead! Oh!”

  A familiar azure light filled the boy’s palm and sparkled in his eyes as he knelt beside the dead man and placed a glowing hand over the former rogue’s heart. The dead organ throbbed joyously in answer and the man sighed as one waking from a deep sleep. He blinked up at the boy, a joyous smile on his face. He sat up, stretched, and stood as if nothing untoward had happened. Tuttle stood gaping like a fish, having already forgotten that this was not the first such demonstration he had witnessed. The man gave them a proper salute, hastened up the hill, and was soon in his saddle and turning his horse, said he, “I must be off then, duty you know. Thanks again lad.” He turned the beast and vanished over the rise.

  Tuttle gave Bayard an unreadable look but muttered, “I have seen enough demon, let us to my master and we shall see what he makes of all this.” Bayard smiled his agreement and they too were soon in their saddles and off to their next adventure.

  The journey was interminable, at least as far as Tuttle was concerned; Bayard seemed indifferent to such pithy mortal concerns as boredom and a disquiet heart. He had what his master sought, at least this news of his Lordship should ease his troubled mind. But what of all the uncanny things he had seen and heard in the last few days? No matter how he tried to console himself, the so-called demon was no such thing, though Tuttle continued to call him that out of sheer habit, and it seemed to irk the usually unflappable boy, which Tuttle secretly enjoyed. It was about the only thing he enjoyed on that foray, for his heart was uneasy within him and his mind far worse. When they finally reached the great house of his master some weeks later, he was overjoyed with relief, for he feared for his sanity or at least his rationality, which he mistakenly thought were the same thing.

  They were ushered immediately into the presence of the bedridden old man, who coughed up blood every so often during the ensuing interview but wiped it away as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. He was overjoyed to hear that his vile Lordship and his fell servants were no more and to Tuttle’s great perplexity, enthralled by Bayard’s full telling of the tale. At last, the man slumped back against the headboard and sighed, “ah, that I were young again, but it cannot and shall not be. At least I shall die in peace with no worries over my daughter’s future.” He turned a cunning eye upon his Secretary, who took an uneasy step backward at the eagerness burning therein, and gave his orders, which left the man gaping anew. The older man laughed heartily, which threw him into a bout of coughing, for he had never seen poor Tuttle so flabbergasted. Bayard grinned like the imp he was. They were then excused from the invalid’s quarters that he might speak with his daughter alone.

  Bayard followed Tuttle into the unoccupied library and the man turned upon him immediately, “this is all your fault!”

  Bayard grinned, “not mine, my Master’s and even your own.”

  Tuttle huffed, “he shall never have me! I will obey my master’s dying wish, because it is just that, but it does not mean I approve of it in the least!” Bayard smiled the more.

  The next day, it was discovered that the master of the house was gone; not dead but physically unaccounted for, vanished into thin air it seemed. Tuttle muttered darkly about fell deeds and curiosity being a man’s undoing but there was nothing to do but go forward as the man had directed. None had expected him to live much longer but who had imagined that one morning all would awake to simply find him gone? Tuttle snarled in agitation, another severe and telling breach in his usually stoic demeanor, “this is all your fault; what has come of my master?”

  Bayard smiled like a guilty child, but would only shrug and say, “I have my theories, but they are unfounded and only speculation. It is none of my doing, but something your master has long set his heart upon. Perhaps you will see him again one day, perhaps.”

  Master Tuttle hardly liked the insolent words of the upstart youth and would have set the pup down there and then, but his master’s dying wish, for there could be no other name for it whatever betide, held him firm. They would proceed as they must. He smiled grimly, at least he would be in charge of the expedition and the lad would have to abide by that at least. Said he with a sigh, “we shall start off as soon as we may, the sooner begun the sooner done, I say.” The boy nodded cheerily, as if he had suggested a merry trip into the village to procure sweets rather than liquidating all his master’s assets and setting forth on a cross country expedition with a vulnerable maiden in their midst and laden with wealth galore, but so it was.

  The Secretary called the Steward, Housekeeper, and other upper servants to him and told of what was to come, that the entire estate was to be converted to fluid wealth as soon as may be. They were at first aghast at the thought, but Tuttle assured them that some one or other of their wealthy and powerful neighbors would no doubt take on the estate and the balance of the servants, thus ensuring a place for those who remained behind. After giving them their orders on the dispersal of the household and their part in it, he called the Captain of the Guard to him. The man listened patiently, seemed far more eager than he ought, and then nodded thoughtfully, “it can be done, Sir, but it will be dangerous, especially with the lady and all that treasure, but it can be done. I can speak for a dozen of my lads, they have nothing holding them here, but the rest are family men Sir, and not apt to leave all behind to seek an unknown King. I’ll see if I can’t acquire a few more faithful swords ere we depart however.”

  The Secretary nodded gravely, distractedly dismissed the man, and then turned his attention to his own myriad duties. The captain watched him for a few moments, a small, knowing smile on his face, before he vanished about his own duties, the first of which was apprising the men under his command of the upcoming adventure and seeing who wished to accompany them. He barely missed colliding with a boy who came barreling down the hallway in search of the Secretary, the lad mumbled his apologies but barely glanced at the man he had very nearly trampled before vanishing around the corner into Tuttle’s office. The boy had not had a good look at the captain, but the captain had seen enough of the lad to deepen his smile in anticipation of the coming journey. Things were afoot indeed!

  Within a few days, a miracle that even Tuttle could not deny, matters were settled to everyone’s satisfaction. A wealthy neighbor bought the entire estate and intended to settle one of his sons in place of the errant lord and was content to keep any of the staff that would not be following Tuttle on his perilous and hare-brained misadventure. As the captain had predicted, only a dozen of the younger guardsmen had volunteered to go along, leaving the party quite vulnerable to any brigands or thieves that might wish to make a nuisance of themselves along the way. Her ladyship was quite eager to go, having nothing any longer holding her at home now that her father had gone missing, an incident that did not seem to concern her in the least, rather she seemed quite amused by the whole situation. She was also eager to have as much of an adventure as any nobly born lass might ever hope to have: to cross uncounted miles through mysterious lands as the potential bride of an upstart King with a dowry greater than the riches of many a Kingdom was adventure indeed! She had always loved the old stories and now she was about to be in one.

  At last, the party was assembled in the courtyard of the great house just prior to their grand departure and even Tuttle was impressed. They had accomplished much in short order and the company was splendid enough to suit even his fussy tastes; if only it didn’t attract bandits, but traveling that far with so many and so much could hardly be done in secret or guised as penniless gypsies. Instead, they hoped the grandeur of the party was enough to discourage any would-be brigands and gain them safe passage to wherever it was the King intended to settle himself. Tuttle mounted his horse and led the party out into the waxing day; they eagerly followed his lead, those left behind wishing them a teary and warm farewell.

  Once they were well on their way, and had s
ettled into a suitable order and pace, Tuttle made his rounds of the company to see that all was in good order. Her ladyship was doing well and much enjoying the sunshine and fresh air, though her maidens complained bitterly that it would ruin her complexion, if not their own. Tuttle smirked at their fastidiousness, wondering why he could suddenly consider such a trifle so amusing when a fortnight prior he would have been just as distressed, if not more so. The thought unsettled him enough that he urged his horse forward to continue his rounds and distract himself thereby.

  He spoke next with the Captain, said the Secretary in some surprise, “you told me you had a dozen men but here I see twice their number! Well done sir, well done!” He frowned, “are they trustworthy? You did not have much time to find reliable men after all.”

  Captain Benigan laughed, “this is not of my doing, Sir. Rather it is that lad that the master has placed as second in command. They are his handiwork and you won’t find a more trustworthy man alive, not that they are truly men for that matter.” Tuttle gave him a perplexed look, at which the captain could only laugh and point him in the direction of the offending Bayard for further explanation.

  The Secretary rode up to his unwelcome Second and said, “what is the captain blathering about? He says these new recruits to the guard are not really men after all. What nonsense is this?”

