[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LIX

[C. Matthias]

Took a bit longer than I wanted to get the next 
Chapter out, but here it is!  Again thanks to Ryx for penning the first scene

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LIX

To the Mountain

         A short time over tea was not terribly 
short and the clock upon the mantle had tolled 
the hour twice before Murikeer and Kozaithy once 
more abandoned warmth for biting chill.  As they 
stepped out the door, Murikeer assured Kimberly 
that he would return soon with any news he could 
bring the lady rat and that, along with the news 
of their journey, seemed to lighten her 
heart.  She and the opossum bade them good 
night.  The lights inside were out only moments after he closed the door.
         Kozaithy, bundled up once more in the 
faded green cloak and cowl, looked much as she 
did upon their first meeting but for the white 
plume of tail drifting along in train.  She said 
little as they crunched through the fresh fallen 
snow and stillness of the cold early winter air, 
lost in some private contemplation of her own.
         Jurmas, the white-tailed deer morph 
proprietor of the Mountain Hearth Inn, was 
jubilant to have an honoured guest such as the 
effusively praised master mage Murikeer Khunnas 
return to his humble establishment.  Having been 
forewarned of Murikeer’s return by the stable 
master who’d taken in his horse and cart some 
hours earlier Jurmas was ready for their arrival 
to his Inn.  Not knowing the relation the mage 
might have with the heavily cloaked companion 
riding the cart with him the deer had been 
somewhat judicious and set aside two joined rooms 
rather than a single suite.  He also pointed out 
that both of the rooms were among those in which 
new bronze tubs piped into the ready supply of 
hot water from the cistern Murikeer had repaired almost two years prior.
         Begging fatigue from his travels 
Murikeer demurred the offer of someone to prepare 
the baths so he might turn in and get some much 
needed rest.  Kozaithy gave a much bemused 
Murikeer a hug and a peck on his furry cheek before turning in as well.

