[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LVIII

[C. Matthias]

And I'm back for more!  I hope over the next two 
to three months to have the next nine chapters written.

Special thanks goes to Ryx who took the first 
scene of this chapter and filled it out to its present condition.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LVIII

Entering the Forbidden


         Fresh-fallen snow crunched beneath the 
hooves of the horse as it plodded along at a 
leisurely pace.  The narrow steel banded wheels 
of the cart made the snow squeak as it was 
crushed under the weight of cart, cargo, and the 
pair of anthropomorphised skunks seated upon the 
buckboard.  Between the sweeping walls of Metamor 
valley and the low heavy gray clouds hanging low 
over  the pass the roadway seemed to wend through 
a shadowy cavern of white and gray.  Snow 
continued to drift down, thick and lazy in no 
great hurry to travel from cloud to earth.  The 
breaths of horse and riders misted in the cold, 
still air.  Upon their furry brows the cool touch 
of weighty flakes was like the caress of angelic feathers.
         The two figures upon the wagon, while 
both skunks, were markedly different in both 
appearance and manner.  The driver was male and 
the common black-and-white representative of his 
curse-induced species.  While he had the physical 
appearance of youth his face was somber and 
closeted in expression, his left eye concealed 
behind a well worn leather patch.  He wore a 
light travelling cloak, shirt, and leggings more 
for the intentions of keeping the wet at bay than 
the cold he seemed not to acknowledge at 
all.  His good eye, brown and alert, gazed about 
the winter shrouded forest through which the 
rutted cart trail wended with the solemnity of a 
wanderer returning to a familiar place and 
finding it different.   The second skunk was 
female, her fur as white as fresh fallen snow 
from brow to tailtip with a hint of the typical 
white stripe only visible when the light lay 
across that stark pelt in just the right 
way.  Over that fur she wore heavy garments for 
the winter weather, the colours muted dun without 
trim or embroidery; simple peasants’ fare but 
suitable for the numbing cold lying heavily in 
the valley.  Her alert eyes were strikingly 
green, like twin emeralds set upon her starkly 
white muzzle, and watched the passing trees with 
calm regard.  Now and then her gaze would slide 
to the quiet skunk who she sat beside.
         In the back of the short, two-wheeled 
cart were two modest chests typical of those used 
to transport the ashes of those who had been 
cremated in keeping with their faith to a place 
where they might be scattered.  The male skunk’s 
travelling pack was nestled between them, the 
straps wrapped tightly about the small bundle of 
possessions protected by the use-stained oiled 
leather.  Lain upon the pack was a pendant of raw 
silvery-white metal crisscrossed with inclusions 
of pale white and green jade as if it had been 
heedlessly deposited there.  Until that morning 
the pendant had been worn about the male skunk’s 
neck, the powerful magics imbued in the silvery 
metal used to mask him in intricate illusions 
that hid his animalistic nature under a magically 
created guise of humanity.  Those illusions had 
seen him safely across the length of Sathmore 
during the summer months where his animalistic 
appearance would have drawn undue, and likely 
violent, attention.  Now that he had returned to 
the place he considered home, the valley bound up 
with the curse that had changed him from man to 
animal, he could once again travel uncloaked by those illusions.
         On those travels in the south he had 
first met the woman now seated beside him upon 
the cart in contemplative silence, but she had 
looked considerably different.  When he set out 
from Midtown that morning he had chosen to set 
aside his amulet for the first time in months and 
travel with the truth of his appearance open to 
anyone who might see him.  Not that many paid 
overmuch heed; there were wolves and horses and 
other beasts about in similar condition of 
anthropomorphic appearance travelling the 
roadways before the weather turned foul.  There 
were also humans, both afoot and mounted or 
driving other wagons with the last autumn wares 
destined for Metamor to the north or towns 
further south.  The caravansary north of Midtown 
was for the most part vacant with the turning 
weather, but at the small shack maintained by the 
Midtown watch the white skunk had appeared like 
an apparition formed of the very snow itself.
         She had been staying at the caravansary 
to receive the refugees of Bradanes, the ill or 
infirm or diseased heading toward the Keep and 
its curse for the promise of an escape from their 
ailments.  But she had also been watching for the 
possible return of the one who had, months 
before, encouraged her to seek out that 
healing.  Little did that one know that she would 
convey its message to half of the Sathmore Empire 
and spur a trickling exodus of the crippled and 
infirm in her wake.  When he had first met her 
she was more afraid of her appearance than he had 
been of his, swathing herself in heavy rags that 
hid her from head to toe.  Metamor had made him a 
skunk, but a poison had turned her into a leprous 
decaying thing who would have died but for the 
tale told to her by a traveler wearing an amulet of magical illusion.
         The slow rot induced by the poison was 
wiped clean by the touch of Metamor’s curse, but 
the price for that healing was another alteration 
to her body, one that she was willing to embrace 
to live.  Little did she know how it would 
manifest upon her, but by strange irony it struck 
her with the same guise as her 
benefactor.  Though the form had some rather 
onerous issues to come to terms with she was 
satisfied with her lot and vainly pleased with 
her appearance.  She did not expect, but had 
hoped, to see her benefactor again and the fates 
had conspired to bring her across his travels a second time.
         As the spire of Metamor’s Chapel tower 
appeared between the trees topping a gentle rise, 
still some miles ahead, the driver turned his 
head slightly to look at his passenger with his 
good eye.  “How long have you been here, 
Kozaithy?” he asked, breaking the companionable 
silence that had hung between them for the past 
hour.  “It seems months ago you served water 
rather than wine to my companions and I in that miserable tavern.”
         Kozaithy looked from the forest to him 
and smiled brightly.  A smile, so simple and 
natural but also unique upon her tapered 
musteline muzzle.  She relished in her ability to 
smile once again.  And to laugh, to dance, and to 
run.  Twisted by the poisoning she could do no 
such thing well, not even weep.  “Aghen was the 
place, milord, may never I see that place 
again.  I arrived here in the early days of 
September.” She replied, her voice a tenor churr, 
“I came here straightaway after finding my people 
and telling them your tale of Metamor.”
         Murikeer chuffed and shook his head 
slowly, “Four months!” he exclaimed. “I did not 
imagine when I set out upon my journey, that its 
traverse would cover an entire Empire and 
back.”  He smiled as well, a rueful pull of his 
muzzle that laid his whiskers back.  “The things 
into which we stumbled would be legend were 
someone to lay them into a history.”
         Kozaithy glanced back at the two chests 
in the back of the wagon with a look of 
concern.  “And you return with two less friends 
and two crematory chests.” Her voice dropped 
slightly.  “Did aught happen to your gentle companions, milord?”
         Murikeer glanced back at the chests as 
well, “Neither of my friends resides within, 
Kozi.  As to their fates now I do not know, but 
when our paths parted in Silvassa they were well, 
and had even attained another to their 
retinue.”  He gave the reins a slight flick as 
the cart horse slowed to nibble at a few yellowed 
sprigs of autumn grass.  “Those contain my sire, 
and my master.  They’re the reason I traveled 
into Sathmore.  I sought the remains of my sire, 
who fell to bandits when I was a lad.  My master 
I learned had been injured and I sought him out 
as well, but the journey to Metamor was too long 
for his aged bones.  He passed on some days after our reunion.”
         He turned to gaze at the road ahead.  It 
dipped and wove between the snowy woods and empty 
fields of southern Metamor.  They had already 
passed Lorland with its wide farms and meagre 
shacks.  Somewhere to the west lay Ellingham, yet 
one more place in the Valley Murikeer had never 
been.  But like a lodestone, his eyes were drawn 
upwards to the towers of Metamor rising in the 
distance.  There he beheld the spire of the bell 
tower, and a strange sense of disquiet filled 
him, as if something menacing stared back at him 
from its inaccessible confines.  He let his 
breath out in a slow cloud of mist, an 
incongruous expulsion when taken against the 
lightness of his wardrobe. “Now I bring them home to rest.”
         “How many have come from your people?”
         “A few hundred according to the book 
that I’ve kept.  I do not expect to see any more 
until the spring.  A couple of others, not 
changed into animals, have also taken up the 
chore of receiving those who do not know what 
they will be taking on to attain the cure for their ails.”
         “So, you can read?” Murikeer asked 
gently and turned his attention back to the 
road.  Kozaithy sat on the skunk’s right side 
where he could see her easily with his good eye 
and she was not left staring at the patch-covered 
ruin that remained of his left eye.  While 
Metamor sought to educate all of those within is 
reach he knew that to be the exception rather 
than the rule for the rest of the world.
         Kozaithy nodded, “Only a little, milord, 
and without much speed.  But I can count marks in 
a ledger, as my Lady had taught me.  I met one 
here, master Urseil, in the libraries who helped 
me learn more of both so that I could find some 
employ here.”  She beamed brightly and glanced 
toward the tower growing slowly taller above the 
hills ahead.  “Such marvels this empire has, that 
make even Bradanes seem small and crude.  Never 
before have I seen so many books or so much 
education in one single place.  Not even in the 
infirmaries and hospitals of Elvquelin.”
         Murikeer had heard the name Urseil 
before but could not immediately bring the 
details of it to mind.  “How do your people fare?”
         “Some passed away in Elvquelin, but not 
many, milord.  Those who’ve come to Metamor have 
found work doing many things.  There is much to 
do here, from all that I have learned, for there 
are so few who survived the wars fought here in 
the last few years.  There is still want, but 
they are healthy again and most are happy to be 
what the curse has made of them, simply happy to 
be recovered from the wasting caused by the 
poison that destroyed Bradanes.”  She smiled 
warmly, “Even Lord Bradanes has found acceptance 
by the Duke and was given a small parcel of land 
left lordless during the war you fought last 
year.”  Laying the light touch of her fingers 
along his forearm she glanced back at the chests 
once again.  “What of you?  And what of your 
companions, the minstrel and the priest?  You 
said they found another to travel with them before you parted paths?”
         Murikeer rolled a shoulder, glancing 
down at her hand momentarily but not moving his 
arm out of reach.  The touch was light and 
companionable and he found it pleasant to allow 
someone to be so familiar.  After months on the 
road unable to even shake another’s hand the 
pretty white skunk’s touch was welcome.  “Of my 
companions I know not.  Our ways parted in 
Silvassa earlier this year, in July.  We had a
 