  Bayard looked thoughtfully at his companion, “so the captain is aware that half his minions are not what they seem?” He studied the man from a distance; Benigan smiled broadly in reply. Bayard had spent little time with the captain in the past few days, so preoccupied with other preparations was he, but perhaps he should redress this oversight, for the man seemed observant, honorable, and wise from the few brief interactions they had had and the things others said of him. He turned his attention back to the impatient Tuttle, “and the captain is not unnerved by his observations?”

  Tuttle frowned and said, “he seems far more amused by the whole affair, of which I’d like to form my own opinion but I know little enough of the matter.” He skewered the boy with an accusatory look.

  Bayard grinned and said, “you recall the horses we rode away from a particular cottage? The beast in fact you still ride.”

  The Secretary glanced at the animal and inadvertently smiled, recalling his fondness for the beast, said he, “I rather wondered where you had acquired such a fine beast on such short notice.”

  The boy laughed openly, “he is wrought of nothing but mist and moonbeams as it were. Perhaps he is such a fine animal because he lacks the worst habits of a natural born horse. Your new guardsmen are phantasms of similar make. They have no mind or soul or heart or whatever you would call it, but merely mimic the movements and actions of mortal men. They are also completely useless in our defense, but I hope their presence will dissuade a few would-be brigands upon the way.”

  Tuttle gaped, “and the captain is content with this knowledge?”

  Bayard grinned, “I have no idea, I shall speak with him at length upon the matter when I have the chance. I can dismiss them with a thought if you would prefer. You have not found your horse amiss perchance?”

  He glanced down uneasily at the beast upon which he sat and shuddered, perhaps it was best to let the boy indulge in his uncanny undertakings, if only to ease the journey and keep the Lady safe. He grated, “very well, just see that they do not unnerve the others in the party.” Bayard bowed his head and turned his horse, in search of the captain.

  The lad had not ridden three paces when he let out an anguished cry and slumped in his saddle, barely maintaining his seat, a black arrow buried in his flank. The captain had the guardsmen arrayed around the lady in a heartbeat while the rest of the party drew together and fingered their belt knives and other minor weapons nervously, but no further attack came. Two scouts sent out in pursuit of the assassin returned shaking their heads, the brush was thick and impenetrable, they would spend days in pursuit of the offender to no avail, but thankfully there was also no sign of a sizable force waiting to ambush them either. Tuttle nodded gravely, “then we had best press on.” He turned questioning eyes to the captain, who nodded and then to Bayard, who was hunched in his saddle with pain in his eyes, but he nodded tersely and cast aside the offending shaft. He was wounded but not grievously. The captain watched him the rest of the day and shook his head grimly from time to time, wondering what fell weapon could injure the boy thus.

  They pressed hard for the balance of the day to put what distance they could between themselves and any possible assailants; Bayard keenly felt every jolting step his horse took. As the light failed, they made camp and set the watch, only then did he withdraw to the semi-private tent he would share with the Secretary, in hopes of healing himself. The arrow had been easy enough to remove and the wound was neither severe nor deep, but it stank of death and decay already, oozing viscous black pus that he had no wish to touch. He tried touching the wound with his glowing fingers but only managed to shrink it marginally; it was no mortal wound that would have healed instantly with such treatment, rather it was some fell working of evil strong enough to resist the very light of his Master. He had tried covertly touching it with the azure radiance as they rode, but this was the first time he could try without fear of anyone inadvertently seeing, but there was nothing much to see. He smiled grimly, perhaps this was the worst his enemies could contrive: letting him melt into a viscous black ooze. He barked a laugh but there was no heart in it, the wound ached too much.

  He looked up into the grim eyes of the Captain, who was standing unannounced halfway in the tent flap, studying the boy’s exposed flank and the hideous wound therein. Said Benigan in some surprise, “I have heard of such weapons but never have I personally seen their results. The making of them is costly and horrid indeed, thus the target is never an idle one. Someone wants you out of the way lad, and badly. Had you been a mortal man, you would have already succumbed to the poison and be no more than a black puddle on the road, eager to infect any fool enough to touch it or even pass by.”

  Bayard shuddered, “I can’t heal it.”

  The man shook his head grimly, “no one can, there is but one option and what remains afterwards must be burned.”

  The boy nodded in concurrence, then caught the man’s gaze, frowning in perplexity, “who are you? How do you know so much about these matters and why are you not unnerved to know that half your guardsmen are other than they seem?”

  The man grinned and unlaced the top of his tunic, revealing a rampant silver unicorn over his heart. Just then Tuttle barged in, pushing the man brusquely aside in his haste. He frowned at the captain loitering in his supposedly private quarters and then glared at the boy, only then noticing the festering wound. He turned a ghastly shade of green, a poor choice of hue for one with a usually drab and colorless complexion, said he aghast, “what is that?”

  The boy exchanged a pained look with the captain, who was at that moment lacing up his shirt for some reason the Secretary could not fathom, and then Bayard replied, “it is the arrow wound.”

  Master Tuttle shook his head adamantly, “it cannot be gangrenous already!”

  The captain shook his head, “I will attend to the lad Master Tuttle, if you would be kind enough to give us some privacy?”

  The irate Secretary turned on the captain, “this is my tent and I will remind you who is in command of this ill-advised expedition!”

  The captain did not seem intimidated in the least, said he stonily, “I acknowledge that this is your tent and that you are in charge of this party, but this is a private matter between the boy and myself. Should it not be addressed promptly, the welfare of the entire company will be at stake. Now be so kind as to withdraw and stoke up the fire as much as possible, I shall shortly need to burn something rather dreadful and dangerous.”

  Tuttle trembled at the gravity in the man’s voice but he would not be gainsaid, this was his tent after all! What could they have to hide that the
commander of the expedition should be unaware of? No, he would stay and see that all was well within his demesne. The captain saw the stubborn set of his jaw and the glint in his eye, sighing said he, “at least have a servant stir up the fire and have an expendable blanket or sheet brought here at once.”

  There was nothing the man enjoyed more than giving orders, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had just been ordered by an underling to give them, so he did just that. As soon as all was ready, Tuttle asked curiously, “what are you up to?”

  The captain grinned sardonically, “you yet have time to leave Sir, I know your abhorrence for anything even remotely supernatural. That wound will only grow worse, as you can see it has become more hideous in just the last few minutes. Eventually it will consume the boy utterly and try to infect any and all within its reach. It must be burned and soon!”

  Tuttle gaped, “what of the boy.”

  Benigan smiled grimly, “he’ll have to be unmade.”

  The Secretary squawked and turned horrified eyes upon the boy, “and you are fine with this?”

  Bayard shrugged but grimaced in pain as his wound objected to even that minor movement, “it shall not be the first time. You do not have to watch.” He turned pleading eyes to the senior Messenger, who nodded and knelt beside the stricken lad.

  Tuttle could not leave, though whether out of morbid curiosity or because he would not be so easily driven from his own tent, he could not say. He gaped when the captain’s hand suddenly glowed blue, mourned he, “not you too! Has the whole world gone mad?”

  Benigan gave him an amused grin over his shoulder, said he, “I have been in this service for as long as you have known me; I’ll tell you all the tale once I have seen to the boy.” The Captain turned back to the lad, Tuttle’s eyes threatened to fall from their sockets if they grew any wider, and as he touched his glowing hand to the boy’s heart, the Secretary gasped. The light spread over Bayard’s entire being, save the oozing wound, and the next moment the boy was gone, leaving only a black stain upon the blanket, which the captain promptly bundled up and cast into the fire outside the tent. It belched forth a horrid black smoke but no more would it threaten anyone within the camp.

  Said Tuttle rather breathlessly, “what has come of the boy?”

  The captain grinned, “he’s about somewhere, he’ll likely turn up ere morning. If you are impatient, you can go wander about in the mist by the creek, that is the most likely place you’ll find him.”

  The Secretary grumbled, only a hint of his concern showing, “I will not wait about and catch my death for his convenience. He can hie himself back when it pleases him but I won’t wait on anyone’s pleasure. Now what of your own story, man? I never took you for anything but a common, reasonable man and yet you tell me this nonsense has ensnared you as well?”

  The captain grinned like an insolent child and said, “what is nonsense to you is of the utmost importance to some, including myself and the boy. How old was I when first you took notice of me?”