         Murikeer arose early the next morning 
and, after being told that his female companion 
had not yet emerged from her room, broke his fast 
among the other early risers in the common 
room.  While he ate he contemplated what few things he planned to do that day.
         A visit to his aunt, the tailor Walter 
Levins, and another to speak with the Lord Avery 
to find someplace a bit more permanent than the 
Hearth to take up residence.  He was not sure how 
many dwellings remained unused though after the 
repeated incursions of Nasoj’s forces over the 
last decade, and the Curse, he did not fear he would find nothing.
         Kozaithy had not put in an appearance by 
the time he finished an hour later so he left 
word where he might be found and took his 
leave.  The sun had risen above the eastern peaks 
by that time in a sky clear of all but the 
highest wispy mares’-tails and the temperature 
was slightly warmer but still quite cool.  A 
fresh blanket of snow covered the ground though 
horse-drawn plows were already sweeping the 
commons clear.  For the more thickly furred 
citizens of the Glen it could have been 
considered comfortable while for what few humans 
who made their homes there it was not likely so 
pleasant.  For Murikeer, both furred and wearing 
an amulet to ward against the chillness in the 
air, it was ideal.  He meandered from the Inn and 
made his way idly toward the long building 
nestled between the broad roots of two great 
oarwood trees where his aunts, Walter and Annette, made their home.
         Annette served as something like head 
chef and matron, it seemed, for the entire 
population of the Glen.  The Curse had changed 
her into a spiny hedgehog but had not stolen away 
any of her abundant good cheer.  Her husband, 
Walter Levins, had become a woman and for many 
years had been so embittered by the change that 
she became quite the opposite of her wife; as 
prickly in behavior as her wife had become in 
body.  Some of that had sloughed away the last 
time Murikeer had seen her some months 
before.  After Nasoj’s winter attack some change 
of heart had overcome her surliness and she’d 
adopted three orphans of the attack.
         Murikeer met one of them emerging from 
the main entry when he arrived.  A severe looking 
young woman with a quarterstaff favoured him with 
a level stare when she noticed his presence half 
a dozen paces from the door.  “Yer... you’re 
new.” She commented with a slight pause to 
correct the country drawl with speech likely 
learned under Walter’s harsh tutelage.  The young 
woman, more a girl in truth of perhaps fifteen 
years under the heavy coat and scarf she wore, 
looked him up and down appraisingly.  “Walter’s 
not taking any more orders nor tending to any 
repairs until she completes her wedding consignments.”
         “I had not thought to ask for either 
service miss...” Murikeer assured with as much a 
disarming smile as he could muster.  The young 
woman’s information had been delivered brusquely 
but not belligerently, more out of long suffering and much repetition.
         “Batrim.” She supplied at Murikeer’s 
trailed off query.  “Batrim Marshal-Levins.  And yer... yourself?”
         One of the adoptees, Murikeer realized, 
and old enough to have been touched by the 
Curse.  Apparently that touch had caused a 
gender-switch much as Walter had undergone, for 
Murikeer recalled Batrim having been spoken of as 
male during his earlier visits.  “Murikeer 
Khunnas, son of Justin Windseeker-Levins.” That 
brought a momentary pause of surprise from the brusque young woman.
         “Ah!  Oh, cousin Muri.” She blushed and 
cast her challenging gaze down in 
embarrassment.  “I did not chance to see ye during yer last visit, sir.”
         “Which was altogether too brief, 
Batrim.” Murikeer said reassuringly, “And I am no 
knight nor lord.  Call me Muri.  Has Walter or Annette risen yet?”
         Batrim grunted and favoured him with a 
brief grin.  “If ma Anne were abed at this hour I 
think even the Lord Avery would come 
calling.”  At Murikeer’s chuff of laughter she 
brought her gaze bravely back up.  “Ma Walter is 
in the back, as always, hard at work.  Ma Anne is 
up at Lars’ fattening up the off-duty watch.  My 
sisters are at mistress Devon’s lettering class.”
         “You’re of the watch?  Scouts?”
         “Not as yet.  I’m still in Angus’ 
training and I best be gettin’ there before he 
sees me late.”  With a quick bob of her head she 
trotted down the path with her staff over one 
shoulder.  Murikeer watched her for a moment 
before crossing to the door and entering the 
steamy, warm business of Annette Levin’s 
kitchens.  At that moment the well-tended room 
was empty but held an air of only slightly 
reigned hustle.  Pies, breads, and pastries 
cooled upon numerous racks while the many ovens 
sucked fresh air with low growls to fuel the cook 
fires within.  Dampened cloths covered bowls of 
rising dough and the chamber was permeated with 
the smells of a busy bakery in full motion.
         How the short, stout hedgehog managed so 
much single-handedly Murikeer could not 
fathom.  He made his way through the kitchen 
toward the ornate tapestry that separated the 
cook’s demesne from the tailor’s and ducked past 
it.  The change in environment was stark from 
tidily maintained kitchen to the chaotic gaiety 
of fabrics and bright colors filling the tailor’s 
shop like an overturned caravan wagon.  Wardrobes 
from fancy to frugal filled racks and tables and 
hung from ceiling rafters in riotous abandon.  He 
saw the proprietress in brief glances between 
hanging garments fit for a royal ball sitting at 
the one patch of sunshine from a broad window 
with her head bent over some fine detail work 
Murikeer couldn’t see.  But for a brief cough the shop was silent.
         Pausing behind an intricate gown of 
emerald green Murikeer cleared his throat.  The 
long-suffering sigh that resulted made him 
grin.  “I am busy, who ever you are.” Walter 
growled irritably around the pins in her 
mouth.  “I am not taking on any more 
tailoring!  Mending will have to wait until after the wedding.”
         Murikeer, still hiding behind a screen 
of hanging garments, grunted as if in displeasure 
at the news, “I’ve been abroad for some months, 
madamme, and my raiment has hard suffered the 
travels.” He feigned surlishness with a sigh of his own.
         He could hear Walter’s wordless 
muttering but also something altogether more 
disconcerting; the whispering rasp of steel being 
drawn from leather.  “Well, show yourself then, 
stranger.”  Murikeer stepped around the hanging garments with a smile.
         “Murikeer!” Walter barked in surprise 
while trying to both scowl and smile delightedly 
at the same time.  She slapped the poniard, and 
its garishly decorated belt scabbard, on her 
worktable and lurched to her feet.  “Lad don’t 
give an old harridan such a fright.”  The happy 
smile at his arrival won out over the scowl and 
she beckoned him to come closer.
         Murikeer navigated his way to her and 
shared a strong embrace.  “Harridan, aunt 
Walter?” he laughed warmly and tried not to knock 
any of the numerous works-in-progress off the 
table with his tail.  “More myrmidon, I’d say, 
ready to pin me like an errant seam.”  Walter 
released him to cough behind one hand.
         “Strangers talking from hiding, after 
all the chaos of the last few years, is enough to 
chill the heartiest spine, nephew.” She hastily 
cleared a heap of cloth scraps from a stool and 
bade him to sit.  “After the attack last Yule, 
the fights at the Keep, one of them just this 
past solstice, everyone’s a little on edge.  Then 
comes a flood of refugees from the south, and 
with them news of the tensions, and battles, 
taking place in the south.  I’ve seen refugees 
come before, but never like this.  Things must 
really be bad if they’re willing to flee here to 
escape it.”  She sighed with a shrug and sat back 
down on her own use-worn stool.  “Not even the 