we encountered a travelling menagerie and from it 
liberated a fox touched by Metamor’s curse.  She 
attached herself to Malger, the minstrel, as a 
servant.”  He laughed lightly, “Much to his 
chagrin, to be sure.”  He glanced aside at her 
with his good eye again, “I take it you haven’t 
seen either return to Metamor, Kozi?”
         “No, milord.” She replied with a shake 
of her head, holding his gaze for some heartbeats 
before turning her green gaze toward the spires 
of Metamor joining the Chapel tower along the 
curve of the hills ahead.  “When I return to 
Midtown I will keep a watch for them for you.”
         The young illusionist nodded slowly and 
smiled.  “My thanks, for I cannot linger and 
await their return if by that road they do 
eventually return.”  He nodded toward the growing 
spires but slightly off toward the west.  “I go 
to Glen Avery before the Keep, Kozi, quite a 
distance yet along this road.  I hope to find my 
way there before nightfall this day if the snow 
remains as it is now.”  He looked up at the 
leaden sky hanging heavily overhead and back to 
her.  “Why did you insist on coming with me?”
         Kozaithy smiled and leaned her 
white-furred head against his shoulder much to 
his surprise.  “Because without you, your 
kindness, and the bravery of your telling me of 
this place touched by fey magics, I would not be 
beautiful again.”  She said softly.  “Without 
your coming to that disgusting tavern I would be 
dead now.”  She raised her head and caught his 
eye with her intense green gaze.  “I owe you my 
life, Murikeer.”  Her long tail danced behind 
her, the tip coming to rest against his own.  He 
restrained the flinch he felt pulling at his 
abdomen, uncertain how he should react.  He felt 
a smoldering pain in his empty eye socket as he 
recalled how the last woman who had touched him in that way had died.
         Nor what he had done to call vengeance upon her slayer.
         But in the end the chill of the day, 
kept in abeyance as it was by the simple magic 
provided by the amulet he still wore, the one 
that kept his potent natural musk damped and 
served to keep him warm in the biting chill, 
persuaded him to let her stay close.  To be true, 
she was beautiful in her stark white fur and 
lithe musteline form, and he felt a stirring in 
the cinder he had thought remained of his feeling heart for her.