  Master Tuttle said thoughtfully, “sixteen summers I believe, you were just about to join the guard as your father and grandfather before you, but you took dreadfully ill with pneumonia and even the doctor had given you up, but you surprised us all and one morning awoke as fit as you had ever been.”

  Said the captain quietly, “the doctor was correct, the disease claimed me that night, but I had already given myself to Another. That summer, right before I was to join the guard, I said farewell to my family and hied myself into the hills and knelt before a certain legendary Stone. Upon my return, I was still intent on joining the guard but the pneumonia found me first and soon claimed my life. But death is but the beginning for a Messenger. Ever since have I been in this service, though living quietly with none the wiser, rising slowly through the ranks, awaiting the day when my true quest would be revealed. This journey is but the start, I think.”

  Tuttle shook his head gravely, “the entire time I have known you, you have been a part of this, this, mad order? And I never knew?”

  The captain grinned, “aye, Sir, and long after you have passed out of living memory, still shall I serve thus.”

  The Secretary gaped, “but surely you must die! Men cannot go on living forever, at least not without invoking blood magic or worse! Or so I was led to believe.”

  Benigan said gravely, “my comrades die on a regular basis in the course of our duties, what do you think the boy just endured? But it is not a permanent state for us, nor need we invoke the forbidden arts to avail us, for our Master has conquered death and is the rightful Lord of all Life.”

  Just then the lad ducked into the tent, smiling abashedly but seemingly no worse for wear after his trying day. Tuttle studied them both with an unreadable expression on his face, said he at last, “what then am I to make of all this?”

  The captain shook his head, “go on as you have been directed and all will be well, Sir. You are still in charge and we but your faithful servants, sent to ward this company from any who would think to do it harm. Our more curious nature need be of no concern to you, save that our uncanny skills are at your service.” He grinned at the lad, “that was very nice work with your phantom soldiers, I almost took them for the real thing and no doubt our enemies shall. You seem to have a knack for it; I can hardly produce a passable horse.” The man frowned as a thought occurred to him, “are you not an apprentice yet lad? What are you doing here alone?”

  Bayard shrugged, “I hardly know what it is I do. My former mentor was last with the King, whose party we seek, so we shall undoubtedly be reunited eventually.” He smiled hopefully, “but I would happily learn whatever it is that you might care to teach me.”

  The man slapped him on the back, “that I will lad, but I warn you, I am not as wise and experienced as some.”

  Tuttle was rather uncomfortable in the presence of all this camaraderie and made his farewells, pleading some needful business or other awaiting him without. They watched him go with sad smiles, their pity smote him sore. Why could they not mind their own business? What right had they to pry into the private matters of the soul, particularly his own? He would believe what he wanted and that was it, or was it? He had found this whole assignment unnerving from the first, but he would do anything for his vanished master, even look into the supernatural when he did not believe in any of it and take part in a journey that kept him in close company with such uncanny men.

  He sorely missed his icy reserve, his unshakable certainty in the reasonableness of things, and his highly tuned efficiency; nothing had been the same since he encountered that fool boy. And now he felt like an outsider looking in, for he had no part in whatever strangenesses and peculiarities they seemed to share. He had known the captain most of his life yet was far from intimate with him, or anyone else for that matter, and yet this boy, a veritable stranger, treated him like a long lost father, brother, and friend! He wanted that too, whatever it was, perhaps not the uncanny lifestyle but that unshakable confidence, that undying hope and sense of purpose, and that sense of belonging, no matter where one found oneself in life. But he could not believe; he would not!

  With these grim thoughts roiling in his mind, he betook himself away from that accursed tent, away from the camp, but he could not escape his uneasy thoughts. He sat down upon a mossy stone beside the creek, its age-old song a solace in his ears. He glanced up at the diamond studded sky and the infinite blackness between those pinpricks of light and beauty. Was that his life, that blackness? Was that all his future: the cold and the dark? Could there be more, was he meant to be more? It would take admitting that he was wrong, but could that be so bad? The dancing stars reminded him uncomfortably of the light that surrounded his odd companions, could such be wrong or merely a hallucination? The beck murmured sleepily and chuckled as if the answer to his questions were obvious. He shuddered, for he knew it was. Only one question now remained: could he bend his stubborn neck to embrace
the truth as it had been revealed to him?

  He gasped then in pain as darkness overwhelmed him. He heard the brook’s song louder than ever, indifferent to his agony, as he lay with a crossbow bolt in his chest, gasping for air, and prone amongst the leaf litter. He saw a dark figure lean over him in the night, obscuring the once comforting stars, and then he heard a cruel chuckle and the fading crunch of retreating feet in the underbrush. He was dying, he knew it, his assailant knew it, now there was naught to do but breath his last and go the way of all men. But some stubborn part of him rebelled, he could not, would not die like this! But that part had no control over anything anymore. It shrieked at its own impotence and withdrew weeping into the shadowy recesses of his mind. He gazed blearily at the stars, still shining in their silent dance above. And he smiled.

  Not a smug grin or a disdainful smirk, but a true, heartfelt smile, perhaps the first and only time he had done so in his adult life. He wanted what the stars had. He wanted what his strange companions had found. Tuttle wanted life and laughter and music and Joy, not that cold dark between the stars, which was all he would find did he not cry for mercy from the One who wrought them.

  “I thought you would never ask,” came a pert, but pleased voice.

  Tuttle gaped anew, a habit hardly becoming to a Secretary of his standing but what was that now? A magpie perched upon the bolt buried in his chest and peered at him with eyes more fathomless than the endless black overhead, but it was not the vacant depths of space in that gaze but a knowing and a being and a joy that he could not begin to comprehend. He had found home at last, or so he thought, but the Bird had other plans.

  Said He, “you are of no use like this child, and I have not yet summoned you for your final interview, so I had best intervene.” He tapped the bolt with his bill and both He and it vanished in that strange, comforting light of a thousand gathered stars. Tuttle gasped once more and passed from all conscious awareness.

  He awoke to find Bayard and the Captain both leaning over him worriedly, but they relaxed visibly when they saw him stir. His tunic was a ruin, covered in blood with a gaping hole in the middle, but the skin was intact and healthy beneath. What truly surprised them, Tuttle was strangely amused that even these usually confident Messengers could occasionally gape like an over-wrought Secretary, was the mark upon his chest. He stiffly raised his head and gaped himself. Wrought in silver, aglow with entrapped starlight, was the figure of a standing unicorn where the wound should have been. He smiled in spite of himself and then turned curious eyes to the captain. Coughed he, “what is it? What does it mean?”

  The captain shook his head in perplexity, unlacing his tunic to reveal his own mark. The Secretary frowned thoughtfully at the differences. Benigan then raised a glowing hand and offered it to Tuttle. He took it, but there was no answering pulse of light, though perhaps the unicorn over his heart glinted bluely in response. The captain pulled him to his feet and said with a smile, “you are marked Sir, but not as a Messenger.”

  Tuttle said quietly, “I suppose it is just a reassurance to the King of Whose I am, that he need not fear taking me into his service.” He smiled grimly, “and a reminder to myself that this strange night was no dream nor is our Master but a legend.”

  The senior Messenger grinned, “and how do you know that?”

  Tuttle shrugged, smiling contritely, “I just do. And that with all my heart.”

  Benigan clapped him on the back and Tuttle’s heart leapt for very joy, continued the captain, “then you surely have the right of it. And I suppose it is high time we returned to camp, like the sensible men we claim to be.” Tuttle smiled from his very heart, being both vastly amused and quite relieved that he could be both sensible and yet believe the inconceivable.

  They returned to camp, at least Master Tuttle and Bayard hied themselves hence, but Captain Benigan had an assassin to find before it found him. He had a fair idea of what he was hunting and what its intentions were, so he sent the apprentice off with the Secretary, knowing the former would come looking if he did not return by morning. He smiled grimly, wondering what the boy would make of this new nemesis after the varied and fell minions of evil he had already overcome; it might be rather anticlimactic after the notable fiends he had already survived. There was no doubt in Benigan’s mind that there was a Hunter stalking the company, for nothing else could be so deadly yet so elusive; the creature would undoubtedly try to make an end of the leaders of the company and then take its time with the panicked and scattered remnants. It had already attacked Bayard and the Secretary, and the Captain knew he must be next. He fingered his sword eagerly, anticipating the coming conflict and the chance to use his uncanny skills at last. Then he saw it.