Duke’s wedding is enough to easily lift the 
weight on the hearts of so many.”  Murikeer 
coiled the lush thickness of his tail about his 
feet to keep from littering the close press of 
clothes with errant fur while he tried to absorb 
the rush of news. “You found Justin?”
         Murikeer nodded a little woodenly, “I 
did.  I’ve interred him in the crypt until he can 
be properly placed at my mother’s 
side.”  Murikeer looked at the garment laid out 
over Walter’s workbench, the richly tailored 
collection of expensive fabrics seemed garish 
against the typical clothing of Metamor, even 
that worn by nobles or courtiers.  The sheath she 
had drawn the poniard from was a part of that 
garment.  “What is this wedding of the Duke you 
spoke of, and fight at the Keep in midsummer?”
         Walter leaned forward slightly on her 
stool and leaned her elbows upon her knees to 
work the fatigue out of her hands.  She pondered 
a few moments and, after coughing once more 
behind a hand, spoke.  “Fights, plural, actually 
the details of which I know little 
of.  Apparently one of master Matthias’ old 
companions, the one who aided the Glen during 
last winter’s attack, turned out to have evil 
intentions.  His machinations brought some manner 
of ill upon Duke Thomas.  This all came to a head 
late in the spring, some time after you left, 
when they tried to break the spell that Thomas 
was under.  This man appeared and there was a 
battle, but he escaped and the spell was broken.
         “He returned this past solstice, with 
allies, during the midsummer festival and another 
fight was joined in the Keep bell tower.  The man 
and his evil companions again escaped but I do 
not believe without some harm to both sides.  The 
ambassador who came last year was slain, master 
Matthias was turned to stone, and another... 
well, I don’t think anyone knows what happened to 
him.  He was struck down but still lives in some sort of coma.”
         “You don’t know his name?”  Murikeer was 
stunned.  Charles turned to stone?  He was not 
surprised that the ambassador perished, 
considering he was purportedly representing 
Marzac.  But what side was he fighting on, Murikeer wondered.
         “Charles was one of them,” Interrupted a 
new voice bringing Murikeer’s head around in 
surprise.  Annette stood in a narrow isle between 
overburdened racks with a tray in her hands.  The 
hedgehog smiled brightly upon spying her nephew 
returned from his travels.  “His wife was your 
pupil, Muri.  Welcome back.”  Murikeer rose 
hastily to help her with the laden tray and 
Walter, looking abashed, coughed behind one 
hand.  “Such unpleasant news should not be what 
you first hear upon returning home.”  She rubbed 
her paws upon the front of her apron while 
Murikeer and Walter cleared enough space on the 
worktable to set the tray down.  That done, 
Murikeer gave his other aunt a robust, if 
careful, embrace.  She flattened down the dense 
forest of gray spines as best she was able under 
her blouse and kirtle and returned his hug.
         “How did Charles get turned to 
stone?  Who was left in a coma?” He asked of 
Walter and Annette.  “Forewarned is forearmed, 
auntie, and if there is still danger I would want to be prepared.”
         Annette tapped him lightly upon the nose 
with a fingertip.  “Now don’t you be yelling this 
about, even we’re not supposed to know.  Charles 
was bespelled to stone during that last battle in 
the belfry and not even his wife knows so don’t 
be worrying her more by that news.  A warrior 
named Rickkter was left in a lasting coma while 
the Ambassador Yonson and some of his personal 
guards perished in the fighting.”
         Murikeer chuffed out a stunned breath 
and sat down heavily.  Rickkter in a coma?  For 
months?  Now his prospective wife journeyed into 
the heart of evil in his stead while the husband 
of a close friend, his own erstwhile pupil, was 
left a statue and his wife lied to about his 
fate?  That was only three of the very few he had 
come to know in the short time he had spent at 
Metamor, but it felt like someone had decimated 
his own family.  “How, then, do you know these things?”
         The hedgehog baker’s narrow muzzle 
pulled into a reasonable facsimile of a smile, 
“No one pays heed to the help, dearie, even one 
so prickly as I.”   Annette settled her nimble 
hand-paws upon the front of her hopelessly 
work-stained apron and giggled a soft, 
conspiratorial laugh while she nodded her head 
toward the tray.  “Drink up, you two, before the 
wine cools.”  She fetched a mug and pastry for 
herself and settled her broad, bristled posterior 
on a heap of fabric discards.  “It’ll loosen your 
cough, too, Walter.”  Murikeer did as he was bade 
and secured a meat-roll for himself.  Walter 
stifled a cough behind her hand and made a face 
with a roll of her eyes before taking the 
remaining mug and another pastry.  “I overheard 
the scout master Misha talking to Lord Avery 
about the events after bringing news about Master Matthias to his wife.”
         “Events?” Murikeer asked around a bite of succulent meat-roll.
         “The day of the joust, Muri, not long 
after the elk Knight Egland was vanquished by the 
rat Knight Saulius, there came a terribly swift 
wind and thick clouds through the valley on what 
was otherwise a fine, clear summer day.” Walter 
added.  “I had a stall not far from the lists and 
saw the belfry tower clearly.  After the clouds 
rolled in a great huge white beast, looking like 
those Gryffons we see winging about now and then 
but much larger, and a dragon began circling the 
tower which was flashing and thundering like a 
god’s forge.”  Walter took a sip of her mulled 
wine while she retold her experience and nibbled 
her pastry.  “The bells began a’ ringing with 
very odd noises, muffled and distorted, and I saw 
others climbing up the outside of the tower from 
a casement below.  From where I was I could not 
see who was fighting in the tower or why, but I saw some fall from within.”
         Walter shrugged her shoulders slowly, 
“The Duke let slip that assassins had taken 
refuge in the tower with the intent to strike him 
down with archers and some mages.”  She made a 
derisive snort, which led to another cough, and 
took a hasty swallow of mulled wine.  “But I 
hardly understand why a dragon would be called on 
to attack from without, or the purpose of the other flying beast.”
         “Probably to keep whatever mages from 
getting a good look in the Duke’s direction, lest 
they be chewed or flamed by the dragon and its 
ally, if the other beast was not fighting the 
dragon?  If what you say is true news about 
Charles and Rickkter, then there were certainly 
some rather potent mages involved.  Rickkter is 
equal parts sorcerer and warrior, I could hardly 
imagine anyone who could easily best him in 
combat using either, and what little I know of 
Charles leaves me to imagine he was quite a 
fighter as well.”  Murikeer observed quietly 
while he finished his wine.  “I will check in on 
them when I am done here and return to the Keep.”
         “Done here doing what, Muri?” Annette asked.
         “Other than having my loving aunt 
threaten to pin me with an oversized needle and 
flatly refuse to mend my travel worn clothing?” 
Murikeer smiled warmly to Walter who grunted and 
rolled her eyes but smiled at his humor 
nonetheless, “I was going to speak with Lord 
Avery about finding a more permanent home.”
         Walter finished her own wine and set the 
mug back upon the tray with a muted 
click.  “Delightful, he and the Lady Avery are 
due here some time this morn for a fitting.  They 
will be attending the Duke’s wedding.”
         “Ah, yes, do tell me about that?”
         Annette bobbed her head, “Oh, we shall, 
if you’ll tell us of this lady friend of yours.”
         Walter raised an eyebrow in surprise and 
Murikeer blinked, “Lady friend?”
         “Jurmas said you arrived last eve with a 
snow-white skunk with green eyes in tow, but took separate rooms.”
         “Oh.  Yes, well...”