         As predicted dusk fell long before they 
reached the Glen but not before they had long 
since bypassed Metamor and possible shelter at an 
Inn somewhere in Euper.  Murikeer summoned 
several witchlights to illuminate their way much 
to Kozaithy’s awe.  They were not the only ones 
braving the light winter weather as they passed 
several Keepers on their journey going about 
their daily lives.  A quartet of armed and 
armored members of the Wardens passed them on the 
road just north of Metamor, led by a severe 
looking woman who nonetheless smiled and sketched 
a wave of greeting as they passed.
         Even though it was well past dusk by the 
time they reached the Glen the forest town had 
not yet settled down to sleep.  After Nasoj’s 
armies forced them to live in the trees or in 
burrows like the animals they resembled the town 
had gained a cycle of life all its own.  Archers 
hid in the trees along the roadside watching them 
and trying to remain unseen but Murikeer was able 
to see a couple.  He brought them to Kozaithy’s 
attention by sending his witchlights zipping off 
to harry the sentries until they concealed 
themselves better.  Once past the sentry lines 
the road was lit warmly with lanterns hung 
seemingly at random along the roadway but 
Murikeer could make out the dwellings that they 
heralded under the light snow and artful concealment.
         Kozaithy tittered merrily when he toyed 
with the simple magics of his hovering lights, 
comparing them to manic fireflies native to her 
southern home.  He explained that they were 
common in the valley as well during the warmer 
months.  She gawked in quiet awe at the homes 
built both above and below the ground when 
Murikeer pointed them out as they passed through 
the periphery of Glen Avery.  “Do they all live 
like this?  How do they not harm the trees?”
         Murikeer steered away from the dim 
golden glow of the lamp-lit commons toward the 
western wall of the valley.  “They’ve a very 
talented wood mage named Burris that lives 
here.  He apparently knew my father, though we 
have never spoken.  He shapes the trees to make 
the homes for some small barter.  I’ve examined 
his work but could not emulate it if I tried; my 
focus is more toward the earth and stone than living wood.”
         “And lights.”
         Murikeer drew the cart to a stop some 
distance outside the Glen. “My witchlights?  They 
are simple acolyte level magic, Kozi, that most 
mages can master easily early in their 
learning.”  The horse snorted and champed at its 
bit as Murikeer slipped down from the 
buckboard.  “We will need to walk from here; the 
path is too icy for the horse to travel upon 
safely.”  He circled around to the other side 
intending to help Kozaithy down but she adroitly 
slid from her seat and hopped down to the 
snow.  Where Murikeer’s legs were sharply angled 
in the manner of canines her feet were still more 
human, with toe and heel resting on the ground, 
and she wore heavy leather boots to keep them 
warm and dry.  Murikeer wore nothing on his feet 
because his feet were simply not conducive to 
footwear and he could effectively ignore the 
chill with a small bit of warming magic.  Despite 
having warm feet, the ground was still hard, 
slick, and uncomfortable to trod upon.
         He took up the chests, one under each 
arm, easily for they weighed very little.  “We 
can leave the cart, none will bother it.  The 
archers I showed you in the trees are only a 
single part of Glen Avery’s very diligent sentry 
line.  I am sure that we are probably watched by 
at least one even now.”  Kozaithy looked around 
the forest, now lost in shadows beyond the glow 
of the skunk mage’s witchlights, and moved closer 
to him.  Together they moved further down the 
pathway toward the steep upthrust granite of the 
valley wall a short distance ahead.
         The massive boughs above kept the ground 
nearly snow free but a thin layer of pearlescent 
white dusted everything in a layer at least one 
claw deep.  It crunched beneath paw and boot with 
grinding, squeaking noises that echoed hauntingly 
back to them from the surrounding forest.  The 
steady falling snow hissed softly all around 
them.  They did not travel far before coming to 
the edge of the Follower cemetery that served the 
small community of Eli worshippers that lived in 
and around Glen Avery.  The road lead to a pair 
of towering stone plinths enwrapped with the 
skeletal remains of the heavy vines that hung 
upon them during the summer months and continued beyond them.
         Kozaithy eyed the heavy basalt plinths 
as they passed between them, “You will bury your 
father and master tonight?” she asked while he 
lead toward the first orderly line of 
stones.  They were fresh granite, not showing the 
wear or softening or overgrowth of greenery of 
age.  The names graven upon them were stark and 
clear even at some remove, the shallow cuts 
worked into the stone showing stark shadows under 
the hovering progress of Murikeer’s witchlight.
         “No, the ground is too hard for 
that.”  Murikeer glanced at the nearer granite 
markers as they walked wondering who had come to 
rest here in the time he was gone.  “We’re going 
to the caretaker’s cabin.  During the winter 
months the dead are interred in a cave behind his 
dwelling to await burial in the spring, and to be 
kept away from scavengers.”  He paused as his 
light illuminated a stone only a few paces off 
the path.  Kozaithy glanced at the stone as well 
once she realized the direction of his 
attention.  Murikeer let his light dip low and 
properly illuminate the freshly engraved 
stone.  The earth around it was still brown with 
only a few hearty weeds beginning to green the low tumulus of earth and stones.
         “Matthias?”  Murikeer muttered with a 
confused frown at the name, one he 
recognized.  He knew the bearer of the name, 
Charles, well enough though their interactions 
had been relatively sparse.  He was far more 
familiar with the rat’s wife, the Lady Kimberly, 
who had forsaken her noble heritage to live the 
life of a commoner at Metamor.  Before Llyn was 
slain, before Murikeer had sacrificed his eye to 
seek out and kill his once-pupil who had murdered 
her, the skunk mage had begun teaching Kimberly a 
few simple spells to make use of what magic she 
could touch.  Even after she had married the 
warrior rat and moved to the Glen he’d continued 
to instruct her when he could, ceasing only when she’d become pregnant.