  His keen night vision caught the glint of rapacious eyes in the moonlight and saw the silhouette of a great bird of prey perched just above him in an ancient oak. It studied him as intently as he watched it; he shuddered in eagerness and dread, for he had found his quarry or perhaps it had found him. It silently took wing and stooped upon him, but he had his sword at the ready and narrowly missed as the Hunter swerved from its attack at the last moment with a shriek of rage that its prey should have anticipated it. It hovered momentarily above the ground at eye level and suddenly became a man, tall, broad, and cowled all in black. They stared at one another stonily for uncounted minutes and then the Hunter spoke at last, grudging respect in his voice but no less mocking, “the mouse bears a sword I see.”

  Benigan grated, “I am no rodent to be preyed upon at leisure. You will not find me so easy a victim as an untried boy and a man who knows nothing of the warrior arts.”

  “Yes,” drawled the creature, “as to that, why do the vermin yet live? How is it you are not blind as any man in the night?”

  Benigan could not help but smile, “my Master’s gifts are many and varied, know that this company is well warded and travels under His protection. Assault us at your own peril.”

  His laughter was cold and far from amused, “so think you little mouse, if it brings you comfort. Let us see if the legends surrounding your accursed kind are true.” He grew to thrice his current height and twice his breadth, becoming a veritable giant, and picking up the stymied captain in one great hand, the monster snapped his neck as if he were but a sparrow. He cast the unmoving creature aside and resumed his familiar man-shape, ghosting into the trees to see what might be drawn to the bait.

  Dawn was beginning to pearl the east when Bayard felt drawn into the misty gloom outside the camp. He and the Secretary had returned as ordered, the latter sleeping soundly in one corner while Bayard waited uneasily for the captain’s return. The hours passed and still Benigan did not come, at last, the boy felt drawn into the outer world and happily did he obey, unable to remain a moment longer a fretful captive of doubt. It did not take him long to find the place where the man lay, stiff and cold in the predawn grey, but before he could rouse the captain from death’s slumber, he was set upon by something to which he could put no name. It seemed manlike at times but the next moment some aspect or feature quite reptilian or even alien to mortal ken betrayed its hideous nature. It hissed triumphantly in the boy’s ear, “let us see if your precious Master can free you from the fate I intend, indeed, he could not save your friend. Then I will have my way with the rest of your pathetic companions.”

  He bore the struggling Messenger deep into a cave, through whose lengthy and cramped mouth they barely squeezed. Within crouched a lad Bayard’s own age, terror writ large in his eyes. “Now,” hissed the Hunter, throwing down his captive, “we will make some use of this wretch, but first...” The creature leapt at the boy, but rather than attacking, it merely grabbed the front of his tunic and ripped it open at the neck. The silver unicorn glinted defiantly in the gloom and the Hunter nodded, “as I thought, but no matter. Blood is blood; it will suffice.” He scowled at the boy, “take him wretch and do now as I instructed you.”

  The boy t
rembled in absolute terror yet managed to squeak defiantly, “no! I have had enough of you and your kind, I want no part in this.”

  The Hunter hissed, “you think this little show of bravado will spare either of you? Why did you not show your true colors when I slaughtered your entire family before your very eyes rather than take my master’s mark upon yourself and beg mercy? You cannot hope for anything but death and a cold, lonely eternity, in which to mull endlessly over your own wretchedness! Will you not embrace the power that is offered you in what remains of your worthless life?”

  The boy said nothing, but averted his eyes, and wept as one bereft of his soul. Bayard watched with pitying eyes and wondered what cruel doom the boy had embraced. He felt the pitiless eyes of a hawk upon himself and turned to meet the Hunter’s gaze, unflinching.

  The creature laughed mockingly at the boy’s utter lack of fear and then struck with all the speed and strength of a snake, for snake he now was, though a constrictor rather than a venomous specimen. He enwrapped the boy so completely in his coils that only his head, one arm, and the tips of his boots protruded. Hissed he in utter delight, “watch now wretch, what shall be your doom when I have finished with this pest I had intended to use for your own benefit.” He began to squeeze and the Messenger’s eyes bulged disturbingly from his skull with the building pressure, but Bayard kept his wits about him and let his Master’s power flow through him. A dagger, wrought of that uncanny radiance, appeared in his free hand and he drove it deep into the snake’s side; azure light flashed and danced over the blade and hilt and into the monster itself, which thrashed and hissed in agony, momentarily releasing the boy, but he was not yet defeated. A huge bear suddenly loomed in the cramped chamber and reduced the impudent Messenger to bloody shreds with a few strokes of its great claws.

  It turned its fiendish eyes upon the terrified boy, who had ceased his weeping to watch in horrified fascination as his master tangled with the uncanny lad. The boy saw his own doom written in that awful gaze, but the monster groaned pitiably, slumped forward, and moved no more. The boy fainted dead away in grief, horror, and relief; all three occupants of the cave lay as if dead.

  At the King’s behest, Garren was working with his Majesty on his sword technique one evening as their companions were busy setting up camp. The lad was holding the Sword he had pulled from the Stone and Garren was adjusting the set of his shoulders, when Kipril suddenly ran up behind the elder Messenger, his hand alight in the gathering twilight, and touched his mentor’s back. Before the man had time to protest or question what the apprentice thought he was doing, both King and Messenger had vanished in a flash of blue light. Ithril, who had been standing on the sidelines observing the practice session, exchanged a startled look with his fellow apprentice, “what did you just do?”

  Kipril shook his head, “I hardly know, but it was of the utmost importance.” He smiled in amusement, with only a hint of dread, “let us just hope Garren and the King understand that ere their return.” The apprentices exchanged a wry grin before returning to their various duties, hoping none had seen the King’s sudden departure.

  The pair materialized in the wan grey of predawn in a great wood, apparently rather distant from their location of the moment previous. Garren smiled ruefully as he studied their situation, never ceasing to find his Master’s ways rather perplexing but always the best means of doing things. He let go his grip on the King’s shoulders and said with a wry grin, “it seems we have business to be about, Majesty.”

  The King did not reply, but rather gasped as his gaze fell upon a dead man lying not three paces from where they stood, his neck bent at an impossible angle. Garren knelt beside the cold, wet form and smiled knowingly, said he, “perhaps we shall have our answer in a moment.” He touched a glowing hand to the dead man’s chest and his neck righted itself with a hideous crack. Benigan rubbed the offending area and smiled ruefully up into the eyes of the stranger, nodding his thanks, before frowning and glancing about in some concern.

  Garren asked, “what is it?”

  Benigan said worriedly, “there is a Hunter on the loose hereabouts.”

  Garren nodded, “with all the strange happenings of late, that does not surprise me in the least. What is it after?”

  Benigan eyed the King curiously, but feeling he must trust a man in company with one of his comrades, replied, “I am part of a company en route to find the new King with many a treasure to help his cause. Our enemies undoubtedly hope to prevent such a meeting.”

  Garren grinned in spite of this dire news, said he, “well, here is your King, albeit momentarily out of place and time for some reason we have yet to discover. Where exactly are we?”

  Benigan then summed up the situation and Garren shared his own curious tale, concluding with their current plans to reach Gormanth by month’s end. Benigan nodded, “we shall direct our path thither then.” He turned to the King and made a rather grand bow, finishing, “if that would please your Majesty?”

  Kyan grinned impishly at the grandiose words and gesture but made an appropriate courtesy of his own. Continued Benigan thoughtfully, “you said you were missing an apprentice?” He smiled, “I think I know where to find him, and perhaps the Hunter as well.” He turned grim eyes on the King, and said, “I wonder what his presence here implies?” They exchanged a grave look and hastened off in the direction they suddenly felt calling to their very souls.

  After much crawling, squeezing, and wriggling, they managed to cram themselves into the narrow confines of the Hunter’s lair, which was overcrowded with a dead bear and the mortal remains of two men. Upon closer inspection, the one nearest the wall appeared yet to draw breath. Benigan withdrew, and after another round of worming his way through the narrow passage, returned with a crude torch, that the King might see as well as they in the dim cavern. Kyan gasped in horror at what the light revealed.