----------

         The first thing they heard as Verdane’s 
army crushed the road towards Masyor was the snap 
of trebuchets.  Like distant thunderclaps they 
rolled over the hills and forests that surrounded 
the city on the seashore.  The castle walls of 
Masyor rocked under the assault, but they would hold for many days yet.
         Verdane sat in his saddle as their army 
moved beyond the line of trees and out into the 
fields surrounding the city.  Where once fields 
had lain fallow for the winter, Lord Dupré’s 
forces had ravaged into muddy froth that grasped 
at wagon wheels and slowed their 
advance.  Besides him rode his daughter, 
imperious in her gaze, with her fiery red hair 
bound tightly with cords to keep the wind from 
upsetting it.  She gazed at her father from time 
to time, eyes hot with anger, an anger held in check like a true Verdane.
         Captain Nikolai of the Wolf’s Claw had 
rejoined Verdane’s army yesterday with Anya in 
tow.  With most of William Dupré’s soldiers 
laying siege to Masyor, it had been easy for his 
elite troops to infiltrate Mallow Horn’s defences 
and snatch William’s wife and Verdane’s daughter 
without bloodshed.  He’d even been kind enough to 
bring along several changes of clothes for her so 
she wouldn’t have to travel in 
discomfort.  Titian Verdane still had to endure 
several hours of listening to his daughter 
describe her displeasure in exquisite detail.
         But now, after the months of organizing 
his troops and cajoling what few of his vassals 
into obedience that he could, it was time to put 
an end to the feud between the house Dupré and house Guilford.
         Nikolai rode from the front ranks to 
Verdane.  At Verdane’s left rode Lord Rukas 
Stoffels.  If any of his vassals were likely to 
betray him, it was Stoffels.  Grenholt and Thrane 
each led a wing to outflank Dupré’s 
troops.  Grenholt he trusted because the Lord of 
Mitok needed Verdane strong to defend his 
lands.  Thrane was less certain, but craven 
enough that Verdane felt he would remain loyal so 
long as Verdane had the largest army.
         But Stoffles was crafty and had been 
marching his troops to come to Dupré’s aid.  The 
safest place for him was at Verdane’s side where he could do nothing but obey.
         “Captain!” Verdane called as the leader 
of the Wolf’s Claw approached. “What news do you bring?”
         “Lord Thrane and Lord Grenholt are in 
position.  Lord Dupré’s forces are weak in the 
rear and sides.  Lord Guilford is keeping his 
troops behind his walls.  We couldn’t get around 
far enough to see what they do on the lake, but we saw no ships.”
         Verdane nodded. “Good.  It’s as we’d 
hoped.  Give the order to Lord Thrane and Lord 
Guilford to move in.  Lord Dupré will be forced to parlay.”
         “As will Lord Guilford,” Stoffels added 
in a whisper still audible over the racket of the 
trebuchets and the stomping of thousands of boots and hooves.
         Nikolai nodded and rode back through the 
ranks to send the messengers.  Verdane watched 
him go and then set his sights on the castle.  It 
rose above the hills like a squat toad protecting 
its log, hoary eyes scowling at all that lay 
before it.  Catapults launched stones and boiling 
pitch from its towers into Dupré’s forces hidden behind the hill’s crest.
         “And just what will you do with William?” Anya asked.
         “Force him to surrender,” Verdane 
replied. “You know this war is foolish, and it 
has already cost me more than I can afford.”
         Anya pursed her lips, the scowl in her 
eyes fading momentarily.  Her tirade of the night 
before had ended when her father informed her 
that her elder brother Jaime was now a prisoner 
in Salinon because of her husband’s disastrous 
war.  Though she had taken her husband’s name, 
her loyalty would always be to her family.  And 
for that reason, she rode without objection 
beside her father into battle against her husband.
         “There they are,” Stoffels said as they 
crested the ridge.  Before them in the plain were 
several thousand soldiers.  Pikemen and swordsmen 
in the first rank attempting to scale the castle 
walls, archer sin the second to give them cover, 
while behind them the engineers used their 
trebuchets to deadly purpose.  Along the walls of 
Masyor archers kept the attackers at bay.  Every 
time the soldiers of Mallow Horn raised a ladder, 
the defenders would drop pitch down its length 
and light them aflame.  The screams of the 
soldiers burning to death didn’t carry across the 
field, but Verdane had seen enough battles to know what they sounded like.
         Before the banner of the ram thronged at 
the walls, while above the banner of blue osprey held firm in its watery perch.
         “Forward march!” Verdane shouted.  His 
pikemen kept up the advance and his archers 
moving into position. “And fire!” A volley of 
arrows streaked into the sky only to fall short 
of Dupré’s position.  It didn’t kill anyone, but 
it certainly got their attention.
         Trumpets blew, and the attackers rushed 
back, the soldiers having fallen into 
chaos.  Grenholt and Thrane moved their troops 
along either flank, cutting off their 
retreat.  One of the horsemen on the field 
shouted orders back and forth, sword raised in 
the air.  William Dupré.  The trebuchets kept 
firing, while from the tower walls the soldiers cheered in defiance.
         After his troops had come halfway down 
the hillside, Duke Verdane gave the order to 
stop.  The pikemen lowered their weapons in case 
of attack, while the archers kept their fingers 
upon their bowstrings.  One by one, the 
trebuchets ceased.  And soon after the Masyor 
catapults fell silent.  All the field of battle, 
a moment ago filled with blood and death, now 
waited for the new army to declare its intentions.
         As if knowing Verdane’s will, Captain 
Nikolai rode up to meet him.  The man had wicked 
grin on his scarred face. “What are your orders, your grace?”
         “Send messengers to Lord Dupré and Lord 
Guilford.  There is to be a truce while we parlay 
in a neutral tent.  This tent will be between the 
walls of Masyor and the troops of Mallow 
Horn.  My soldiers will build it.  The 
consequences for not showing will be death.  I am 
not in the mood for charity today.”
         Nikolai grinned all the wider and bowed 
in his saddle. “Then none will be offered, your grace.”
         “You would kill your son by marriage?” 
Stoffels asked in a quiet voice.
         “He has an heir.” Verdane replied.  What 
he didn’t say was that William’s heir was his 
ward and safely tucked away in Kelewair. “Anyone 
who would upset the peace in my land should fear the loss of their head.”
         Beside him, Anya fumed in silence.
         Before him, Verdane watched as Dupré’s 
soldiers stood staring like dogs kicked by their 
master.  Atop the walls of Masyor the men seemed 
happier, but also subdued.  Banners hung limply 
from their poles as the wind died down.  Verdane 
did not smile. “The Verdane’s are wolves, Rukas.  We will not suffer discord.”
         “Aye, your grace,” Stoffels replied, a 
faint veneer of disgust covering his words. “Aye.”