         And now their name was on a fresh grave 
marker carved into the shape of a cross, a 
simpler symbol of their faith than the more 
complicated yew tree to fashion from hard 
mountain stone.  Kozaithy looked down at the 
stone and the small bier of carefully laid rock 
before it and read the short 
inscription.  “Ladero Matthias, born and died, 
707 CR.  Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine.”   She 
read aloud softly, “I do not understand the last bit.  Who is, was, Ladero?”
         Murikeer frowned, “Eternal rest grant 
unto them, Lord.” He intoned hollowly, “That last 
bit.”  He shook his head slowly, “Come, let us 
see to the caretaker.  I believe Ladero may have 
been the child of a friend.”  The path split not 
far beyond the freshly cleared ground extending 
the limits of the cemetery, the fresh ground into 
which Ladero had been interred, and one branching 
lead into a cluster of aspen concealing the 
caretaker’s cabin from view.  A larger building 
to one side held stacks of newly quarried and 
polished granite, the tools to work it, and tools 
for digging the earth.  It was there that they 
found the caretaker working studiously to form a new granite marker into form.
         “Master Melanos.” Murikeer called from 
the partially open door.  The burly man’s head 
came up slowly from the concentration directed 
upon the stone Kunma looked toward them and waved 
one hand for them to enter.  “I have returned 
with what remains of my loved ones.  I wish to 
inter them in the mausoleum until a proper ceremony can be arranged for them.”
         Kunma nodded slowly and set aside his 
tools before wiping his large, calloused hands on 
the hopelessly gray stained smock he wore.  “Be 
comin’ this way, lad.” He said with his slow, 
slurred voice and swayed toward the back of the 
workshop.  “Figger’d ye’d be a’comin’ back 
eventual like, after ye’ put th’ glimmerbob on 
yer mae’s stone.”  From the leather pouch on his 
hip Kunma pulled out a leather flask and took a 
long swallow.  Murikeer followed the burly man 
toward the double doors set into the stone at the 
back of the workshop.  Kozaithy held back by the 
outer door and looked about the shop.  The 
gravedigger hauled open one panel of the door and 
leaned on it heavily as if barely in grasp of 
sobriety.  “Yer pae?”  He nodded toward the crates under Murikeer’s arms.
         “Aye, Master Melanos.  And my master as 
well.  I did not know he was from Metamor as 
well, not until only recently.”  Murikeer stepped 
through the door and into the vault beyond, the 
chill air spilling through the hole that lead 
from the mountain heights above into the vault 
intense enough to bite through the warming magic 
of his amulet and chill him to the core.  There 
were no bodies lying on any of the stone biers 
yet, but Murikeer imagined that would change 
before the winter passed.  He carefully placed 
the crates on one of the biers and took up the 
folded cloth placed at its foot to drape across them before exiting.
         “Oo’ were ye’ master?” Kunma rumbled 
curiously as he swung the heavy door closed and dropped the crossbar in place.
         “Heorn.”
         “Ahh, mmm, lef’ yars agone now, ‘im.  If 
remembrin’ th’ name arights.”  Kunma shrugged 
slowly,  “We’ll affigger as bes’ aught fer ‘em 
both, lad, com’ thaw.”  He waved one hand toward 
the outer door amiably and returned to his 
work.  Murikeer rejoined Kozaithy at the door and 
closed it behind him to leave the caretaker to his task.
         On their way out of the cemetery they 
passed at the small marker once again, “I had 
already left for the south before they were 
born.”  He looked down at the startlingly small 
cairn.  “I did not know this one, or any of 
them.  Ladero, though, the name sounds 
familiar.  I believe Charles may have spoken it 
in reference to someone from his past.”
         “A friend, I would imagine.”  Kozaithy 
rested a hand upon his shoulder.  “To have given 
the name to one of his own.”  Murikeer suffered 
the familiar contact amiably and nodded as he turned away from the gravestone.
         “Let us go.  The Matthias household is 
in Glen Avery, not a far distance.”  He lead the 
way toward the boundary pillars, tail sweeping 
slowly back and forth behind him.  The cart was 
where they had left it, the horse dozing in its 
traces and beginning to take on a patina of 
white.  The animal awoke at their approach and 
raised its head eager to be on the move again 
with hope of a warm stable and feeder of oats.
         The return journey to Glen Avery was 
brief and they reined in outside the Mountain 
Hearth to turn the cart and horse over to a 
bleary eyed ostler.  Muted sounds muttered from 
the Inn as the evening crowd enjoyed dinner or 
ale or both with some gossip.  Murikeer left them 
to it, turning instead to the path hidden beneath 
the snow that lead toward the home he remembered 
below, and a part of, one of the Glen’s great trees.
         Murikeer rapped upon the heavy wooden 
door soundly a short time later.  Kozaithy stood 
at his side as they both waited for a response 
from within.  Through the cracks of the shutters 
he had seen the steady glow of light within so he 
expected that someone was awake and about.  That 
assumption was proven a moment later when the 
door opened slightly and a triangular head with 
white ears, bright nose, and grey colored fur 
peered out to look him, and then Kozaithy, up and 
down dubiously.  “Who are you to come calling at 
so late an hour, sir?” the opossum asked gently 
but pointedly with a twitch of long white whiskers.
         Murikeer did not expect to be confronted 
by an opossum though he did remember one aiding 
Kimberly before he took his leave some many 
months before.    Murikeer caught the scent of 
rats, wood smoke, and the other scents of a well 
tended house coming on the warm air wafting 
through the partially open door.  “I came by to 
look in on Charles and Kimberly.  Are they in?”
         “I know that voice!” another speaker 
called from within the dwelling and Murikeer 
smiled at the familiar sound.  “Is that you, master Murikeer?”
         The opossum backed out of the way and 
drew the door open inviting them to 
enter.  Murikeer turned toward Kozaithy and 
motioned for her to precede him and ducked below 
the lintel in her wake, the white skunk’s lush 
tail brushing his stomach.  A fire burned 
ravenously in the hearth opposite the door and in 
a hooded globe of clear glass a single bright 
witchlight shed its illumination to give the 
parlor a warm glow beyond the fire’s welcoming 
light.  Nearby sat the lady of the house in a 
large rocking chair of roughly worked but 
comfortable looking native wood.    A 
half-finished quilt lay across her lap and in her 
nimble paws she held a pair of crocheting needles 
and yarn.  The door closed with a quiet thump and 
rattle of latch behind him as he smiled to 
Kimberly.  “It’s been so long, Murikeer, welcome 
back!”  She set her stitching aside as Murikeer 
crossed to her and shared a welcoming embrace.  “Who is your friend?”
         “I’m Kozaithy.” The white skunk said 
with a soft smile, nodding her head to Kimberly 
and the opossum in greetings.  “Murikeer met me 
in his journeys and told me of the wonders to be enjoyed in Metamor.”
         “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long, my 
Lady Kimberly, but I have returned with my father 
and master.”  He paused and frowned slightly, 
shoulders rising and falling in a slight shrug, 
“What remains of them, at any length.”  He sat 
upon the stout wooden arm of a nearby couch.  “I 
was taking their remains to the care of master 
Kunmas at the cemetery and happened to notice the 
Matthias name on a recently placed marker 
there.”  He tilted his head slightly in askance, “Where is Charles?”
         Above them Murikeer heard the sounds of 
rambunctious activity and claws upon the wooden 
floor drawing Murikeer and Kozaithy’s gaze upward 
in reflex.  “I’ll see to them.” Said the opossum 
and she quickly disappeared up the staircase 
worked into the wall near the hearth.
         “The children,” Kimberly said with a 
warm smile to them both, then eased herself back 
into the rocking chair.  “I bore them in May 
after you’d left on your journey.  Charles, 
Bernadette, Erick, Bearle, and Ladero.  But 
Ladero was struck ill by some foulness that none 
of the healers could get a grasp upon.” She 
closed her eyes tight in memory fighting back 
tears.  Murikeer leaned closer to rest a hand 
gently upon her forearm consolingly.  Kozaithy 
came closer to offer her own gentle touch of 
condolence.  “Five weeks ago it finally claimed him.”
         Murikeer’s whiskers drooped and his tail 
fell at the news.  In his pilgrimage he had 
missed knowing the one who was lost, and did not 
know those that remained.  Death was far too 
common for the young and he felt the loss 
poignantly.  “I am sorry to hear that, my 
Lady.”  He could find no other words to offer by 
way of comfort, for what could be said so long 
after such ill tidings?  “How has Charles fared 
with his loss?  Where does he patrol these days, with Misha?”
         “No,” Kimberly shook her head, tears 
standing in her gentle rodentine eyes.  “He’s 
been gone south since the summer.  I had hoped 
that you would cross paths with him in your 
travels but that does not seem to have been the 
case.  He didn’t even get to say his farewells 
before he was sent away to brace some evil and with Eli’s graze vanquish it.”
         Murikeer blinked, “He’s been gone since 
summer?” he barked in surprise, leaning back on 
the arm of the couch with the shock.  “Where’s he 
gone?  What is this evil he hopes to 
vanquish?”  He tilted his head and scowled, “And 
who did he travel with?  I certainly hope he did not go alone?”
         “I do not believe he was alone, 
no.  I’ve been told that the mate of the raccoon 
Charles had such unpleasantness with went with 
him, the other skunk lady?”  Kimberly sighed and 
looked at the quilt half finished upon her lap, 
wringing her hands in consternation, “I do not 
know her name.  James went with him as well.  And 
the kangaroo Habakkuk and some woodcutter.”  She 
raised her head to look back toward Murikeer, 
gazing at his one good eye.  “They went to a place called Marzac.”
         Murikeer reared back so far that he 
slipped from the arm of the couch and fell into 
it, “Marzac?  He went to Marzac?”  Just what had 
happened while he’d been gone from Metamor to 
make them send one, nay more than one, of their 
few powerful warriors to such an abominable 
place?  Murikeer felt a crush of fear clutch at 
his heart, he should have been one of those 
sent!  Such a place could only be faced with the 
potency of magic at hand, corporeal strength 
could do little to the dark powers said to claim 
Marzac.  Heorn had spoken of it from time to 
time, as a warning as to just how very, very bad 
mismanaged use of magic could go wrong.  What he 
had described had been enough to convince 
Murikeer to be both mindful of his own ambitions 
and magic, and that he would never trod such a profane place.
         Certainly never to such a degree that he 
would face the magic that corrupted the place directly!
         He straightened himself in the couch, 
“What raccoon?” he asked in a strained croak.  He 
only knew of one raccoon at Metamor whose mate was a skunk.
         Kimberly shook her head, “I do not 
recall his name; Rick or the like.  He and 
Charles were always at odds, but they had some
 some degree of connection.”
         “Rickkter.” Murikeer mumbled in a numbed 
groan.  “Kayla.”  Kimberly listened a moment and 
then nodded silently.  Unknowing the depths of 
the exchange between the two Kozaithy could only 
stand near Kimberly’s chair and listen, at a loss.   “Kayla went to Marzac.”
         “Aye, that is her name,” Kimberly 
replied, nodding as it returned to her. “Charles 
said as much as he could in his letter.  Misha 
told me the rest.  There was a pair from out of 
the Barrier range, some monster and a man only 
the size of a child. I know no more than that.  I 
have waited so long for news of him, but all is 
silence.” She grabbed what may have once been a 
walking stick leaning against the rocking chair 
and gnawed at the end.  After a moment she 
returned it to its place and smiled faintly at 
the pair of skunks. “But you have returned, 
master Murikeer.  Tell me of your travels.  I 
will make a kettle of tea to warm you both.”
         Murikeer smiled even as a new round of 
scampering claws echoed overhead.  Beside him he 
felt Kozaithy draw near, her face lost in 
sympathy, but also in curiosity.  As Kimberly 
returned with a kettle and prepared it over the 
fire, the two skunks settled on the 
couch.  Murikeer would seek a room at the Inn 
later, and on the morrow seek out his 
Aunt.  Kimberly needed news, any news, to begin 
healing the wounds of her heart.
         He would provide.

----------

         Barren fields of dirt and grime 
stretched before them for miles to east and 
west.  Behind them short grasses rose up along 
the undulating swards of southern 
Pyralis.  Before them pillars of stone and wood 
kept watch over the empty roads and the land to 
the south.  Abutting the watchtowers were shacks 
where the unfortunate soldiers station there ate, diced, and slept.
         And they were all abandoned.
         The Rheh stomped their hooves and 
snorted.  James flecked his lips and said, “This is bad, isn’t it?”
         “That’s what I’m thinking,” Lindsey 
said.  The Northerner glowered at the 
watchtowers.  Beyond them they could see a smear 
of dark green.  The swamps of Marzac.
         “Why do you suppose the watchtowers are empty?” the donkey asked.
         “Well,” Kayla said, her long tail 
dancing back and forth in agitation, “what little 
we knew at Metamor of this place told us that the 
watchtowers were under the auspices of the Marquis du Tournemire.”
         “So why move his troops?” Jessica asked.
         “In Qorfuu,” Abafouq said, only the 
vaguest traces of pain in his voice, “we Binoq do 
not guard passages where there be no danger.  The Marquis is not afraid of us.”
         “These watchtowers had two purposes,” 
Charles said.  The rat pointed at the cupola. “It’s open on four sides.”
         “So?” Lindsey asked. “All of Metamor’s 
watchtowers are open on four sides.”
         “Metamor’s watchtowers protect us from 
invaders coming south through the valley.  And 
they’re in a forest; they have to watch 
everywhere.  These watchtowers on a plain.  The 
only thing south of them is the swamp where 
nothing lives.  Nobody north of here is foolish enough to go into that swamp.”
         “Except us,” Lindsey added with a faint smirk.
         The rat’s whiskers twitched and the vine 
drew tighter across his chest. “So these 
watchtowers are designed to keep people out of 
the swamp, and to keep what’s in the swamp from coming into Pyralis.”
         “What are you saying?” James asked.
         “I’m saying Abafouq is right.  We sailed 
from Breckaris to avoid the Marquis’s armies, and 
also those of this Sutt heir.  So where are they? 
We saw some evidence of fighting, but this land 
is empty!  The watchtowers are empty!  This 
frightens me more than a thousand fighting 
men.  I would rather see the armies that we might 
know where our enemy waits.  This,” Charles 
gestured to the empty watchtowers again, “tells 
me that the Marquis does not fear us or 
anyone.  This tells me that he is waiting for us, daring us to come to him.”
         “It says the same to us as well,” Andares added in a quiet voice.
         “Well,” the donkey mused, “what choice do we have?”
         “None,” Lindsay replied.
         Abafouq rifled through his knapsack, 
saying, “I am thinking it is time for us to wear 
the charms Guernef and I made.  These will help keep the corruption at bay.”
         Charles glanced from the Binoq to the 
two Åelf who sat atop their Rheh with either 
placid  or worried expressions.  He couldn’t tell 
which.  His eyes then stole to the two golden, 
green-eyed  horses.  What of them?
         “Will the Rheh leave us now?” the rat 
asked.  All of them, even Jerome who’d ridden 
next to the Binoq to help him distribute the 
charms, turned towards Qan-af-årael.
         The ancient Åelf ran a slender hand 
across the tender mane and proud neck of the 
least impressive of the Rheh.  The creature 
snorted, as if indignant at the question.  But 
there was also a hint of assurance in its equine 
voice.  For a moment, the rat recalled the burst 
of poetry that had cried out from the dwindling 
leaves at the edge of the Åelfwood so many weeks 
ago.  Yet he felt no closer to an answer; his 
question lingered in the air as the oldest living being considered it.
         Quietly, Jerome and Abafouq passed out 
the charms.  Charles slipped the simple yew 
pendant over his shoulders.  The wooden tree 
nestled beneath a band of the ivy twining his 
body.  One of the verdant petals curled into a 
chalice to embrace and protect it.  Beneath him 
he felt the trembling energy of his Rheh.  For a 
moment he imagined the great beast was impatient.
         After all the charms had been 
distributed, Qan-af-årael lifted his hand and 
afforded them a faint smile.  It stretched his 
ageless skin like a tanner would leather. “The 
corruption does not touch them the way it would 
us.  They have promised to guide us this far, and 
now they will take us even farther.  To the 
Chateau they will not go.  As far as they can, 
they will bring us.  It could a week or two more, 
or it could be a single day.  But they will go on with us.”
         Charles ran his claws through the soft 
mane, its silken hairs tingling his furless paws. “Thank you, Rheh.”
         “We do not have much more time,” 
Habakkuk said.  The kangaroo shifted, his bulky 
tail always making him uncomfortable in the 
saddle. “The Winter Solstice approaches.  It may 
feel warm to us for the season, but December is 
at our doorstep knocking.  If there is nothing 
else we need to do, we should ride on.”
         “Aye,” Charles said.  The rat leaned 
back in his saddle, long tail dangling over the 
Rheh’s  thighs as Sir Saulius had taught him what 
seemed a lifetime ago. “Let us be off.”
         None of them said another word as the 
Rheh started into a trot, and then leapt into the 
air to carry them past the empty watchtowers of a 
barren land.  Silently they rode, their charms 
bouncing against their chests and holding the 
evil air at bay.  The Marzac swamp beckoned 
before them, lush with green and poison.

----------

         Phil hopped back and forth across the 
terrazzo gardens in the palace’s main 
courtyard.  A bright blue sky surrounded him, 
bringing fresh air tinged with only the mild 
chill common to Whalish winters.  Twice in his 
youth he’d seen snow in the city streets, and 
during his days as a Naval Captain he’d witnessed 
it in many of the cities of the Midlands and 
Sathmore.  But it was not until he’d lived at 
Metamor that he’d learned to endure it for an 
entire season.  It was one thing he didn’t miss 
now that he lived in his homeland again.
         For the first time since he’d returned 
in February he felt energized and alive.  His 
adoptive father, King Tenomides, had recovered 
from his illness and now could see to the ruling 
of their people.  While Phil felt the burden of 
responsibility no less than before, he could now 
focus his attention on those things that he knew 
best — warfare.  And the corrupted fleet under 
the banner of Marzac would soon feel the wrath of his attention.
         “The fleet is ready to traverse the 
seas,” Commodore Pythoreaus said for the third 
time. “We wait only on your word, your highness.”
         “We will leave soon,” the rabbit 
replied.  His body, so often overcome by beastly 
instincts, seemed for the first time since his 
change utterly divorced from them.  He was 
confidant again, ready to face the rigours of 
battle with all the hardened instinct of a 
seasoned veteran.  Phil loved the feeling and 
savoured it as he waited, hopping along the 
garden paths with the Commodore dutifully 
trailing behind him. “But we must wait for 
Heraclitus.  We’ve suffered our greatest loss in 
centuries at the hands of Marzac.  If lose even a 
third of our fleet in this battle, we will be 
crippled for a generation.  Can you imagine what 
the other countries may do during our time of weakness?”
         “For centuries we’ve kept peace on the 
seas,” the older man mused. “I know why you wait, 
your highness.  But the men are anxious to avenge 
the loss of their companions.  You know it will 
do no good to wait too long.  And you’ve been 
pacing these gardens for two days now waiting for 
Heraclitus.  When he comes, messengers will be 
sent for you.  You should see to the men and give 
them encouragement.  Otherwise they will start to 
grumble and take their eagerness to the brothels  instead of the battle.”
         Phil stopped for a moment next to a 
cluster of hydrangea which lay dormant for the 
winter. “Well put.  Arrange for my carriage.  I 
will go down and see the men at the docks.  A 
quick inspection and promise that our fight is 
soon to come will keep their focus where it should be.”
         Pythoreaus nodded with a faint smile 
upon his lips.  He turned and began to walk away 
but his boots stopped after only a few 
paces.  Phil turned his head to see why he’d 
stopped, but though he saw Pythoreaus staring 
into the sky, the rabbit’s eye sight wasn’t good 
enough to see what he stared at. “What is it?”
         “Unless my eyes mistake me, your wait 
has come to an end, your highness.  I believe that is Heraclitus now.”
         Phil hopped to the man’s side and stared 
past the battlements towards the eastern 
mountains.  Their tops were white all year round, 
and within them lived the dragons of Whales.  The 
Whalish people did not go near those mountains 
out of respect for the elder wyrms, but from time 
to time, one of the younger dragons would 
volunteer their services to the Whalish Throne 
and take a Whalish name for their own.  So was it 
with the red-scaled Heraclitus.
         After a minute of staring, what had once 
been a pristine blue sky revealed the dragon 
coasting down to the palace.  Phil and Pythoreaus 
moved to a sheltered alcove to give Heraclitus 
room to land.  The dragon drew back his wings, 
extending his legs, large claws digging into the 
terrazzo and leaving gouges in the stones that 
the masons would shed tears over.  His front legs 
settled a moment later, his wings folding over 
his back, the long serpentine neck turning from 
side to side until great yellow eyes found 
them.  His long tail swayed gently back and 
forth, ponderous but held high enough to touch nothing.
         “Word has reached us, your highness, of 
the recovery of King Tenomides.” His voice boomed 
through the courtyard though Phil knew that he 
whispered. “My brethren rejoice in his majesty’s 
health.  They bade me also tell you that the 
blockade has been successful with but one incident.”
         “What incident is this?” Phil asked, 
alarm blossoming anew in his heart.
         Heraclitus turned his head to one side, 
eyes narrowed as he stared at the eastern 
mountains and beyond. “A single ship bearing the 
flag of Breckaris passed through the blockade 
near Tournemire. In the process it crippled the 
Anathes, though all of her crew were saved.” He 
turned his gaze back to Phil and Pythoreaus. “The 
ship was a cargo vessel, though it moved with a 
speed that implies an empty hold.  And it was 
aided by strange magics.  On board were seen 
creatures such as yourself, a blend of man and animal.”
         Phil stood on his hind feet, ears erect. 
“Metamorians?  Why would they be sailing to 
Marzac?   Don’t they know what will happen?” He 
hopped back and forth for a moment to regain his 
composure. “Were they followed?”
         “Two ships followed them out to sea for 
a day, before they realized they had been tricked 
by an illusion.  They never caught sight of them again.”
         Phil regarded the dragon as calmly as he 
could.  His instincts assured him that he was 
only moments away from being a tasty snack and 
that if he hurried he could burrow beneath the 
courtyard wall.  But he was a prince and a naval 
captain too. “Then we can only hope they have 
found a way of turning back the corruption.  We 
must turn our thoughts to the enemy fleet.  What 
say you of my request?  Will you and your venerable brethren come to our aid?”
         Heraclitus lowered his neck in 
obeisance, the broad scales only an inch above 
the ground. “Your highness, we wait for your command.”
         Phil turned to Pythoreaus. “Commodore, 
tell the captains, we leave port tomorrow 
morning.  It is time for battle.” He noted a 
fierce grin on the veteran’s face as he bowed.

----------

         Despite the fact that of the three sea 
voyages the raccoon had undertaken in the last 
six months this was the only one of which his 
true appearance was both known and welcomed by 
the captain and his crew, the turbulent seas were 
making it also the most taxing.  Both trips 
across the Splitting Sea had been calm and 
uneventful apart from the uncertain anxiety on 
his first and the utter ruin of his spirit on the 
second.  Now, though he felt a sense of peace 
he’d long thought lost, the tossing of the waves 
and the swaying of the small ship frequently made him ill.
         But rarely had it made him so ill that 
he’d kept himself locked in the room he shared 
with Nylene with the chamberpot between his legs 
incase he needed to vomit again.  In that 
undesirable position he found himself a little 
over two weeks after they’d left Silvassa.  The 
river was far behind, and to their east the coast 
of Sathmore slid past.  The day had begun bright 
and calm — as calm as the Great Western sea ever 
was — but a little after noon a storm had 
descended from the northwest and shook them as it 
hammered the boat with rain.  Flashes of 
lightning danced through the heavens.  The floor 
kept lifting and falling, turning and tilting 
until the raccoon’s stomach could stand it no longer.
         Nylene crouched beside him, one hand at 
his back, prayers whispered on her lips, but his 
ears could focus on none of them.  Where were 
Dvalin and Wvelkim now?  Were they testing 
him?  Or was he, as always, being too prideful 
again and thinking that all events around him 
happened because of him and for him?
         The priestess pressed her fingers 
against the small of his back.  He’d doffed the 
acolyte’s robe and stuffed it in a corner after 
retching his morning meal of fish across the 
front, and so sat with only his linens covering 
his middle.  He could feel her slender fingers 
stroking through his soft fur.  He shuddered at 
the rocking of the ship, and tried to think only of her touch.
         Outside he heard the shouts of the 
captain and his men as they worked to outlast the 
storm.  The hammering rain felt like the beating 
of thousands of drums against the deck.  And the 
flashes of light outside their porthole were 
quickly followed thunder that cracked like a 
faggot of wood breaking one branch at a time.  At 
one time he’d loved the rain, for in the parched 
land of Abaef rain was a blessing of life.  Now 
he wished it would just go away.
         Nylene put her other hand on his arm and 
brushed his thick pelt.  She ceased her prayers 
for a moment to lean closer and whisper into his 
ear. “Take heart, my Elvmere.  The storm is 
abating.” Out of reflex, he flicked his ear back 
and it brushed her cheek.  She leaned in closer 
and added, “Do you not hear?  The thunder and the 
lightning grow apart.  It is passing us by.”
         The floor jerked beneath him and he felt 
a spasm clutch his stomach, but he’d long since 
disgorged everything that was going to come 
up.  When the boat steadied, he turned his ear to 
listen for the thunder.  It was some seconds 
before the porthole brightened with a sudden 
flash, after which he tapped his claws five times 
against the chamberpot before the rolling thunder 
crushed the skies.  It did seem longer to him now that he thought about it.
         Nylene resumed her praying, and Elvmere 
tried to remember the words to the prayers she’d 
taught him.  A lifetime spent learning prayers 
had given him the ability to summon the words 
quickly, and soon he offered prayers to Dvalin, 
Wvelkim, and Kammoloth for their protection.  A 
small part of him also seemed to offer the same 
prayer to Eli, and he knew all help would have 
Him as its source.  Still, Elvmere recognized the 
gulf of excommunication and kept his focus upon the Lothanansi prayers.
         As the minutes passed the storm 
abated.  First the thunder and lightning receded, 
followed by the sloshing waves.  The rain 
continued for some time, but by the time Elvmere 
felt like he could stand again, it seemed more a 
gentle mist than a thousand hammer blows.  He 
took long deep breaths, tongue pressing between 
his short, sharp teeth with each one.  Nylene pet 
his back gently, her touch soothing his frayed nerves.
         “There, the storm has passed.  Come, you 
are weary.  Sleep in my bed this night.  You will 
only wear yourself raw if you continue to sleep on the floor.”
         Elvmere allowed her to ease him to his 
feet and guide him into the comfort of the small 
bed.  The sheets were smooth against this fur, 
drawing it in every direction.  He lay on his 
back, tail twixt his legs, head resting on a 
feather pillow.  It was more comfortable to lay 
like this.  The ship still rocked from side to 
side more than usual, but it no longer troubled him.
         Nylene leaned over and stroked between 
his ears before undressing.  Elvmere closed his 
eyes out of a sense of propriety.  But his ears 
heard the fall of her gown and the careful 
folding of each bit of cloth.  The floor creaked 
in a way distinct from the sea under her soft 
footsteps.  And then, he felt the covers shift 
and was aware of the warmth of her body sliding 
next to his own.  A hand rested on his chest, her 
thumb drawing through the fur over his breast.
         “Are you comfortable, my Elvmere?”
         He nodded. “Very.”
         “Good.” She leaned in closer and 
whispered, “Why do you close your eyes?”
         “It is improper to watch a lady undress.”
         “I am finished.”
         Elvmere blushed, ears folding back 
some.  His tail tip twitched between his 
legs.  Beneath her fingers his heart beat faster, 
a strange warmth suffusing him.  Still, it took 
him several seconds to overcome his modesty and 
open his eyes.  The cabin was lit by a single 
lantern, and to his left lay Nylene.  She lay on 
her side, the covers drawn up to her chest, 
though he still saw a sagging nipple  resting 
against the mattress.  Her face was turned from 
the lamp, but the smile radiated a light that seemed all the brighter.
         The bed was only just big enough for the 
both of them to lay next to each other.  Nylene’s 
legs brushed against his, and her toes explored 
his own.  He kept his feet still lest he cut her 
with his beastly claws.  She continued to brush 
her fingers over his chest, exploring the fur and 
muscles that lay beneath them.  Elvmere took his 
breaths slowly and deeply.  He knew instinctively 
he was treading upon waters he’d never before 
witnessed.  Not in all the long years of his life 
had any other touched him in this way.
         Ever since his return to Silvassa, he’d 
seen in Nylene a woman of strength and 
character.  She had taken him in and sheltered 
him, even risked her own standing to see him 
safely to Metamor.  This priestess of a faith 
once rival to his own but which he now sought 
entrance to taught him of the gods and their 
spheres of influence and how each came to 
Galendor to provide for the people living 
there.  These gods ministered to the needs of 
many races, something that the Ecclesia had yet 
to accomplish.  But never once did Nylene slander 
or say aught to disparage the Ecclesia or those who followed its ways.
         And never had Nylene looked at him as 
anything less than a man.  If he would ever be with a woman, this was she.
         Somehow without realizing it, Elvmere 
had slid one arm up to brush her hair from her 
face.  She in turn drew closer to him, their legs 
intertwining.  He rolled onto his side and drew 
her hair through his fingers and across her 
back.  With his paw pads he gently massaged the 
smooth but aging skin.  Nylene was many years his 
junior, but the curses of Metamor made it seem 
the other way.  And he could see in the warm 
appraisal of her eye that she enjoyed what it had done to him.
         With each passing moment, they drew 
closer and closer together.  Their legs twined as 
her toes curled through his tail fur.  His paws 
spread from her chest to her back, his snout 
nearing her face.  Those sensitive digits noted 
every crevice in her skin, from pox scars 
lingering since childhood, to creases age had 
brought her womanly shape.  Her hands spread 
through his fur from shoulder to the root of his tail.
         And then her lips brushed his snout, and 
the pounding of his heart blotted out all other 
thoughts.  Their bodies pressed together beneath 
the covers, one human one a blend of raccoon and 
man.  Yet for what seemed an eternity of 
discovery, those two became as one flesh.  For 
the first time in his life, Elvmere was 
intimately aware of the sensations in every part 
of his body.  He felt each strand of fur as it 
stood out, pressed flat from her skin or the 
blankets, and warmed him.  He knew the softness 
and pleasure of a woman.  He could smell 
fragrances that maddened the beast inside.  He 
was both animal and man more completely than he knew possible.
         A great gasp and it was done.  Elvmere 
rolled onto his back, gasping for breath, his 
paws clawing at the empty air above him.  The 
rocking of the ship seemed a mother’s hand upon a 
crib, soothing instead of nauseating.  Beside him 
Nylene sung a blissful song.  The air was rich with desire consummated.
         The raccoon man fell asleep even as 
Nylene’s lips brushed his cheek, forehead and ears.

----------

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

Charles Matthias