  Garren knelt beside the unconscious boy but drew back in horror, saying grimly to the King, “he has much the same aura about him as Corbin did when first we met.” The others looked at him blankly as he continued, “the lad is marked by our Master’s greatest enemy as one of his own, whether intentionally or not, I cannot yet say. He could be an uninitiated Hunter or merely a victim of the fiend’s fell schemes, much as Corbin found himself.” He knelt again beside the boy, overcoming his revulsion, and shaking him gently.

  The lad awoke with a start to find three strangers in the cavern, the Hunter dead, and himself alive. They gazed at him stonily, so much so, that he wished to pass again into the unknowing dark. Garren felt his unease and said quietly, moderating his tone that it might be as gentle as possible, “tell us lad, what has happened here?”

  The boy wept out the full, horrible tale of how the Hunter had come upon his family’s home one dark night, and one after the other, had slaughtered the entire clan until only the boy remained. Terrified, the lad pled for mercy and thus received the mark and had followed the Hunter from that day, doomed to become such himself, but never easy with his own cowardice or the fate that awaited him. At last he resisted, but it was too little, too late, for he yet bore the mark, though the Hunter was dead. They would come for him, for he was the property of the Dark and it never let go once it took hold. He then told of the strange boy and his defeat of the awful bear.

  Garren actually smiled, though his face was still grim at the boy’s impending fate, said he, “let us see if we can find my missing apprentice.” The boy frowned in consternation, but the others looked on with anticipation as the man knelt beside the tattered remains of what had been Bayard. The boy gaped as a blue light engulfed the mess and the lad was suddenly blinking and smiling, whole once more. He laughed aloud to see Garren kneeling over him, smiled at Benigan, and bowed his head to the King.

  As he gained his feet, Bayard turned grim eyes upon Garren, “what of the lad?”

  Garren shook his head and eyed the King gravely, “this is why his Majesty was sum
moned to this place, for there is justice to mete out.”

  The lad lay against the far wall and wailed, “do not leave me to the Dark! Please, save me at least from that!”

  The King knelt beside him and said quietly, “you have sworn yourself bodily to evil and evil will have you whether you would or not. As long as you live, they will come for you.”

  Said the boy quietly, “this I know to my very soul, but is there no hope even in death? Am I doomed to eternal night whether I live or die? Is despair all my future?”

  Garren said gently, “there is hope for your soul lad, seek the Master’s mercy and find mercy indeed, not the cruel malice that the dark deals out and calls it grace. There can be no hope in this life for those so marked, but it is boundless in that to come, if you seek it with a humble and willing heart.”

  The boy’s eyes danced with joy and peace, no longer afraid or uncertain, said he, “let it be unto me even as you have spoken.” He then turned sad but understanding eyes upon the King, “do as you must Majesty, for evil must not triumph.”

  So it was the boy found peace at last and embarked on that greatest of all adventures, at least mortally speaking. They crawled from the cavern, leaving the bear and boy to their eternal slumber. Bayard blocked up the entrance with stones wrought of light, the King watching with a thoughtful look in his eyes. As the sun finally rose, Garren placed a firm hand on the King’s shoulder and looked to Bayard, “you know what to do lad?”

  Bayard nodded and held a glowing hand aloft, said he with a grin, “we shall catch up as soon as may be, the Master willing.” They exchanged a laugh and then vanished in a flash of blue, reappearing only moments after Ithril and Kipril had abandoned the makeshift practice yard. Benigan and Bayard went to see if the Secretary had yet awakened.

  The party rode on for some days in a blissful state of unexcitement and very near boredom; to the weary adventurers, it was blessing indeed, but such a company must inevitably draw those seeking illicit gain, abetted no doubt by the darker powers-that-be that loathed the thought of the nascent King receiving aid in any form. The good captain had a dozen trusty guardsmen under his command and was no novice himself, though Bayard was as yet certainly no swordsman. The boy had conjured a dozen phantom soldiers that could maintain the appearance of able-bodied armsmen but were of absolutely no use in an actual confrontation, which was what seemed to be brewing at that very moment. One of the guardsmen, sent ahead as a scout, galloped back to the company all aflutter, with an arrow sticking jauntily out of his hat, gasped he to the captain, “sir! There are two dozen or more bandits lying in wait just around the bend, I barely escaped with my life and no doubt they will be upon us immediately, as surprise will no longer avail them.”

  Benigan nodded grimly, caught Bayard’s eye, and then offered this stunning order, “very good, draw back with the rest of our men and protect the Lady, Master Tuttle, the servants, and the luggage while I, the boy, and the new armsmen ride ahead and stall these impertinent ruffians.”

  The man gaped but swallowed his protest, saluted his captain, and rode off towards the bulk of the company, bellowing orders as he flew.

  Master Tuttle, who had heard the entire exchange, gave the captain a questioning look, but recent experience had taught him to believe in miracles, which is what it would take to spare the company, so he said nothing, nodded solemnly, and turned after the flying guardsman and the retreating bulk of the company.

  Bayard’s eyes were wide with wonder at this strange arrangement, but an eager smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as he realized there was far more to the matter than he could yet perceive. He gathered his phantasms together and they arranged themselves in an orderly fashion behind the Messengers, barring the road. Bayard turned a grim smile upon the captain, “sir,” said he, “can we do aught but delay them for a moment?”

  Benigan laughed eagerly, “aye lad, there is something afoot, though I hardly know what. We and your phantoms can do little to injure our oncoming foes, but they do not yet know that. Let us see what else our Master intends.” He drew his sword and the rest of the company followed suit; the phantom horses tossing their heads and rearing as they felt Bayard’s rising excitement, even as the onrushing hoard of sword-wielding banditti rounded the bend and fell upon them with impunity.

  Bayard found himself exchanging blows with a lad his own age, who was just as unskilled with his blade and far more terrified than furious, somehow he managed to drive his sword through the Messenger’s heart, which seemed to unnerve him all the more, for he barely kept his grip on his sword and his place in the saddle. Instead of falling into pain and darkness with the fatal blow, Bayard felt his Master’s power surging within him, mending his stricken heart even as the boy remembered to draw back his blade, but it did not stop there. The light rushed through every inch of him, even the phantom horse beneath him was engulfed in a blue radiance, with the light merging, consuming, changing him. He heard his foe squawk in startled dismay and the boy’s horse scream in terror. Bayard opened his eyes and smiled fiendishly, stretching out a hand as big as a man and thrice as strong, towards the nearest man, one of his own phantoms, and flung the hapless figment against the bole of an ancient tree, which trembled from the force of the impact. The ogre laughed in horrid delight and turned upon the next nearest foe, continuing to rend and fling and crush, be it bandit or phantom, he struck out at anyone he found within reach.

  The bandits cried out in horror, many flung from their saddles or carried off by horses stricken mad with terror; the hideous creature laughed dreadfully and fell upon any and all fool enough to remain. Benigan drew back, watching in astonishment as the monster wrought havoc amongst their foes, while those who were able, quickly fled. The last of the bandits collapsed in a terrified faint as the ogre turned its hideous, though laughing eyes, upon the captain. He felt no fear from the creature, knowing it still had the mind and heart of the boy, but it was certainly gruesome to look upon and his own men would not approach while it lingered. The captain hefted the boar spear he suddenly felt in his grasp and urged his horse to charge the monster, which stood there blinking stupidly, as if unsure what was happening. The spear pierced the ogre’s tough hide and penetrated his heart; this time darkness and pain engulfed Bayard even as the light danced through him anew. The fiend vanished, or rather shrank, in an explosion of blue light, that upon fading, revealed the shattered form of a boy, prone upon the sward.