----------

         “Cas, Dumas, Lis.” Grastalko pointed at 
each of the Assingh as he named them one by 
one.  The animals flicked their ears as they 
grazed on the patches of grass growing between 
the ash and poplars that dominated the southern 
extremes of the Åelfwood. “Emen, Pilar, Veji.”
         Kisaiya smiled as she ran her hands 
along the Veji’s neck.  The Assingh brushed her 
snout across the Magyar’s middle, searching for 
the treat she knew was hidden in the folds of 
Kisaiya’s smock.  With gentle hands, she guided 
the Assingh away and rubbed her snout. “Very 
good, Grastalko.  Thou hast named them properly.”
         The boy patted Dumas on the shoulder, 
and ran his fingers through the wiry, grey hide. 
“‘Twill be another year ere I know them all.”
         She laughed, a soft thing full of warmth 
and affection.  Grastalko had heard it said from 
his friends that Kisaiya had once been withdrawn 
and that she wouldn’t talk to anyone.  But after 
Nemgas had sought her out and won her heart, she 
had become a new person.  Now many of the young 
men eyed her and cursed themselves for fools for 
having never seen her before.  She belonged to 
Nemgas, and would be his again when he returned.
         “Thou shalt learn them as I did.  With 
love.” Kisaiya moved between them and stroked the 
head of another Assingh whose name Grastalko 
didn’t know. “Thou hast practised for but two 
weeks and already thou dost know twenty names.”
         Dumas pushed his snout into Grastalko’s 
chest knocking the boy backwards.  He stumbled 
into one of the trees, and grabbed the branches 
to steady himself.  Oddly, he felt like the 
branches pushed back to right him.  To think that 
so short a time ago he’d wanted to risk becoming 
one of them in this enchanted wood!  Even if 
tending the over-large donkeys was not the most 
glorious of tasks, the animals were friendly and they demanded only his love.
         It wasn’t much purpose, but it was 
purpose.  And it was something he could do with 
only one good hand.  For now it would do.
         “Aye,” he said as he righted himself. “I 
shalt learn the rest as thou dost say.”
         Kisaiya nodded and moved through the 
herd to make sure none of the others wandered 
off.  The Magyars had stopped in a small dell 
with scattered patches of grass between the 
trees.  A river came out of the hills and made a 
small pond before flowing southwest along the dry 
track the wagons followed.  Lily pads and ivy 
littered the far shore of the pond, and even so 
late in the year, they could still hear the song 
of frogs and toads as the day wore on to evening.
         Grastalko still felt disoriented by the 
odd northern weather in Galendor.  He knew it 
must only be a few weeks until the Feast of 
Yahshua’s Birth.  In Stuthgansk the changing of 
the year was marked by sweltering 
heat.  According to the Magyars, they should have 
already seen snow by now.  But ever since they’d 
entered the magical forest, they had seen no hint 
of snow or rain.  When they could peer through 
the canopy of trees to see the sky, they saw a 
deep blue marred by the occasional wisp of 
cloud.  It was as if they’d stepped out of the world completely.
         And judging by the silent yet jittery 
way the Magyars travelled through the forest, 
Grastalko knew it was true.  He hadn’t spoken of 
the way the woods had moved around him that night 
two weeks past.  He wished to ask Dazheen of it, 
but he couldn’t bring himself to face Bryone 
again.  Just the thought of the seer’s young 
apprentice made his stomach tighten in a 
knot.  He kicked a loose stone and then swore as he stubbed his toe on a root.
         First the forest helps him, then it 
hurts him.  Like his fellow Magyars, he’d be very 
happy to be out of this place!
         One thing that did seem to stay true to 
the season was the sun.  Though Grastalko was 
used to the long days of December they now 
started late and ended early.  And each day was 
shorter than the last.  Already the bright blue 
sky had darkened and what few shadows there were 
had disappeared into a uniform gray gloom.
         Grastalko patted the large donkeys on 
their backs and felt the brush of their whip-like 
tails in his face and shoulders as he watched the 
other Magyars serve the last of the food they 
dare eat raw.  Not a one of them wanted to light 
a fire in the enchanted wood.  Hanaman had 
already ordered a forced fast leaving half the 
Magyars to go without dinner every night.  It was 
Grastalko’s night to feel the hunger, but it 
didn’t bother him anymore.  It was better to 
think of the emptiness of his stomach than the emptiness of his heart.
         An emptiness that Hanaman sought to fill 
in his own way.  The leader of the Magyars had 
kept his word and twice now made Grastalko take 
his meal with him.  They hadn’t talked much 
either time, but there was little Grastalko 
wanted to say, and Hanaman seemed to be waiting 
for him.  After that first night, he’d tried to 
remind himself of Hanaman’s words; his wounds 
would heal in time and that another was meant for 
him.  Then why did he still think of Bryone every time he thought of love?
         Lis nudged him from behind and Grastalko 
laughed.  He turned and hugged the Assingh around 
his neck while the beast brayed 
pointedly.  Brooding wasn’t going to 
help.  Besides, he had to make his rounds 
checking over the Assingh, just as Kisaiya had taught him.
         One by one he inspected the 
Assingh.  This involved checking their hooves for 
cracks, their hides for burrs, and their legs for 
scratches from the many brambles that they’d had 
to forge through.  After being a squire of the 
Driheli, the tasks were second nature to him, and 
after the first day, Kisaiya trusted him to let him handle it on his own.
         So he didn’t notice the commotion by the 
wagons until Kisaiya brushed his back with one 
hand. “Grastalko.  There be something amiss.”
         He stood and patted the jennet on the 
flank and stared at the Magyars.  Covered by the 
trees, they were limned only by lantern-light, 
but they whispered frightfully, the news 
travelling through them faster than a juggling 
ball.  One face that was painfully familiar 
turned to see them standing out with the herd and 
then ran toward them, hands hiking up her skirt.
         Grastalko scowled and lowered behind the 
Assingh, resting his head against her leg and 
holding tight.  He felt the tail swat the back of 
his head.  Kisaiya nudged him with her foot, but 
he stayed firmly rooted to the ground.
         “Kisaiya!” a voice that stabbed his 
heart cried. “Grastalko!” He closed his eyes as 
he heard her come around the jennet. “‘Tis Dazheen!  Thou must hear!”
         Grastalko blinked his eyes open in 
surprise and stared at Bryone’s 
feet.  Dazheen?  What could be wrong with the 
seer?  Kisaiya asked the question for him. “What ails her, Bryone?”
         “A vision!  She hast a vision!” 
Grastalko lifted his eyes and saw Bryone staring 
directly at him.  Her eyes were full of pain but 
he knew as soon as he saw her soft brown eyes 
that they were for the seer, not for 
him.  Although he thought there must be some there too.
         “What didst she see?” Grastalko asked, his words so soft.
         “The Mountain!  The Ash Mountain!”
         “Nae!” Kisaiya gasped.
         “Aye.  Dazheen hast told Hanaman that we 
must journey to the Ash Mountain!  Cenziga.”
         Grastalko heard the fear in their 
voices.  But all he knew was the flame in his 
hand that erupted at the mention of the 
mountain’s name.  Buckling over, he cried in 
agony as it burned bright.  Both of them reached 
down to aid him, but the pain had already silenced every thought in his mind.

----------

         The Bishops either named directly or 
implied in the copious letters of the now dead 
Bishop Jothay of Eavey were brought one by one to 
the Questioner Temple to face three priests 
chosen from that order to determine the extent of 
their involvement in the conspiracy against 
Patriarch Akabaieth.  Further, their goal was to 
discern who had cooperated with Jothay in 
furthering tensions throughout Pyralis and in the many kingdoms of Galendor.
         Never before in the history of the 
Ecclesia had any Patriarch allowed so wide 
ranging an investigation, but never before had 
the powers of evil corrupted so many including 
the Patriarch.  To make sure that the proceedings 
did not devolve into hearsay, Kashin, the very 
man who’d broken the corruption on Patriarch 
Geshter, sat in attendance with the golden sword in his lap.
         He regarded the three black-cowled 
Questioners without much joy.  Apart from those 
few Bishops like Rott of Marilyth and Temasah of 
Abaef about which there was direct evidence 
linking them to the schemes to murder the 
Patriarch, the Questioners seemed 
complacent.  Kashin stewed at the thought that so 
many who’d turned a blind eye to the murder of 
Patriarch Akabaieth would continue in their priestly office.
         The lead Questioner, a priest in his 
forties named Vikedah, was sympathetic to 
Kashin’s concerns, the other two were 
not.  Vikedah routinely sought to question them 
about the correspondence between them and Bishop 
Jothay.  But he lacked the incisive mind of 
Father Kehthaek in ferreting out gaps in memory.
         “So tell me, your grace, why is it that 
you conferred with Bishop Jothay about matters of 
precedence in the Council of Bishops?” Vikedah 
asked after exhausting the Bishop’s recollection 
of Patriarch Akabaieth’s public plans for his 
journey to Metamor.  Bishop Selius of Cainos 
remained calm through the questioning, his dark 
skin and wide features placid and 
unconcerned.  As he should be, Kashin reflected, 
given that he’d been to Yesulam for all of four 
months in the last five years.  If not for 
several letters between him and the dead Bishop 
of Eavey, there would have been little reason to question him.
         In his think Southlander accent, Selius 
replied with equal grace and magnanimity, as if 
he were doing the Questioners a favour. “It is 
well know that Bishop Jothay was one of those 
whom his holiness Patriarch Akabaieth 
trusted.  Only Vinsah was more highly esteemed by 
his holiness.  I am of Sonngefilde, as was 
Jothay.  Thus, it is through Jothay I went to 
learn the disposition of the Bishops for the 
Council.  Circumstances favoured my personal 
participation, so I was eager to learn how I could be of help.”
         Vikedah removed the letter from his 
sleeve and asked in more pointed tones, “None of 
these things are present in this letter which you 
have dated January of this year.  How is it that 
you learned of the death of Patriarch Akabaieth 
only one month after Yesulam did?  Is it not a 
four month journey from Yesulam to Cainos?”
         Kashin lifted his head.  Though he had 
helped Kehthaek, Akaleth, and Felsah go over the 
letters, he hadn’t known that particular 
detail.  How much was being discovered now that 
Jothay’s correspondence was being read by dozens 
of Questioners?  His fingers curled around the 
jewelled sword’s hilt.  Yet it lay there 
unresponsive.  They’d yet to find a single other 
Bishop tainted by Marzac, a fact that both 
relieved and unnerved the former Yeshuel.  Could 
it really have only been Jothay and Geshter?  And 
could so many have followed those dark paths 
without being corrupted by that evil?
         Selius nodded without showing any signs 
of distress. “I was on my way to Cainos when news 
reached my ears.  I had been in Stuthgansk at the 
time conducting a mission for the churches 
there.  Bishop Jothay wrote letters to all the 
churches of Sonngefilde, and Bishop Maksymiuk 
informed me when he received his letter.  I 
immediately sought clarification on how things 
stood in the Council as events forced me to 
return to Cainos immediately.  You will note that 
I was not present at the Conclave that elected Geshter Patriarch.”
         Kashin sighed and leaned back in his 
seat.  The Questioners seemed to grow bored too 
and before long Bishop Selius was dismissed, his 
name cleared of all wrongdoing.  The dark-skinned 
Bishop nodded to him as he left the stone room in 
the Questioner temple.  The three Questioners sat 
quietly as if they were conferring without speaking.
         “Is that it then?” Kashin asked once 
they were alone. “There were many things you could have asked him.”
         “There was no need,” Videkah replied 
with weary resignation in his voice. “There was 
little evidence to suggest Selius was complicit 
in any of Jothay’s machinations.  Further, Selius 
was one of the few who spoke in Vinsah’s 
behaviour prior to his excommunication.  All of 
those who’ve been implicated spoke against him.”
         “And yet no one seems interested in 
undoing his excommunication.  Where is the justice in that?”
         Videkah sighed. “You know that is a 
matter beyond my control.  If you wish to pursue that, speak to His Holiness.”
         “I have!” Kashin snapped.  He sheathed 
the jewelled blade and rose. “I am sick of this 
place.  Send for me when you are ready to begin Questioning the next Bishop.”
         He stormed out of the room and into the 
temple courtyard.  He disturbed one black-robed 
priest’s meditation as he stomped past but he 
didn’t care.  He stood at the courtyard walls 
overlooking the parched western lands and stared 
into the afternoon sky.  Couldn’t they see what 
they were doing?  He was beginning to understand 
the frustration the Sondeckis felt.  No matter 
how much they sacrificed justice would never be 
achieved in full.  So it seemed to be with the 
Ecclesia.  Were they not Eli’s Holy 
Ecclesia?  Then why did so many cling to darkness within her walls?
         “You appear troubled,” a familiar voice said from behind him.
         Kashin turned and saw Father Akaleth 
standing there with his cowl around his 
shoulders.  He had a scroll in one hand while the 
other rubbed the drawstring between his fingers. 
“I assume you know what is being done with all 
the Bishop’s Jothay has mentioned in his letters.”
         Akaleth smiled faintly, set the scroll 
down on the stonework and then joined him at the 
wall.  His eyes stared past the crags and 
pastures as if searching for something that he’d 
never find beyond the horizon. “I have heard that 
Bishop Rott will be spending his last years as a 
penitent in a monastery on the shores of 
Manzona.  And Bishop Temasah has been sent as a 
missionary to Rukilia.  They won’t kill him 
there, but it will teach him whether he likes it or not how to love others.”
         “That’s an odd thing to hear coming from 
a Questioner.  Especially one as cold as you.”
         Akaleth pursed his lips but didn’t reply 
immediately.  He rubbed his thumbs together and 
then tapped them to his lips for several minutes 
as he pondered the words.  Kashin stared at the 
western landscape, his heart slowing as he 
allowed his mind to drift into the attentive 
sleepiness of a guard riding across leagues of open land.
         “I’m not the same man I once was,” Akaleth said. “Nor are you.”
         “I never knew any Questioner before this.”
         “Nor I a Yeshuel.”
         “I’m not a Yeshuel.”
         Akaleth turned and looked him up and 
down.  Kashin was dressed in the black, with his 
left sleeve rolled up to meet the stump of his 
arm.  The jewelled blade hung from his left hip 
and was the only thing in his attire that wasn’t 
black.  The tunic and breeches had little tears 
in them that he’d repaired himself with whatever 
thread he had on hand.  “You may not wear the 
green, but you defend a man long after he is 
dead.  Everything you do is because of Patriarch 
Akabaieth.  And you restrain yourself because of 
Patriarch Geshter, despite his possession by an 
evil that nearly killed us all.  How much more a 
Yeshuel do you need to be before you will admit it to yourself?”
         Kashin tightened his fingers on the 
crenellation’s edge. “And you?  I remember what 
was done to you.  You have more scars than I’ve 
seen on battle-hardened warriors.  Was that 
penance for having your gift with light?”
         “Perhaps for even more.” Akaleth 
gestured to the sun.  It passed beyond a small 
set of clouds rolling in from the sea. “I learned 
much about being a man from your Magyar friends 
even if their sense of morals was astonishingly 
lacking.  And one thing I know is this.  Do not 
fear for the Ecclesia, she will survive.  No 
matter what this world does to her, no matter 
what evils claim her leaders, she is safeguarded 
by Yahshua.  And he knew how to come back from the dead.”
         Akaleth smiled a laughing sort of smile, 
picked up his scroll, and then walked back to the 
temple.  Kashin stayed where he was, trying to 
discern whether or not he should be afraid or 
laugh too.  Finally, he sighed and 
smiled.  Akaleth was right.  “Trust it is then.” 
He made the sign of the yew on his chest and left 
to see who Father Videkah wished to summon next.