  The captain dismounted and rushed to the side of the unmoving lad, a grim smile on his face. A few moments later, they were exchanging amused grins and the captain was helping the onetime ogre to his feet. They then surveyed the carnage the monster had wrought. Phantom horses and armsmen lay strewn about the road like children’s toys while greater than half the bandits lay insensible among them, the others having fled upon the monster’s advent. Ignoring the phantoms for the moment, they quickly went about securing the bandits, a task which the captain’s flesh and blood guardsmen soon aided, as they had watched from a distance and came running the moment the monster was overcome and the bandits dispersed. Once the moaning and trembling rogues were safely bound, Benigan sent his men off to round up the rest of the band while he and Bayard repaired the mischief wrought among the phantoms, man and horse alike.

  Tuttle approached with wide eyes and a wan smile as Benigan sent a pulse of blue light into the last of the prone phantoms; the figment blinked, stood, and walked unsteadily off to where its fellows stood. Bayard came at the run, a smile of pure mischief on his face. No one else stood near enough to hear, so Tuttle felt safe in broaching his questions and astonishment, said he, “what exactly was that?”

  Benigan studied the boy thoughtfully, grinned in amusement, and then turned to Tuttle, saying, “salvation Master Tuttle, salvation! Though by a means quite unlooked for.” He studied the boy again, who grinned impishly in reply, said the captain at last, “could you do it again lad?”

  Bayard f
rowned in consternation, but said thoughtfully, “I think I could replicate the feat, having endured it once, though through no conscious effort of my own; it will merely require a slight alteration of the technique used to change our features or garments.” His smile broadened, “I now understand how the Warder of the Stone can wear so many varied guises.”

  Tuttle looked at the trembling, huddled mass of bandits, half beginning to stir, the rest still blissfully unaware of all that passed around them, said he in surprise, “I could not see well from my vantage point, but from the beating those fellows took, how can any of them yet be alive?”

  The captain grinned, “the Messengers cannot harm a living soul Master Secretary, at least not in any lasting capacity, even if we happen to resemble a dragon or other monster at the time.” He turned appreciative eyes upon the lad, “where did you learn to fight like that?”

  Bayard laughed, “I was once a little boy, sir, I believe we are born knowing such things; at least it was far more effective than my sword work.”

  The captain nodded, “yes, we’ll have to work on that for what remains of the journey. It is a skill you will need to master, and soon, if you are to be effective in this service.” He smiled wryly, “regardless of your other, more interesting skills.”

  The bulk of the guardsmen returned with the majority of the fled bandits in tow; only one man was unaccounted for and two of the soldiers were still in pursuit. Master Tuttle studied the panicked renegades, then turned grim eyes to the captain, “what shall be done with them? We certainly can’t let them loose to harm others or try their hand at us once more, but neither do I look forward to slaughtering two dozen men.”

  The captain studied the rogues thoughtfully, both the recently returned and those already bound, and then said, scratching his chin, “the whole lot of them are terrified, for which I can’t blame them in the least, and most of them seem to be young men, little more than boys really, rather than hardened criminals. Perhaps we can be merciful and they can be of benefit to us as well.” Tuttle frowned in consternation, but held his peace as the captain approached the prisoners, ordering his men to waken any that still had not regained their senses.

  Once the wide-eyed throng of ne’er-do-wells was fully awake and focused on the grim looking captain, he began, “who is in charge of your foul little band?” A snarling fellow among those who had been first to flee said nothing, but glared at Benigan, who shook his head ruefully at the man’s insolence despite his current situation, continuing he said, “I see your brave captain is not a reasonable sort, so I shall speak to you as a group and as individuals rather than relaying my message through your esteemed leader. Now you have all been captured in the attempt of banditry, if not murder, and you all know the fate that awaits you.” There was much groaning and snarling at this, but the captain pushed on, “however, I am willing to be lenient if you are willing to cooperate. If you are willing, you may hire on as guards for this company for the remainder of our journey, albeit I won’t be paying you for your trouble. At journey’s end, the King will have his say in the matter, but I think he may be merciful if you have completed the journey in good faith and promise to abide within the law in future. Any who refuse can yet face the justice due them. Any treachery will be punished swiftly and severely, am I understood?”

  He turned from them then, to allow them to think the matter through and discuss it at length amongst themselves. Tuttle was agape, “what have you just done?”

  Benigan grinned, “we need more swords, or at least the appearance of competent swords, if we are to avoid similar encounters upon the way. Most of these lads aren’t evil but rather desperate, looking for adventure, or simply misguided. I am offering them a chance to reevaluate their rash decision and a second chance at life; they may yet become good and respectable men one day. The true scoundrels will face their due.”

  The Secretary sighed, “very well captain, do as you wish. It seems sensible, if insane!”

  Benigan smiled, “fear not, sir, I will know if they are lying or intend any harm towards you and yours.” Tuttle sniffed emphatically but said nothing more upon the matter. Just then hooves clattered upon the road and announced the return of the missing guardsmen and the last bandit. They drew rein before the captain and saluted smartly; their prisoner, the boy who had first stabbed Bayard, slumped dejectedly in his saddle, but upon recognizing the boy, he looked ready to flee then and there, despite his grim escort.

  The lad was forcibly removed from his saddle and stood trembling before the stern captain but soon went to his knees in dread and terror, whimpered he, “please sir, do you not know that the man beside you is a warlock of the worst sort, a shape-shifter and a monster?”

  Bayard flashed Tuttle a mirthful grin, “I have been called worse, but none of it is true. Look to your fellows lad, are they not alive and whole?”

  The boy frowned but surveyed those about him and gasped, “that they are, but how?”

  Bayard laughed outright, “some secrets are not mine to divulge, but know that no harm shall come to you as long as you abide by what the captain shall tell you.” The offer was repeated to the truant boy, and as he pondered the strangeness of the situation, Benigan called upon the others to declare their intentions. Several of the more hardened and haughty of the lot, their leader included, snarled imprecations and insults at their captors and were summarily hung for their crimes while the majority were more than willing to take the captain’s offer and see what came of it. Of these, Benigan weeded out a trio that spoke words of honey and sincerity, but lied all the while and upon further questioning, revealed their true intentions, and so met the same fate as their unfortunate leader. Once the more reprehensible details were accomplished, the party was soon enough in their saddles and pressing onwards once again; the surviving bandits were astonished and amazed, but eager to start their lives anew.

  In the ruins of a once great but infamous castle outside the despotic city of Gormanth, something stirred. The whole structure had collapsed in upon itself, its very foundations destroyed, not three days prior and it was thought none survived, but there was no doubt something was quite alive in the midst of the ruins. An iron grey sky, the clouds not quite low enough to touch, hung over the dismal scene and gave no indication of doing otherwise for many long days to come. Veils of fog drifted about the ruin, obscuring whatever it was that had survived the collapse or had taken up residence within shortly thereafter. An eerie blue light suffused the place, illuminating the mist and dancing on the broken stones, while the crunch and groan of crumbling rock filled the air whenever the occupant moved, for whatever it was, it was immense. Word had quickly spread that his Lordship, the Rider, and most astonishingly of all, the Beast were dead, but rumor spread even quicker that something yet lurked within the confines of his Lordship’s former abode. When gossip also said a King had been crowned and was on his way to Gormanth to establish his reign, the people eyed the ruin and wondered what he would make of this new menace, for they would have no King that could not also rid the realm of such a monster.

  The Dragon, for some intrepid children had crept into the ruin and at last glimpsed the monster for what it was, kept many a usurper and upstart lord or knight, who might otherwise vie for the crown and plunge the realm into civil war, from acting too rashly, for it was now firmly believed that no man would be accepted as ruler over the realm who did not first dispose of the Dragon. His Lordship’s Beast was bad enough, but it had no mind of its own and the Rider was at least a man, if an evil one, but this monstrosity seemed to have no lack of cunning or strength, but neither did it stir from the ruins to lay waste the countryside, rather it seemed content to wait for something, which many thought to be the coming of this rumored King. The entire realm shivered in anticipation and dread, knowing this was the stuff of which stories were made, but were rather uncomfortable in the knowledge that the thing lived right next door. Stories were all well and good, but most preferred to
experience them at a comfortable distance of time and space, but the monster seemed disinclined to give them that chance. So they could do nothing but wait and watch and pray, hoping this King was all that rumor held him to be and more.

  So it was that men intent upon the throne gathered outside Gormanth to await the coming of the so-called King. Some came alone, some with armies, but anyone with a claim or interest in the crown could not afford to miss all that was to come or all chance of taking it for oneself would be lost. They stared stonily at one another and watched the ruins uneasily, but wait they did. Let the alleged King face the monster, and if he failed, then they could dispute it among themselves. If he succeeded, there was little point in doing aught but swearing fealty then and there to such a mighty man. Even a great Elfin Knight had come to witness the proceedings, though he would not condescend to speak to mere mortals upon the matter. Some stared at him in dread, wondering if his Lady had sent him to win the realm for herself, knowing little good could come of such a circumstance for mortal men. But he only smirked knowingly at them, if he deigned to notice them at all, as he sat his great horse and studied the ruin and its mysterious occupant.

  This was the situation into which the King and his party rode on yet another gloomy day of leaden, lowering clouds, and at first none noted the newcomers, for what was another party of horsemen come to wait the King’s coming? They found a place to camp among the others on the barren, dragon-seared waste on the far side of the road from the ruin, not yet announcing that the King was come indeed. Garren and Kipril rode out to do a little scouting and hear the local gossip as the others set up camp, for the King was growing impatient to know what was truly happening, for the rumors had grown wild indeed as the company approached Gormanth. He shivered to think he might somehow have to slay a dragon, he who could barely wield a sword, but Garren assured him the original Beast was dead and their Master would not provide them with an obstacle they could not overcome. This mollified the King somewhat, but he chivied the Messengers out of the camp and ordered them to hurry in their gossip-gathering, lest he go mad.

  Their first stop was the ruin itself, for Garren thought there little point in listening to rumors of the beast when they could discover what it was for themselves, for it could do no permanent harm to such as they. Their mist-wrought horses showed no fear, though all but the great elfin horse panicked if driven too near the Dragon’s lair. The Elf Knight sat his wondrous horse in his usual spot, his face aflame with pride and disdain for all those about him. His eyebrows rose to see a pair of horsemen approaching at the trot, little caring that their beasts would soon be galloping in the opposite direction, with or without their foolish riders, but the fools did not stop, save to draw rein as the impertinent Knight turned his horse broadside to block their path.

  Garren reined in his horse sharply and asked, “can we be of service, Sir Knight?”

  The elfin warrior sniffed, “I thought I was doing you the service of saving you from the beast, or at least from an embarrassing fall when your horses catch its scent.”

  Garren smiled openly, “nay lord, please move aside for our intent is to pass and with full knowledge of that which lurks ahead. You do us no favors in delaying us, my master has bidden us thence and thence shall we go.”

  The elf scowled, “very well fools, but it is your own blood that will very soon stain the rocks hereabout.”

  Garren nodded his thanks and urged his horse on as the Knight drew aside; Kipril watched with wide eyes to see so legendary a creature, but followed silently after his master, vanishing over the hill and descending into the ruin. They heard the beast long before they saw it, but it knew they had invaded its lair and readied itself, as befitted a proper host, at least of the monstrous sort. The horses clattered to a stop in what had been the courtyard of the castle, but it was so cluttered with fallen stones and rutted from the collapse that there was hardly room for two horsemen abreast anywhere in the once wide-open space. A great silver head loomed out of the mist on a serpentine neck, lustrous blue eyes gleaming in the gloom; the creature raised a membranous crest as it cocked its head and studied the intruders. It actually seemed to smile, then roared, though whether in triumph or fury, none knew, but a wave of blue fire washed over the Messengers, sweeping over them like a river in flood. It smiled again, this time in anticipation, knowing the time had come; roaring in delight, it made ready to face the King.

  Just outside the ruin, several curtains of the luminous blue fog wove itself into the figures of two mounted men. The Messengers exchanged a wondering gaze as they materialized once more in the mortal world. Garren smiled, laughed eagerly, and urged his horse up the bank and back towards the encampment. Kipril wore a befuddled smile, but his heart beat an eager tempo as he spurred after his master. They had scouted out the beast and the ruin, now on to the folk watching and waiting upon fate’s pleasure. They had no difficulty gathering all the information they needed and more, though they camped in the shadow of a dreadful beast, most everyone was rather bored and loved nothing more than to exchange gossip and rumors of what was to come with no little intertwining of their own hoped for exploits in the tale. The King was delighted to have his scouts return unthinkably soon after their departure and hastily withdrew to his tent to hear their news. He had heard the beast’s cacophony and wondered what it meant.

  The King gaped, “the Dragon consumed you utterly with its flames? How can you look so delighted with such news? You perhaps can survive the inferno, but you forget I am a mere man!”

  Garren shook his head, barely restraining a smile that should have split his face in two, said he, “Sire, the flames were purely our Master’s light and power, the same you wield with your own hand. I have a theory, completely unfounded, as to the source of the Dragon, but I little fear for your safety upon confronting the beast. It is a mere formality, not a true threat, more to keep these rebellious lords and knights in line as they awaited your coming, rather than a thing to prove your valor.”

  The King still looked rather nervous but he smiled weakly, “I hardly know how to hold a sword yet without drawing my own blood, it is well then that I shall not have to face this creature in combat.” His hand glowed azure as he studied it thoughtfully, then looking up eagerly, he smiled whole-heartedly, “you are correct my friend, let us confront the Dragon and remove all doubt from the minds of all the realm.” The gathered Messengers offered up a hearty cheer in concurrence and then immediately leapt into action.

  The camp stirred like a disturbed anthill as messengers were sent forth to proclaim the King’s arrival and his intent to deal with the beast immediately while those that remained unpacked banners, livery, and every sort of device and regalia with which to array the King and his company in a manner befitting his Majesty’s status. The elf Knight actually gaped at the news, never having believed the rumors of an imminent King, or if they were true, little thinking the fool claiming the title would actually confront the Dragon. He turned his horse and galloped over to the appropriate party, intent on confronting this so-called King ere the beast made an end of the matter. He gaped anew to see Garren standing alive beside the meager boy that must be their ridiculous King.

  He neither dismounted nor offered any introduction or courtesy of greeting, but rather snarled, “just what do you think you are doing, you foolish mortal?” The King actually grinned but did not deign to answer one so uncouth, especially without introduction or invitation. The Knight snarled silently and then glared at Garren, demanded he, “I saw and heard enough, you should not have survived your foolish investigation. Something is gravely amiss, and in my Lady’s name, I demand you tell me what is going on!”

  Garren shook his head, smiled slightly, and silently followed the King towards their waiting horses, roundly ignoring the rude Knight. He scowled at their backs and spurred his horse back to the ruin, intent on watching the fool destroy himself utterly. The King’s company, now impressively accoutered,
set forth for the ruin, the King at their head, his Messengers immediately behind. As the company passed, the astonished crowd hastened in its wake, both eager for and dreading all that was to come. The King drew rein immediately before the ruin, his mist-wrought horse completely at ease with the situation, with the great throng forming a semi-circle upon the road behind him, a stone’s throw from the ruin. A great head loomed out of the mist and the entire company gave a collective gasp and took a step back, all save the King, who took an eager step forward, his hand raised in azure radiance, bright in the wan afternoon light. The Dragon roared and hissed, making such a ruckus that the terrified audience was forced to cover their ears, but the King pressed on.

  The beast seemed mesmerized by the throbbing luminescence of the King’s hand, its head bobbing in time with the pulsing light, its eyes reflecting the azure glow. It uncurled itself from amidst the wreckage and slithered out into the open, causing another gasp of astonishment from the mystified watchers, but only a knowing smile from the King. He was close enough to plunge a sword into its breast, but he stood there empty handed, save for his upraised, glowing palm. The Dragon allowed his approach and all gasped again when he touched his hand to the creature’s chest. The light spread over the beast and immediately it shrank in upon itself, much as the castle had done in its collapse. When the light dimmed, a mere boy remained, blinking in wonder as the King removed his hand from the lad’s chest. When the perplexing creature went to one knee before the King, the collective gasp was followed by an unearthly silence and then a raucous cheer, and then all were on their knees, save the elfin Knight, who frowned and snarled silently to himself, still aback his magnificent horse.

  As the crowd was gaining its feet, the Knight pushed his way through the mewling mass and demanded of the King, “what is this? What fell witchery or vile trick?” He pierced Bayard with a stare, “I hereby claim this boy or beast or warlock, whatever he be, for my Lady. She will get the truth out of him.”

  Garren asked stonily, “and what interest has your Lady in any of this? Why does she bother with the affairs of mortals? What right has she to the lad?”

  The Knight sneered, “I was sent to slay the beast and claim these lands for her Ladyship. Barring that, I will present the creature to my Mistress and she shall do with it as it pleases her.”

  Garren shook his head gravely, “I challenge your right to take him thus.”

  The Knight mocked, “come then, little fool, if you dare! Plead this creature’s case before my Lady, if you will.” He smiled cruelly, “but know it is death for any of your ilk to enter The Wood.”

  Garren nodded, “I will risk it and accompany the boy.”

  The Knight shrugged, as if to say, ‘suit yourself,’ and then turned his horse back the way he had come, herding the ruefully smiling Bayard forward with the end of his spear. Garren made his farewells to the King and his various apprentices, assuring them that they would not be long alone, took up the reins of a spare horse, and hastened after the elfin horse and his long sundered apprentice. He tossed the reins of the spare beast to Bayard as he galloped past and then stopped to speak quietly with a horseman in a company that had just arrived. Benigan’s eyes were wide but he nodded as Garren galloped off after the retreating elf.

  The Knight neither slowed to allow the Messenger to catch up nor seemed to care that he had. He kept a careful watch upon his captive, wondering how it was such a monster could now be sitting so calmly aback a horse with the beast completely unaware of the true nature of its master. Worse, whatever the transformation, it had been wrought by a mortal man. Whatever a man could do, no doubt the elves could do far better. His eyes danced in anticipation as visions of what his Lady could do with such a beast played before his mind’s eye. His mood quickly soured to see the impertinent stranger riding beside the captive, speaking quietly as if they were old friends. He urged his horse forward and barged suddenly between them, glowering at first one and then the other, settling at last upon the elder, snarled he, “who or what are you? What is your relationship with this creature?”

  Garren shrugged and smiled enigmatically, “you waste your time and that of your Lady. We are neither of us what you assume and of no benefit to you or yours whatsoever. I would advise you to let us return to the King at once.”

  The Elf laughed darkly, “perhaps I shall detain you simply for the sake of delaying your wish. However, I dare not return to my Lady empty handed. This creature will at least bear witness to what has come to pass.” He smiled cruelly, “and perhaps we shall rid the world of your impudent presence in the process.”

  Garren shrugged, as if his life had not just been threatened, and said, “then let us to this Lady of yours, that we may return the sooner.”

  The elf shook his head in befuddlement but urged his horse forward with all haste, surprised that the mist-wrought beasts followed as easily as if they were elf-bred themselves. A grim smile grew on his lips as he remembered what came of mortal men who strayed into the Wood; that annoying stranger was certainly in for a surprise, and soon.

  Garren felt the world and time itself shifting strangely around them, as if the elf rode outside the normal constraints of either and carried them in his wake. Suddenly the Knight drew rein before a path that turned sharply off the main road and dove into the heart of the murky wood that now loomed above them. The Messengers exchanged a grim but eager smile, feeling that something both wonderful and dreadful lay within the confines of this forbidden grove. Said the elf knight in all eagerness, “step into the shadow of the Wood at your own peril, but it is the way we must go. The beast has no say in the matter but you, fool mortal, can yet turn back.”

  Garren gave him a wry grin, dismounted, and stepped among the trees. He felt himself dissolving into mist, at least the physical part of himself, and his horse vanished entirely. He felt the astonished eyes of the elf upon him and smiled bemusedly in answer. Bayard still stood upon the road, holding his horse by the reins and studying his master with some amusement.

  “In with you, beast,” hissed the elf, annoyed that his unwanted companion had not been entirely unmade as he had hoped.

  Bayard ducked under the cover of the moss-draped branches and felt his physical form melting away even as Garren’s had done. He studied himself momentarily, exchanged a vastly amused smile with Garren, and turned his gaze upon the astonished elf, who was grumbling under his breath as he entered the Wood himself, though neither he nor his horse underwent a change of any sort, save perhaps in mood. He scowled darkly at his companions and grated, “what is this? Mortals are unmade if they dare enter this Wood. Something has happened but I cannot say what and worse, you both appear to be wrought of that horrid light wielded by the so-called King.”

  Garren nodded, appearing to be wrought of nothing but azure light, he said, “as I said previously, we are of absolutely no use or interest to your Lady. We are not exactly mortal men any longer thus we cannot be entirely unmade, but rather our Master’s power fills us and His will is our sole desire. It is His power you have witnessed this day, in us and in the King He has appointed.”

  The elf actually gaped, he had seen many strange things in that legendary Wood but nothing to equal this, said he in dismay, “so there is no beast, just a wretched slave in guise like a wyrm? Trickery of the vilest sort, my Lady shall no doubt contest the matter, but I see no reason to trouble her with such insipid phantoms. Be gone, fell ghosts or whatever you be, and desecrate this Wood no longer.”

  The pair exchanged an enigmatic smile, bowed politely to the distraught elf, and withdrew from the Wood, vanishing as they emerged into the twilight, having no physical form to give them substance in the mortal world. The elf knight smiled grimly, remounted his horse, and set off in search of his Lady with his strange tidings.

  It was full dark when a pair of luminescent beings materialized out of the mist enshrouding the ruin wherein the monster had once lurked and soon they to
o were draped in darkness, as befitted mortal men. They hastened back to the King’s encampment, which seemed either to be under attack or in the very throes of merriment; Garren was delighted to find it the latter. Acceptance of the King had been unanimous and joyous from the moment he had vanquished the beast and now every minor lord, rogue knight, and upstart nobleman was doing his best to show their new sovereign that he was as loyal and needful a subject as ever drew breath. His Majesty sat upon his makeshift throne and watched dazedly as company after company approached and offered first their fealty and then some demonstration of skill or a gift in his honor; most of the evening had passed thus and the King was far beyond overwhelmed. At last, Benigan and Tuttle approached the throne, more than a little overawed in the presence of this King whom they had sought over so many leagues and found among so many noble and wealthy personages.

  The King sat up in interest, suddenly intent upon the pair that knelt before him, sensing innately that there was something quite different about them. He bade them stand and they did so immediately. An eager grin appeared on the King’s face as he recognized Benigan; his smile turned to a thoughtful look as he studied Tuttle, said he at last, “you have come as promised. Now what of this storied wealth you bring in your train?”

  Tuttle looked near to bursting as he said, bowing profusely time and again, “yes Majesty, we bring not only a King’s ransom, my late master’s entire fortune, but also his only daughter and heir as a potential bride.”

  Kyan blanched at this, not having anticipated having to choose a Queen so soon, but it was certainly inevitable. The least he could do was meet the girl, for her father was certainly generous in his gifts and the company had journeyed far for this very thing. He sighed but smiled wanly and waxed eloquent in his thanks, much endearing himself to Tuttle while Benigan smiled amusedly at his shoulder. Just then, a murmur of astonishment in the crowd drew everyone’s attention, for something was amiss in the camp. Garren and Bayard emerged as the masses parted like water before them, overawed that they had somehow escaped the elf, most uneasy in the presence of the former ‘dragon.’ The King was on his feet in a moment and rushed to his returning captain, giving the smiling apprentice a joyous grin of his own. Tuttle blinked in astonishment but Benigan grinned in relief, knowing Garren’s instructions would now come to naught. He was not ready to lead this circus and was more than relieved to have the elder Messenger back in charge.

  The other well-wishers and oath-givers were asked to wait while the King attended to some rather pressing business, as he withdrew to his tent to interrogate his captain and acquaint himself better with the entire business. He also had a mad scheme to propose and wanted Garren’s opinion on the feasibility of the operation and the help of his comrades in putting it into effect, if it were deemed possible, for if he were to be King, he certainly needed a place to live and a princess could not be housed in a shepherd’s cot. He might very possibly have a castle by morning. He grinned like a child expecting a gift from his just arrived grandparents and dashed into his tent just as quickly as any eager lad, his various Messengers and servants in close pursuit.