----------

         It took four days for Kaspel to succumb.
         After thrusting the jewelled blade in 
his chest, the thing that resembled Berkon fled 
into the night.  While the others saw to Kaspel’s 
wound, Nemgas tried to follow its trail but there 
was no trail to follow.  Berkon bent no blades of 
grass nor did he turn any rocks in his 
flight.  It was as if he’d vanished back into the 
earth from which he’d crawled.
         That Kaspel even lived after driving a 
sword through his chest was miracle 
enough.  Amile sobbed while Gamran and Pelgan 
bore Kaspel back to the wagon, neither daring to 
move the sword.  But when Nemgas returned and 
examined the wound, they all marvelled at the 
black blood that welled up through his skin and 
then turned a bright red as it touched the 
sword.  They waited several hours until the black 
blood no longer came before slowly drawing the 
sword out.  Chamag took hot irons and pressed 
them into Kaspel’s flesh to seal the wound.
         For hours Kaspel didn’t breathe and his 
heart beat sparingly, but he stayed with them 
half in and half our of consciousness as they 
continued northwards across the Steppe.  He 
couldn’t speak of what Berkon had done to him nor 
could he say aught of why he’d stabbed himself 
with the sword.  But he did tell them that he’d 
chosen them and begged them to keep him from becoming like Berkon.
         His last words were to Gamran.  The 
little thief was telling him stories of old when 
they’d been on thievings together.  Kaspel smiled 
as he listened while the sword lay on his 
chest.  It was the only thing that kept his pain 
at bay.  As Gamran delighted in the intricacies 
of escaping a particularly bellicose burgomaster, 
Kaspel reached out a hand and clutched Gamran’s arm.
         “He doth suffer worse.  Save him.”
         “Who dost?” Gamran asked, shocked out of 
his forced joviality. “Kaspel?”  But the Magyar’s 
eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped on the bed. “Nemgas!  Amile!”
         They tended him as best they could, 
covering him in ever more blankets to help keep 
him warm.  But Kaspel never woke from that 
sleep.  The next morning his body was cold and 
stiff.  All of them remembered what they’d seen 
of Berkon returned from the grave, and so, 
solemnly, they burned Kaspel’s body until there 
was nothing left but ash and bone.  And then 
Nemgas shattered the bone with the jewelled blade until even that was dust.
         Little was said by any of them for days 
after.  Nemgas took responsibility for the night 
watches from then on.  He counted it his fault 
that both Berkon and Kaspel had died, since it 
had been Berkon’s arrow that saved his life in 
Yesulam.  That same arrow had cost Berkon his 
life when the Blood Bound had bit into his flesh and poisoned his blood.
         But, even after a week since Kaspel’s 
death, Berkon hadn’t returned.  The days grew 
cold, and the nights bitter.  Frost greeted them 
on mornings, and already a soft blanket of snow 
fell to lace the ground.  They had little wood 
for the fires to begin with, and now the grasses were too wet to burn.
         “We must learn if he doth still follow 
us,” Chamag insisted as he shovelled the paltry 
stew into his maw. “With so few of us, we dare 
not hunt for food or waste time cutting 
wood.  Unless we be certain that Berkon no longer follows us.”
         “Aye,” Pelgan said.  He stirred his stew 
around with a wooden spoon but didn’t eat. “We 
hath enough wood for only a few days more.”
         “And food for only a day more than that,” Amile added.
         “I hath not seen him since that night,” 
Nemgas replied. “What else dost thee need?  He 
didst tempt Kaspel, and he didst tempt 
Pelgan.  He dost not tempt me.  Now that we know 
of him, he hast left us for easier prey.”
         “‘Tis but one possibility,” Chamag 
said.  He finished the last of his stew and set 
the bowl aside. “Thou didst see the way thy blade 
changed Kaspel’s blood.  And what wast Kaspel 
doing with the blade the night we saw him?”
         “Stealing it,” Gelel said.  All eyes 
fell on the youth, and he nearly shrank from 
their gaze. “Kaspel wast stealing it and taking it to Berkon.”
         “Aye!” Chamag made a chopping motion 
with his hands. “Thou dost carry that blade with 
thee, Nemgas.  It fears that blade.”
         “Perhaps,” Nemgas admitted.  He tipped 
his stew bowl up and drank the broth.  With only 
one arm, it was too much trouble to bother with a 
spoon. “Perhaps thou dost speak true.  Perhaps it 
hast not appeared because of the blade.  Then I 
wilt leave it with thee this night and watch unarmed.”
         Chamag shook his head. “‘Twill still see 
thee.  ‘Twill see thee and stay away.  It must be another.”
         “Who?” Amile asked in a quiet voice.
         “I shan’t,” Pelgan said.  He shivered 
and shook his head. “I hath been tempted by 
Berkon once.  I wilt ne’er do it again.”
         “I couldst do it,” Gamran said in a little voice.
         “Nae!” Chamag snapped. “Thou art lithe 
and quick.  Thou couldst climb down the wagon and 
we’d ne’er know better.  If Berkon comes, Nemgas 
must be ready to chase him down and slay 
him.  There be only one here who wouldst make 
noise climbing down.  ‘Twould be I.”
         “I do not think this a good idea,” 
Nemgas said, brows drawing together.  They’d 
defeated the Driheli knights and the evil master 
that had sent them to kill him.  Through that 
he’d been resolute and certain.  Now that one of 
their own stalked them he felt diffident and morose.
         “Nae, I dost not like it either,” Chamag 
admitted. “But I hath great height and girth.  If 
Berkon shouldst come and seek to draw me away, 
thou wilt hear it and canst come to my aid.”
         “Chamag, please care for thyself!” Amile 
said, putting one hand on his burly shoulder.
         But the axeman kept his eyes on Nemgas. “Thou knowest I speak true.”
         Nemgas took a long breath then nodded. 
“Aye.  I wilt wait in the wagon with the blade in 
hand.  When I hear thee move I shalt come to thy 
aid.  But if thou dost not see anything, then we 
wilt know Berkon hast not followed us.  We must 
hunt for food and wood ere we starve and freeze.”
         Chamag frowned, but his eyes were set. “Agreed.”

         With their wood running low, the paltry 
fire they’d made died shortly after Chamag took 
his place atop the carriage.  The wood creaked 
when he walked across the top, but after settling 
down in the middle it quieted.  The horses 
snorted and settled in for yet another cold night 
on the Steppe.  Chamag wrapped a second cloak 
over his shoulders and huddled down to keep 
warm.  His broad axe lay across his lap.
         A couple hours after the fire died 
clouds rolled in and blotted out the stars and 
waxing half-moon.  Snow began to fall soon after, 
and Chamag watched as the distant plains 
disappeared completely.  Without the stars he 
could see nothing at all so he lit the lantern at 
his side to provide some light.  He kept the 
lantern just out of sight so as not to ruin his 
eyes, but at least he could watch was the gentle 
layers of white flakes descended and coated the 
grasses and low hills.  Before long his once 
colourful cloak became a blanket of white.
         Chamag wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to 
see that night.  He did hope that Berkon was gone 
to trouble them no more, but at the same time, 
after Kaspel’s death, he also hoped there would 
be some way they could save Berkon too.  What 
foul power had brought him out of the grave and 
gave him the ability to poison their blood?  Was 
the friend and fellow Magyar they’d laughed with, 
thieved with, performed with, ate with, slept 
with, rode with, and all around lived with still 
in there somewhere inside that corrupted body?
         The night air was still but for the 
falling snowflakes.  He felt no breeze and was 
grateful for that.  His ears heard nothing but 
Gelel’s snoring, and even that was faint and 
could easily be put form his mind.  The horses 
slept soundlessly, and around him the only thing 
else he heard was the faint brush of snow on the 
grasses as they landed.  It was like a soft 
crunching as if the word were growing delicate crystals.
         Deep down he knew that he shouldn’t 
expect anything.  Whatever had become of Berkon 
had run every time it had been discovered.  Now 
that they all knew about him, surely he must have 
moved on to easier prey.  Could Berkon have 
rushed ahead to hurt the Magyars still with the wagons?  He hoped not.
         Something snapped in the 
distance.  Chamag grabbed the axe and readied to 
rap the haft on the carriage top.  But he heard 
nothing else for several minutes.  With his free 
hand he lifted the lamp and peered into the 
darkness.  The Steppe was cold and empty, what 
remained of the grasses either coated or buried 
with snow.  He sighed and began lowering his axe.
         And then he paused. Something brushed 
his ears, a soft tendril of air that circled the 
lobes and caressed the flesh inside.  Chamag 
opened his mouth to speak, but the cold air 
sucked his breath away.  The second cloak seemed 
to lift away; all along his back the winter’s 
chill touch crept.  Slowly, he turned his head, 
that gentle caress in his ear numbing every nerve 
in his body that wanted him to scream.
         There, standing on the carriage behind 
im was something that made him tremble.  One leg 
was human, but the other was a clot of fur, with 
the limp head of some canine beast pressed into 
the man’s thigh.  The lids drew back, and golden 
eyes gleamed from the beastly visage.  A paw 
wrapped in bloodied linens stood next to the human foot.
         Chamag lifted his eyes, and saw a 
tattered but colourful jerkin, crossed arms, and 
then the smiling visage of Berkon.  His dark lips 
parted, and a sweet whispering song curled from 
his tongue down about the air, eddying this way 
and that, before settling into his ear and 
wrapping itself like molasses in his mind.
         The burly Magyar turned his head back 
around, setting the lamp down and letting the axe 
handle lower to his lap.  His muscles relaxed, 
head bending forward exposing his neck to the icy 
touch of the air.  He felt Berkon draw closer 
behind him, a tongue brush out and over his neck, 
and then up to his ear.  His voice, so beautiful 
and terrible, whispered into his ear, “Thou shalt wake no one.”
         Chamag breathed.  It seemed to be the 
only thing he could do.  He felt Berkon’s face 
cover his neck, and then a stab as his teeth sunk 
into the flesh.  A dark emptiness seemed to fill 
him as Berkon drank.  Wasn’t there something he 
should do?  His eyes stared at the axe in his 
hand.  The flat of the blade rested against rim 
of the carriage’s roof.  A quick swing and it 
would... would what?  He didn’t want to hurt his friend!
         Berkon fed.  Chamag felt something 
burning inside him, a cold far worse than 
anything the winter could conjure.  It seemed to 
coax him, ever onward.  All he wanted to do was 
savour the burning sensation, all else was 
immaterial.  He relaxed and exulted in the fangs piercing his neck.
         His fingers uncurled.
         The axe slipped from his hand, the blade 
smacking into the side of the carriage as it fell 
to the ground.  The door to the wagon burst open, 
and Nemgas jumped onto the driver’s bench with 
the golden sword in his one hand.  Chamag felt 
Berkon tug and draw free with a hiss of 
anger.  Nemgas turned, and in that moment, the 
lamplight caught his eyes.  They were but black, 
a burning black that felt rage and fear at the same time.
         “Thou wilt die!” Nemgas said, vaulting 
to the carriage top.  Berkon stepped back, the 
jackal-head at his hip snapping and 
snarling.  Chamag tumbled from the carriage top into the snow.
         Berkon took one look at the sword and 
jumped from the carriage.  Out the back door 
charged Pelgan and Gamran.  They slammed into 
Berkon and knocked him to the ground before 
spinning away into the snow banks.  Nemgas leapt 
down, boot smashing into Berkon’s deformed 
leg.  The beastly head howled, while Berkon’s 
arms grabbed clots of snow and flung them in Nemgas’s face.
         Nemgas drove the sword forward but 
Berkon spun to one side and kicked with his other 
leg.  It caught Nemgas behind the knee and he 
slipped.  Berkon jumped to his feet, and then 
reeled as Pelgan threw a knife into his 
neck.  Black blood drooled around the wound and 
steam rose from the blade.  Berkon plucked it out 
and tossed it aside. The blade sizzled and continued to disintegrate.
         “What in all the hells art thee?” Nemgas 
snapped as he got back to his feet.  Gamran, 
Pelgan and he formed a triangle around 
Berkon.  Gelel stood in the carriage doorway with 
a bow drawn.  Amile stood over Chamag who fumbled helplessly in the snow.
         Berkon smiled, his face smeared with 
Chamag’s blood. “What thou shouldst be.” He 
bolted between Pelgan and Gamran, but Nemgas was 
faster.  He jumped forward and drove the point of 
the sword into Berkon’s side, slicing downwards 
through his normal leg until he pinned him to the 
ground.  Berkon screamed a sound so hideous that 
Gelel dropped his bow to cover his ears.
         The blood steamed and sizzled.  The 
jackal head snapped at Nemgas.  He rolled to one 
side, lifted the sword, and swung it through the 
jackal’s head.  Blood splattered his shirt and he 
yelled in pain as it burned his skin.  The 
jewelled blade steamed and glowed bright, illuminating the entire field.
         Berkon rolled onto his side, dark, 
lifeless eyes transfixed by the blade.  His lips 
pulled back to expose his fangs, and he lunged 
one more time for Nemgas.  Nemgas rolled 
backwards, pointing the sword before him and 
thrusting.  The end emerged from the back of 
Berkon’s head.  Berkon chomped down, and Nemgas 
snatched back his hand leaving the sword through the monster’s skull.
         As Nemgas crawled away Berkon writhed on 
the ground, the sword pulsing bright and in a 
insistent irregular pattern.  Nemgas felt his 
whole body throb with it, and he felt the power 
of the mountain slamming into them all.  If 
Berkon screamed he couldn’t hear it.  Berkon’s 
body curled inward on itself, the sword sinking 
back into the flesh as if it were being swallowed.
         And then, just as the tip disappeared 
within, Berkon lay still.  His flesh sunk against 
his bones and the grotesque leg turned to 
dust.  After only a minute there was nothing left 
but skin drawn taut over bones.
         “What happened to the sword?” Gelel asked.
         “The sword!” Nemgas swore as he crawled 
back over to the body.  He beat at the skull with 
his fist until it shattered but there was no 
sword inside.  Likewise his ribcage and hips.  The jewelled blade was gone.
         Nemgas climbed to his feet and rubbed at 
the burn marks in his shirt. “What of Chamag?”
         “He hath been bitten!” Amile cried. “He wilt die too!”
         “The sword aided Kaspel.  It restored 
his blood,” Gamran pointed out. “Wast it truly lost?”
         “What dost thou see in that pile of dust 
and bones?  Berkon took the sword with him into 
death!” Nemgas snapped, angry at his own 
foolishness.  He should never have agreed to 
Chamag’s plan.  Now their friend would die 
too.  Unless... “There be one way.  The sword 
healed Kaspel’s blood because of the power of 
Cenziga.” Gelel winced at the name of the Ash 
Mountain, but the others seemed to welcome it 
over the sight of what their friend had become. 
“To Cenziga we must take Chamag.  ‘Twill heal him if we dost hurry.”
         “Shalt we leave first thing in the morning?”
         “First we put Chamag in the wagon.  And 
then we leave,” Nemgas said.  His fellow Magyars 
nodded and turned to help their friend.  Already 
a light dusting of snow covered the desicated remains of the monster.

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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias