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[trazskil]

Re Pon Caana

(The Land Between Worlds Anthology: Issue #7)

By: Trazskil

   Rooftops. They’re always there. No matter where you go if there are people there are rooftops. From the smallest villages in Crossroads to the towering structures in Chalice, there was always somewhere to perch yourself and watch whatever happens below. A mother calming her crying child, a baker bringing out fresh sweet rolls for the public to smell and those with money to buy, and, of course, things are only done in back alleys.

Densley did his best to keep away from those, but as an assassin, there wasn’t much he could do about that. Even though he crafted most of his materials on his own and got his contracts from trusted sources, sometimes there was no other choice. Sometimes, the shady places were the best for business. That was not the case today, however. No, today, business was booming! There was a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in, but with his team that wouldn’t be a problem.

The real problem was the method. There was only so much crone’s blood left in the dark corners of the world. Especially now that the Messar Priests were extinct and there were very few places to procure holy acid. And even if you could find any, the price would be a king’s ransom.

Densley damned the crones, he might even go as far as to hunt them down out of vengeance for the priests, but the truth was he had enough crone’s blood for the job and the pay was a king’s ransom. He would finally be able to retire after thirty years of working in the shadows. Hell, they would all be able to retire! Only about twenty of them would actually retire though. This life was too familiar for the majority to do anything else, at least for now. Oh, to be young again!

Suddenly, Densley felt two cold, sharp points prickling his neck. Speaking of being young, he thought.

He had heard his assailant coming from about twenty feet away. It took her about three minutes to make her way to him, an impressive time, considering it was mid-day and the only big sound was the occasional breeze.

“Hello, Ayla,” Densley said, a smirk on his lips.

“Damn it!” Ayla hissed. “You knew I was here?” She withdrew her fangs and sat on the ledge next to where Densley crouched and let her feet dangle over the side.

“Only within the last twenty or so feet,” Densley admitted.

“Gods below!” she cursed, defeated.

“Within twenty-one feet, most people don’t have enough time to react,” Densley explained, pulling out his fangs from his sleeve. He turned the bi-forked weapon over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship of the hollowed out needle-like prongs for poison. The ergonomic but simple wooden grip allowed him to conceal it in his palm and the next second hold it like it was meant to be held: with the two prongs sticking out of his fist, weaving between the index, middle, and ring fingers.

In a flash, he pressed the prongs to Ayla’s side, she gasped but otherwise, did not move. Densley chuckled and slid the tool back into his sleeve. “When you’re close enough that your target can’t react in time, never hesitate. Go for the kill, right then and there.”

“And what if my target is someone like you? Quicker than a sprite and sneakier than a changeling?” Ayla asked.

“Bootlicking,” Densley said, the corner of his mouth tugged at a grin, “will get you nowhere with me, young lady.”

“And calling me a lady,” Ayla retorted, “will get you a kick in the stones.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe….” a wild grin spread across the youth’s face.

Densley looked at his protege seriously. He stared into her eyes and, for a moment, couldn’t figure out if she was messing with him or not. It took a minute, but he finally saw the twinkle and chuckled. “I’m glad you’re not serious,” he said. “I might’ve killed you.”

Ayla laughed and shoved him playfully. He smiled at her and remembered when he first found her; scared, alone, and forgotten in the Ubatan—the forest which surrounded Chalice and hid Stregge, the swamp where the crones lived. She didn’t remember her name or where she came from, just that she was angry. Angry, and scared. So he took her home to Chalice and she quickly became a member of his family, the group of assassins known as Pon Caana. They gave her a name because they couldn’t just go around calling her “Girl” any longer, and that was that. Ever since then, she ran with them.

He suspected that she thought of him as a sort of father, though, he wasn’t sure. They never really talked about that sort of thing. It was better not to get too sentimental in their kind of work for obvious reasons….  

“So,” Ayla said.

“Sew buttons on your shoes,” Densely said.

Ayla shot him a disapproving look. “What are we doing here?”

“Oh,” he said, looking over the ledge and down on the streets again. “Waiting.”

“For?”

“The others. I asked everyone that could to be here to discuss our newest contract.”

“Mhm. And then what?”

“And then we plan,” Densley said cryptically. “You know how it goes, you’ve done this a hundred times and it’s only been what, a year?”

“Eight months,” Ayla corrected. “I’m practically your baby.”

“Ugh!” Densley cringed. “What in nine hells is wrong with you?”

Ayla just laughed.

     They waited in silence for the rest to show up while they studied the streets below. Densley asked her questions and puzzles and wasn’t surprised when she answered them quickly and—most often—creatively. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was the best of them one day. She showed enough potential and was already more crafty than many others who had years of experience.

Eventually, more Pon Caana showed up. In twos and threes, some came solo, but never more than three at a time. A group that size was already pushing for suspicion and the last thing they needed was another fiasco like they had a few years ago when the Yammilla Royal Guard caught wind of their headquarters and ambushed them.

They killed a good twenty of Densley’s people before they were able to drive them out. Soon after, they moved the long way to Chalice which was a good week long trip from Yammilla. Everyone had their own place in the city and met up at a location only disclosed at the last moment and only when Densley approved it. The changes were not easy, but they learned from their mistakes and took extra precautions to be sure it would not happen again.

Once everyone gathered, all forty-eight that were currently in Chalice (many others were out across the Land Between Worlds fulfilling different contracts), Densley had Ayla join the group who formed a semi-circle on the flat roof. Well, not completely flat, they had to angle it inward so that any water that gathered in a rainstorm would pour down the drain in the center of it. In winter, they installed a temporary angled roof so the weight of the snow wouldn’t collapse the ceiling in on the buildings wealthy tenants. They quieted down and waited for their leader to speak.

Once Densley was sure he had their undivided attention, he began.

“For years I’ve spoken to you about a job to end it all. A job that would allow me and all of you to retire. I called all of you here today to let you know that the job has come,” Densley paused, giving the news time to sink in and for the crowd to murmur a little, then continued. “This job is dangerous, it is cruel, and it is unlike anything any of us have ever done. But, I promise, if you follow me to this thing, we will be richer than any of you can imagine!”

Excited whispers spread along the roof like a wave. Some were skeptical, others were outright doubtful, but most were excited at the prospect of riches and retirement. He let them chatter on until they finally died down again, then he looked over them grinning like a mad man.

“Well,” said one of the male Pon Caana, a good man named Tips, “what’s the job?”

Densley’s grin widened even more, something that might have seemed impossible to some. “The King of Chalice,” he said.

Immediately, a silence washed over the crowd, jaws dropped, eyebrows rose, and astonished faces gaped at their leader in shock.

“I know,” Densley began before anyone could gather their wits to interrupt him, “it’s risky and I know it’s something we don’t usually do, but I need the help of everyone on this. In fact, I’ve already sent word to the others not to take any other contracts and to come back immediately to Chalice, once they’re finished with whatever they are currently doing.

"I won’t lie to you, this will be the most dangerous thing we have ever done, some of you will die, I could die! But I need every one of you to help me with this. And after, we’ll split the winnings evenly eighty-seven ways, just like we always do on big jobs, and we can all retire or do whatever you want!”

“How much, exactly, is the contract for?” someone in the back blurted.

“Who gave you the contract?” another asked.

Soon, the entire crowd was speaking, their voices climbing over each other trying to be the one that was heard, like a bunch of ravenous ghouls fighting to be the first to take a bite out of five-day rotted flesh.

“Enough!” Densley finally shouted over them, before they could grow too loud. “Enough. I will be happy to talk to any of you who have questions later, what I need to know right now is who is with me? Again, let me say that everyone that helps is entitled to a share, but no one will be made to help.”

They were all quiet, contemplating the words of their leader. But it wasn’t long before Drie, a rough looking skinny woman with a husky voice, stepped forward. "We’re all with you, Dens.”

Everyone around her nodded at that and it, like so many things, spread to the rest of them. All the while, Ayla stood as still as a statue, her arms crossed over her chest, her feet stood apart taking a firm stance, and her eyes held Densley’s in a dark glare. The only thing to move was her raven hair as the breeze came and went.

“What’s wrong, Ayla?” Densley asked, over the muttering that had started up again. Everyone stopped talking and looked at the youngest, and newest member of the Pon Caana. She wasn’t even marked yet, but she was getting close. Just a few more weeks and she would be taking her fangs and—without venom—jamming them into her left arm. The act would leave two dots as scars about an inch apart, marking her as a Pon Caana.

“What’s wrong?” Ayla asked incredulously. “What’s wrong is you’re a hypocrite!”

“What are you talking about?” Densley asked.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” Ayla spat. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! Your ‘code.’ The very first thing you ever taught me when you brought me in.”

“What about it?” Densley asked acting ignorant. His heart pounded, this was precisely what he was afraid of; that someone would not understand.

“You told me that there are three things we do as Pon Caana, as assassins,” she paused and held up her fist then counted on her fingers with each tenet of the code. “One: Only accept contracts that you can handle, if you cannot handle it alone then find someone to go with you and split the reward. Two: Never fight, unless absolutely necessary. Fighting attracts more people; more people, more problems. Three: Never accept a contract to kill an innocent. Never.”

“And?” Densley asked, he knew what she would say next but he was prepared for it, so he let her loose.

“King Traean Niewax of Chalice is an innocent!” Ayla said, exasperated. “It’s like explaining it to a four-year-old!”

“No king is innocent, foolish girl!” said Lurk, one of the men standing next to her. Densley thanked him silently, now knowing he wasn’t the only one that thought this way, he didn’t feel so alone. He didn’t have to feel too guilty.

“But he is a good person,” Ayla insisted. “And if what you say were true, Lurk, then no one is innocent. You imply that he has to be perfect, but no one is, especially not us. His actions are only more noticeable because of his high status, especially his bad ones.”

“If you don’t want to help us, Ayla,” Densley said, trying and failing to shrug off his unease which stuck to him like a spider’s web, “then you don’t have to help at all.”

“I don’t want to be a part of any of it!” Ayla roared. “You can keep your damn money. Your hospitality can go to the nine hells, maybe Dozii will want it. But I won’t have any of it.”

In a whirlwind of black clothing and raven hair, she stormed off and dropped off the roof and out of sight, leaving Densley with the other Pon Caana and a knot in his stomach so large he immediately vomited. Everyone cleared, giving him space to finish ejecting whatever was bothering him. When he finished, he looked up to see everyone staring at him. He sneered, wiped the corners of his mouth, and spat.

“We have work to do,” he growled. “We’ll meet across town, I’ve rented us the entire Third Floor Tavern.”

…

Weeks later, everything was falling into place. Everything that is except for Ayla. Densley expected her to come to her senses and appear in his office, sorry and willing to come back. But she never did. Even after everything he had done for her, she was just gone and there was little he could do about it.

Not that he was sure there was anything he could have done in the first place. Even if he had chased after her, he was still going to go through with his plan. The money was just too good and he needed to retire, him and many others. Besides, no king was ever genuinely innocent. They all had something that made them a tyrant, even the supposed good ones.

The assassination was happening the next day. The plan was simple unless things went sour then it got complicated. But they were well practiced and that was enough. Densley would be the one to take the king’s life, and if he failed, one of his men would be right behind him to finish the job.

Contracts as big as these could only go one of two ways; really well or very poorly. Obviously, Densley hoped for the former, however, one could never be positive. Only fools are positive.

He pushed himself away from his desk, needing to step out of his office and get some fresh air. He stepped out and made his way to the balcony. There he saw something he did not expect but should have.

“Hello Dens,” Ayla said without turning to look at him, her raven hair blew lazily in the breeze. Her white clothes reflected the full moon’s light brightly. “Guilty conscience keeping you up?”

Densley said nothing as he walked out, closing the door behind him, and leaned against the railing peering over the ledge like a crow. His dark clothes were stark against the brightness of his protege.

How could she know him so well? It had only been nine months and she knew exactly how his mind worked. She knew exactly who he was, but he knew as much about her as she did. Maybe it was because of the amnesia that gave her that gift…. She couldn’t know herself, so she knew others.

“I have to do this, Ayla,” he said finally.

“No,” Ayla said, turning to him. “You don’t.”

“You don’t understand,” Densley said, uneasily. “You haven’t lived this kind of life for as long as we have. For as long as I have. At least this way I’ll be able to retire. Otherwise, it’ll be another ten years before then and who knows if I’ll even be alive by then! At least this way, it’s not just me. At least this way, others can retire too. As many as may want to, in fact. Even you could! Imagine, a girl your age living comfortably, never having to worry about what you’re going to have to do for tomorrow’s meal.”

"And then what, huh?” Ayla said, getting right in his face. She didn’t even seem to hear that last part. “The next leader will follow your example and kill whoever they want. Whatever contract comes along, they’ll take. Guilty or innocent. They’ll think, ‘we killed a king, so what’s some street rat so long as its money?’ You want that on you as well, Densley?”

“You don’t know what will happen,” Densley said, trying to convince himself more than the girl. “How could you?”

“I’ve said what I came to say. The rest is up to you.” She held out an open hand, something glittered in it in the moonlight. Densley reached for it slowly then picked it up and looked at it. It was her fangs.

“I’m giving them back to you Densley,” Ayla explained. “I didn’t earn them and the last thing you need is a pair of fangs just lying around.”

Densley held them back out to her. “They’re a gift. You don’t need to earn them. You never did.”

“Trust me, Densely, you don’t want to give me those.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you go through with it tomorrow, I will hunt you down and kill you. The last thing you want to give me is the tool to your own destruction.”

“You’re just being dramatic,” Densley shrugged. “You and I both know that’s not going to happen.”

“Try me,” Ayla spat. Her face darkened and her eyes unreadable.

Densley retracted slightly but held out his hand still. Ayla hesitated just a moment, then shrugged and snatched up the tool. She perched herself on the rail, looked over her shoulder and looked at Densley as if to say, “see you soon,” and vaulted over the railing and fell onto a ledge below, her loose clothes flapping wildly as she seemed to glide like some banshee in the night. Then she hopped from there to the roof to her right and from there she was out of his sight.

…

Each Creddling King Niewax liked to take walks down the main road which connected the middle and low districts of Chalice. He liked to browse the morning flea markets then buy some street food for lunch, showing the people, his people, that he was just as common as they were.

But Densley knew better. The king couldn’t be any more common if a plague took him and his entire house. The only thing the king had in common with these wretches was that he was mortal. Yes, King Traean Niewax was mortal and he would die today like any mortal, regardless of any reproach, or apprehension, or even any guilt that Densley felt.

He watched from the rooftop where he was perched, then looked up from his vantage to see that his people were in place; two more on the roofs on either side of the street, two tailing the king and his guards, and twenty more mingled among the crowd, waiting in case things went badly. Each one knew what they needed to do and would not hesitate once he gave the signal.

The rest were waiting for him back at headquarters on the far side of the low district. Each one of them wanted in. Each one wanted a part to play. And even though he couldn’t use every single one in the actual assassination, each one had done their part; from gathering intel to infiltration and scouting of the palace. Everyone would get their share and do whatever they wanted after.

He peered back down at the busy street, people bustled here and there, shops yelled at passersby for attention to their stand. Smells of fried dough and lamb filled his nostrils, even from fifty feet in the air. He shook his right arm slightly and his fangs fell into his hand.

Their elegant design was complemented by the engraving he had one of his people do. Immaculate and, as others put it, “fancy,” swirling lines formed vines all around the metal prongs, each one carrying a flower at the end of it. The polished metal shined brightly in the mid-day sun and the wood handle was worn but smooth in Densley’s palm. He inhaled, in a meditative fashion, then let go of the air.

There was no more time to contemplate. It was now or never. He gripped his fangs once more, pulled back the spring loaded door which revealed the glass syringes in each prong which were both filled with a dark, almost black liquid. Crone’s blood. He let go of the little doors and they snapped shut, then he put the fangs back up his sleeve. He looked at his men on the rooftops to the left and right of his and gave the signal.

At once, they sprung into action, each one disappearing from their position and Densley from his. He launched himself to a rain gutter on the wall of a building close to his and slid down it to the balcony below. Once he was close enough, he hopped off and touched down, letting his hands make contact on the floor to take away some of the shock to his knees.

He did not so much as pause. In a fluid motion, like water on rock, he pounced to the balcony to his right and below him, landing cat-like on the outer part of the banister, the railing dug into his palms only for a split second before he ejected backward and spun one-hundred eighty degrees and landed in a roll in the unoccupied alley.

The king would be passing by shortly and all Densley had to do was be ready to deliver the final blow. By now his people were already poisoning the king’s guards, injecting the Hydra plant extract which would slowly start to paralyze their bodies. An unpleasant experience, or so he had been told by his colleagues, but they would survive.

They needed to survive, it was part of the contract instructions. Make sure no one can stop you, but everyone can see you, including the guard. Everyone needs to know their beloved king is dead.

Densley stepped out into the crowd and followed it as naturally as he could without being trampled on or being pushy. There was a very thin time frame to kill the king and if he didn’t make it, then there would be no other chance. No more chances to retire after this, even if it meant killing an innocent. Ayla was right, but what was he to do? Everyone else was with him why wasn’t she? It was now or never.

Fifteen feet from the king now, his guards were starting to feel the effects of the poison, he saw it in their faces.

Ten feet. Their legs are freezing up, but still moving.

Five feet. He was so close and the clatter of spears hitting the ground startled the king as he spun around to see what was happening to his guards now spasming out of control as they tried and failed to regain control of their paralyzed bodies. Why couldn’t Ayla see what he did?

Densley stopped nine inches from King Niewax. A knot in his stomach and fangs in his hand as he stepped forward, stuck the man quickly, feeling the slight click in his palm as the poison injected itself, and pulled the needle-like prongs back. The king yelped at what he might have thought was a dog biting him from behind before turning around to see Densley standing with his mouth open slightly and his eyebrows raised. What…  have I done?

“I'm… I’m sorry,” Densley mumbled and the king collapsed, grabbing onto Densley’s black jacket for support which quickly left him as Densley turned and disappeared into the crowd before the screaming could commence.

It was over. The assassination was a success. But it didn’t feel that way, even later that night when they were all back at the Third Story, celebrating and drinking to their victory. Densley did not drink, however, not even to calm his nerves. He trudged out to the balcony and waited for Ayla to come and kill him, just like she said she would.

He waited for what must have been an hour, but she never came. Pitty, too. He would have let her do it. Maybe she was just being dramatic? So he turned around and went back inside. He sauntered into the back room, politely kicked everyone out with a bottle of his favorite whiskey and closed the door.

The party raged on all night. And all night he watched from the windows of the back room as his people—his family—drank themselves into comas. When the morning came, there were ten huge sacks of gold Buckles. The metal rectangles with the middles cut out of the centers were waiting for him to divide equally. After he took his share, he announced the new leader, Millehz, an elvish woman and one of the best who said they weren’t ready to retire.

He took his sack of money and stuffed it in a travel bag with the few belongings he ever had and hefted it onto his shoulder. Before he left, he shook out his fangs onto his desk, the prongs sticking into the wood and gushing out whatever remnants of crone’s blood that was left in them. He shut the door behind him and left his house key by the door handle with a note that read, “For Millehz.”

Then he slipped out and left Chalice, the place he had called home for some twenty years, without so much as a smirk.

[trazskil]

King of Chalice

(The Land Between Worlds Anthology: Issue #6)

King Traean Niewax leaned over the balcony. The people of Chalice bustled in the streets below his tower. A breeze of fresh evening summer air rushed over the surrounding forest and filled his lungs. He sighed with memories of a time long ago before he had the responsibilities of a king.

It was a simpler time then. Yes, a simpler time with simpler people. Even as a young prince, his father never gave too much responsibility to him, so he had plenty of time to enjoy his adolescence with his mates and Dommii—the only person to have ever stolen his heart. Her light brown hair bounced with each step as if complimenting her lively self. Funny, how that was the one of the few things he could remember about her now. Even her face, except for her smile, was a complete blur to him. But, that's what happens with time. How long had it been? Twenty years? More?

He remembered the last time he had ever seen Dommii. He was twenty-six, they went out for lunch, a picnic in the royal gardens, where she told him she was leaving. He thought they would make it work, write to each other, meet whenever they got the chance. But life is not like the stories of lovers.

Soon after she left, Traean's father died and he became the King of Chalice and its surrounding areas. He became too busy to write to her and she soon faded into the past. They did meet much later in life. She was hurt that he never wrote back to her. He tried to apologize, but it was too late. He let their relationship—whatever it might have been—fail.

"My Grace," said a well known male voice behind him, breaking the King from his reverie.

The king exhaled deeply, breathing out that summer breeze, and turned from the setting sun to face his ward. Traean never married nor did he sire children. So, when his advisors were about to give up on him, they suggested that he chose a ward. So, he went to an orphanage, spoke with all the children there, decided that this boy—now a man—was the one, and gave him a home.

"Yes, Petruccio?" Traean said. "Come in." The boy had a peasant's name, but that never bothered him, so it never bothered the king, either.

Petruccio entered and gave an informal bow, as they were in each other's company and no one else's. Had there been others, he would have shown a much longer and deeper bow.

"I was wondering if you might like to take supper with me tonight," Petruccio said. "It has been a while since we have had time together, what with your advisors hounding you all day and while you're at court during the evenings… well, we hardly have a moment together anymore, My Lord."

Petruccio made a good point, they hadn't spent much time together lately, but it wasn't for the reasons he suspected, no. In truth, there was something else going on and the king was reluctant, no, repulsed at the idea of speaking of it to his ward. His son.

Traean sighed and nodded his head, inviting the young, dark-haired, man in. Petruccio opened the door and in followed one of the palace's servants with a foldable table and chairs. After he set them up, Traean dismissed him and Petruccio placed a basket on the table.

It had simple peasant food, dark bread with goat cheese and salmon. Simple, but it was what his ward had grown up eating before coming to the palace and when he introduced it to the king it quickly became one of their favorites. It was the uncomplicated things like this which made King Traean happy and his ward was just that, uncomplicated.

They sat and ate in silence before Traean cleared his throat, steeling himself to speak. Petruccio looked up at him and opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated, likely realizing that his master was also about to speak. Instead, he shoved a piece of bread with goat cheese in his mouth and chewed it vigorously.

Traean raised an eyebrow at this, disapproving the uneducated behavior, but said nothing of it. Instead, he pushed on. "I need to tell you something, Petruccio, and I need you to listen."

Petruccio, still chewing the large chunk of food, nodded thoughtfully.

"I'm going to die soon," the king declared.

Petruccio choked and grabbed at his cup then gulped down the entire contents of wine. He pounded his chest and filled his cup and downed it again. Gasping, he held up a finger, indicating for Traean to wait while he gathered himself. "You what?"

"You heard me, son."

Petruccio gave the king a meaningful look. He knew well that Traean would only call him "son" in the most significant and private of their encounters.

"Father," he responded, noting the urgency of his claim. "I do not understand. Have you fallen ill?"

"No."

"Have you been poisoned?"

Traean shook his head.

"Well, don't leave me guessing!" Petruccio said, growing irritated.

"I don't know when nor do I know how, but someone is going to kill me."

"How do you know this?"

Traean was silent for a long time, thinking of the best way to tell his ward what he knew. There were people and times with which to be careful. To his advisors, he had to speak of this matter after weeks of understanding it. Then he was sent to the different priests of the Nine Gods and there he had to tell them the exact same thing in an entirely different way. Now, he was with the person he trusted most. Now, he was with his son.

"I have had… visions," Traean began, not choosing his words carefully. Not caring about the order they came out. He simply spoke freely. "There is more to the world than we can know, more to the Land Between Worlds. More beyond this place. In my visions, I see many things to come. One of those things is my death… .

"These visions have already started to come to pass, and next to happen is my death. I do not know how it is to happen or when. Only that  many other things have happened all around the Land Between Worlds, changing it leaving it worse than it once was."

Petruccio did not wait to respond, "Visions? How can you be sure?"

"Next time you are out at the market, listen to what the people around you say. They will speak of odd things, dark things, things that should not happen in the Land Between Worlds."

"Father, I--"

"I know that odd things happen all the time, Petruccio. Those things are not these things."

"Alright," Petruccio said, carefully. "Then, at least tell me what you mean."

"Have you ever heard of anything strange at any of the Barriers?" Traean asked.

"Strange how?"

The king gave his ward a knowing look.

"I heard a few people talking about how a patrol found a grown man throwing rocks at the Northern Barrier. They said that his eyes were violet and swirling." Petruccio looked at his father, brow raised.

The king nodded his head, affirmingly.

"But that's just hogwash!" Petruccio protested. "People make up stories all the time!"

Traean sighed, realizing he needed a to take a different tack. "What do you know of Messar?"

"The Old God?"

"Yes."

"Not much, other than not many people are left that are faithful to him."

"There are no more," the King corrected.

"What do you mean?"

"You won't have to wait for long, Petruccio. News will soon arrive that a man named Mast from Ichiké was killed by poison. He was the last Priest of Messar. His religion died with him, drowned in pools of crone's blood."

"I don’t like where this is going, my lord."

Traean narrowed his eyes at his ward. Petruccio formally referring to him in private was never a good sign. Time to change tactics, again.

"My son, I am telling you these things because I trust you," the king said.

"Trust me?" Petruccio asked, incredulous. "If you trusted me I would have been the first to hear of it. Not your priests! Or am I to believe that I am the first?"

Traean started, then recoiled. The words stung worse than he had expected. It was not his intention to lose his son's trust, but what other option did he have?

"I had to be sure what I was seeing was real before coming to you. I did not want to betray your trust, but I could not have you worrying about something that could have been nothing either. I am sorry."

Petruccio let loose a long, audible sigh through his nose. "I understand why you do what you do, father. Though I wish you would allow me to be a part of these things in the earlier stages. I've been your son for fifteen years now and yet you leave me out of so much… ."

"Petruccio, you know—"

"Yes, I know why. But you are the King! You are he who decides the law and can make a change. You have made so much change, great change, and all for the good of Chalice and her surrounding areas. So why, father, why have you not changed this?"

Traean knew what his ward was getting at. He could adopt him as a son, but could not name him heir to his throne. Though Petruccio was not asking for the throne, nor did he necessarily want it, he did want to be a part of his father's political life. Traean knew this. It was something that they had spoken of many times before and each time it ended in the same result.

"When?" Petruccio asked, breaking the silence in the now dim room, lit only by candlelight which flickered, spreading tiny shadows on the round stone walls.  

"I don't know exactly," Traean confessed. "I only know right before something happens, then right after. As if something is confirming it to me." The king paused, thinking. "Soon. Soon is my best guess. But it could be anytime within the hour or up to next week."

"Nine days…  is there any way to stop it?" Petruccio asked doubt thick in his tone.

"I have tried," Traean said. "With each vision, I send someone to watch or guard whoever the target is. No matter what they do, they cannot stop it. Whatever is meant to happen will happen. Whatever is meant to happen is fated to us."

"You always taught me that we choose our own fate. That we can decide to act or not."

"I used to believe that were so."

"But not now."

The king nodded solemnly. "We can take all the precautions we want, put guards all around me, have taste testers try my food before I do, but no matter what, my assassination will happen."

"Then we prolong the inevitable," Petruccio suggested. "Keep you alive for as long as we can or at least until we know there will be a good king in line next. We cannot let your advisors choose someone, or worse, have some tyrant take the throne right out from under you."

Traean said nothing. He did not move to indicate whether or not he agreed with his ward or not. He just sat very still, the only thing moving was his chest as he breathed. He watched his ward, however, until his eyebrows rose and his eyes widened, realizing what the king already knew.

"That won't matter either, will it?" Petruccio asked. "Someone terrible is going to take over Chalice no matter what we do."

"Yes."

"But you must have some plan, right?"

"I--Yes."

"You're uncertain of it?"

"Yes, but not because of some vision. I have not received another vision since that of my foretelling death."

"What is it then?" Petruccio asked a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"For you to enter into exile."

"What?" he asked, once more incredulous at his father’s words.

"I want you to leave. There is nothing that you can do now, not for me and not for Chalice if you stay here. But, if you go, there may be a chance still. There may be hope for a better future."

"I will not run though fear stands before me."

"This is no time to quote scripture, boy," the king snapped. "You will not argue with me either. This is my last wish from you. You will take the money I give you, take my best horse and go. This is not about running like a coward; it is about living to fight another day."

Petruccio looked as though he might say something, argue, but he nodded instead.

"I need you to leave tonight, son, but before you go..." the king choked and a well of tears pooled in his eyes, "before we part for this life, know that I love you. You are the one person who has brought me light and joy. You are my greatest treasure."

Petruccio stood and walked to his father, knelt where he sat and embraced him so fiercely they almost toppled the chair. They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity, but when they finally let go King Traean Niewax wished it could have been just a few moments longer.

[trazskil]

Creatures of the Night

The Land Between Worlds Anthology: Issue #5

The following is an excerpt of the transcription from the lost diary of the crone known as Sirael. Found shortly after she assassinated Mast, the last of the Messar Priests, and the massacre at the Docks some thirty miles outside of Ichiké. The book itself was found next to her corpse in an acceptable condition (much of her blood had spilled onto its pages). The ink, however, was found miraculously impeccable.

The diary itself was then placed carefully into a burlap sack (as to not touch the accursed blood, as even when dry can make one’s skin itch) and carried to an undisclosed location in Chalice to be purged of the poisonous red substance. Thanks to many brave souls we now know about many creatures of the night, an advantage we did not have before and have been using since to rid the world of such beings known as shapeshifters, wendigos, crones, and other like abominations.

Make no mistake, the crone who originally wrote the words you are about to read makes it seem as though we—humans and elves that is—are in the wrong. I find it my duty to inform you that Sirael is more than incorrect in this assumption. As a studied historian, I can assure you I know what I am talking about.

Notes are written in brackets by the mysterious man of few words known as Cedar. (That is all he allowed me to write about him here).

Enjoy,

-Professor D. D. Highfork

Telling, 33rd of Jin, 734 O.T.B. [O.T.B. means “Of The Barriers.” Some would argue it means something crude, but I can assure you it does not.]

Killing the priest was easier than I had anticipated. Not that getting into the chapel was difficult, nor was paying the boy to take all of his holy acid and dump it into the stream. I did more than half expect him to be carrying some sort of dagger—or at least a shiv—coated in holy acid. I was counting on it, in fact, so you can imagine my face as I strolled easily out of the chapel, leaving the poor bastard to choke.

Now, I’m off to the small town known as the Docks. One more errand I need to run before I make the journey back to Stregge. At least this time it’s an errand for my sisters and me. Not that I mind doing Dozii’s bidding, but I certainly cannot take his mundane orders all the time. [Dozii is one of the new gods known as the god of death, decay, destruction, etc. here in the Land Between Worlds. She has many names, however, and I do not just mean variations like; Doz, Doz’ll, Dozirii, Do, Doxill’m, etc. Her other names are too horrid to mention here, even in written text. Thus I refrain from doing so.] So simple all the time. “Kill this person.” “Kill  that person.” “Make sure no one sees you and your target knows who it’s coming from.” “This time, simply leave a note on the wall, painted in their daughter’s blood. They’ll back off.”

I have one word for you. Monotonous! Of course, it’s important work, but there’s no passion in it. No fun!

At least it’s almost over now, my master’s work, that is. Just one more task before it’s ready, but before we get on that, it’s off to the Docks. One little town has been a little too rude to our friends in the dark. Not to mention small towns always have the most bored young people, perfect for recruiting.

   Anyway, I’m getting off topic, and the sun will be up soon. Time for bed. Can’t be caught skulking around in the human’s and elves’ precious daylight! How I miss it though. The sun rejuvenating my skin would turn me back into the young, perky woman I was when I first started my life as a crone. But instead, I wear this saggy bag of bones. At least I have a Knockaround for such occasions that I do need to show myself in the daylight. Otherwise, it would look extremely odd shedding my saggy human-like skin and changing it for beautiful, soft baby-like skin.

       Tremm, 34th of Jin, 734 O.T.B.

       I passed a wraith this evening. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one, but this far out in the country I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised. We glanced at each other and went our separate ways. The wraith seemed to be having a splendid time waiting for someone to haunt, so I didn’t interrupt and continued my way toward the Docks. I’ll be there within an hour of nightfall. Perfect amount of time to set up and prepare.

   Leg, 1st of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

       Just before I began the night’s plans, I knew that I would need to change my appearance to something a little less…  disgusting. I pulled out my Knockaround and muttered a little something into it. In seven seconds I transformed into a beautiful, pale-skinned, raven-haired, woman. My lips were redder than any rose and my cheeks were flushed and full. I was ready.

It wasn’t hard finding the youth. Many snuck out to play hide and seek or go for a romp in the woods. Some were apprehensive, at first, meeting a stranger in the woods is hard to trust right off. When they heard what I had to offer, however, they could not refuse.

“Magic?” they all asked, a light burning in their eyes. “Real magic?”

In the seven total, there were three that stood out the most. Bronny was apprehensive and untrusting as a stray cat in Chalice. He didn’t want anything to do with, as he put it, “witchy things.” Good thing his friends were there. Nothing like good ol’ fashioned peer pressure.

   But once they got into it, Bronny didn’t hesitate and he showed his true colors. He even promised to bring his little brother sometime. I told him not yet and that they would need to wait until the time was right and if all went well, great things would happen to them.

   Kappie is my favorite. So bright and full of life. Hardly had to tell her what she needed to do. It was as if she was meant to be a crone. Too bad she probably won’t make it. Jemmy on the other hand, now she has the right stuff! Just as bright as Kappie, but ruthless and willing to do whatever it takes. The others, well, their names aren’t exactly worth mentioning. They’re more like pawns that will play exactly as I tell them. No need to push or pull. They’ll simply do.

   Now onto how I lured them in…

   It was late, well past midnight, the moon was nearly full and I had a full fire going. Over it, I hung my traveling cauldron and began to brew. Nothing sinister, just some herbs, spices, and rabbit meat that I had acquired earlier. I’m sure it smelled delicious because it drew Jemmy right to me. I told her a quick bit of folklore and shared my fire with her. She was so intrigued and her smile was so wide anyone could have seen it for miles.

   I asked her if she had any friends that might like to hear similar stories and have dinner around the fire with me. She nodded and bolted off into the night, returning minutes later with the entire slew of them. Oooh, I get giddy just thinking about it!

   I told them a few stories and had them eat all my stew and shared the warmth of my fire. Not that I would have wanted any of the food. Horrid stuff, cooked meat is. I’d much rather it raw, not alive, but raw. With blood dripping down my chin and neck. Yummy!

   Once they were satisfied, heads filled with fantasy [When she says fantasy, she refers to truth. There is often very little difference between the two.] and bellies full with food, I sent them off and invited them back tomorrow night. If all goes well, which it should—nothing could go as horribly as Glosvee a few years ago. What a catastrophe that was. [If you feel you must know what she refers to here, see Horrid Happenstances at Home by Berry Soule; pp. 254. The entry entitled Glosvee: A Town of Wretches will tell you everything you think you want to know.]

   Dozii, 2nd of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

   I’ve gained their trust.

   I showed them a bit of Tripping, what they call “magic” and they were all very impressed. [What is known as “Tripping” is a type of magic. I do not understand why she refuses to call it as such as it is just as much magic as a Knockaround is.] Even Bronny wants to learn something. So I taught them all… something. A Sparks Tripping. Nothing advanced, by any means, but it will definitely get the snowball rolling. Maybe even get some of them into trouble with the townsfolk. It will be interesting to see who comes back tomorrow night.

   I made sure each of them knew to not use the “magic” in the day time. Forbade it, in fact, but I know children and they will disobey. They will want to know why they shouldn’t use it in the day time and they will find out one way or another.

   I explained what they could use the sparks for; lighting a fire, creating a distraction, etc.  and warned them once again to not get caught by anyone, or else there would be trouble. We will see who is clever tomorrow, though. We will see who is clever and around my fire once more and we will see who is dead.

   Gathering, 3rd of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

   Only two were caught yesterday. Luckily not my favorite. But now there were only Jemmy, Bronny, and Kappie and two others whose names I have not bothered to learn. May they be caught quickly, so I have no need to worry about them. Bronny told me that their parents found them using the sparks. One was beaten to death and the other was drowned as an example to the rest of them.

   This bit of knowledge made me extra curious as to why Bronny was even still there. Jemmy and Kappie I understood. But Bronny? What was a skittish boy doing here with someone who is obviously a witch? Oh well, he’ll be gone soon and it won’t be my problem.

   The other two wanted to leave and never come back to my fire and I told them that it was their choice, but once I explained that the knowledge they knew was with them forever, they decided to stay. No sense in having only one piece of the puzzle…

   So tonight I taught them a little more. I asked them what each of them wanted to be able to do. If they could possess any one power, what would it be? Each one said something different, Bronny wanted to learn how to become invisible, so I taught him a Shadow Tripping. Kappie learned to further her pyromancy, so I showed her a Flame Tripping. The other two were boring and wanted as much candy as they could eat. But Jemmy? Jemmy wanted to learn how to bend people to her will.

   She was a little nervous about asking it of me and she did so in private so that none of her friends might hear what she had to say. But I taught them each what they wanted. One by one, I took them deep into the forest where we practiced for hours and hours and when the sun was beginning to rise, I sent them all home. No need for them to see my haggard old self. Besides, I needed to give the Knockaround a rest, mostly for my own sake.

[For those of you who are unfamiliar with Knockarounds; they are a type of amulet that almost anyone can use to transform one’s visage into something completely different, including clothing and gender. It takes immense amounts of concentration and the perfect knowledge of a dead language, the name of which, I cannot write here. Think of it as an entire wardrobe of disguises that weighs half a pound and is worth more than you want to pay. Trust me, even if you could afford to buy one of these relics, you wouldn’t want one. They attract the worst kind of attention from the worst kind of company.]

   I told them not to return tomorrow night as I will need to rest. And I do. Which means I will not be writing tomorrow for Sierra, 4th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. Great things are coming.

   Creddling, 5th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. (Day)

It’s been a while since I’ve walked around in daylight. If it wasn’t for my Knockaround, I don’t think it would be possible. Perhaps with a powerful bit of Tripping, but I have far better things to spend my energy on as it is.

The town known as the Docks goes without much description, but I’ll go into it a little anyway, for prosperity and all that.

The Docks is a one road town that has all its buildings on either side. Cottages, a smith’s forge, an abandoned church which appears to have been turned into a sort of townhouse. And at the end of it all, the docks for fishing craft and the occasional cargo import and export across the lake. [In case you don’t have a map handy or have never seen a map of the Land Between Worlds, the lake she is referring to here is Death’s Lake.]

A few people noticed me as I walked through their town, but hardly anyone said anything unless I approached them at their work. Then it was the usual greetings, but every so often there would be a, “Never seen you before.” or “Long way from home?” or “Piss off! I ain’t got time for strangers mucking about my business.” No need to take offense at this, so I kept going about my day. Waiting for something to happen.

It eventually did a couple of hours after midday. I was sitting at the docks, dangling my feet in the cool freshwater when a large group of people was causing quite the commotion. They made their way over to where I was sitting and—not wanting to get in the way—I slid to the back of the crowd to watch what I had been waiting for.

Two children were produced from the crowd, the same two who wanted endless amounts of sweets. They were terrified as the people whooped and hollered for testing. They threw the boy in first, his ankles bound together with a chord, the slack of which was tied to many stones he made a lame splash and the crowd waited.

They waited, and waited, and waited some more. Then, after about five minutes, they pulled the corpse out of the water and was declared not a witch. Next, was the girls turn because surely they must have gotten the sweets from somewhere. And if he wasn’t the witch, then surely she was!

At that moment, I looked around me to make sure no one was watching and muttered a little something into my Knockaround and changed into the woman the girl knew from the campfire in the forest. We locked eyes and I smiled at her, but before she was able to say anything from her screams of terror, she too was thrown into the water with the same stones anchored to her feet. Another five minutes later they brought her up and pronounced her lifeless body, “Not a witch.”

But at least they were sure now. Even if they were not sure where the sweets came from. Not to worry though, they are in for quite the surprise. I’m sure of it.

Creddling, 5th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. (Night)

Bronny, Kappie, and Jemmy were all late tonight. But it was understandable. Four children in two days suspected, arrested, tried, and killed for witchcraft wasn’t unheard of, but it certainly made for a jumpy town. Once they were all settled in around the campfire, I asked them what they wanted to learn tonight. Bronny was the first to speak up.

“I think I speak for everyone when I say there’s nothing else we want from you, witch. You may think no one saw you at the docks today, but I did. I saw you change and watch as Milly and Jared drowned. You stood there and did nothing! You could have helped, but you did nothing!”

“Using your new skill, I see,” I nodded approvingly. “You impress me, Bronny. I honestly didn’t think too much of you. Tell me, do you still want to bring me your little brother? That would really speed things—”

“Shut up!” Kappie snapped, cutting me off.

I looked at her, incredulous. “Or what?”

“Nothing,” Kappie retracted. “But we are leaving. All of us. Go poison some other town, crone. C’mon, Bronny, and Jemmy.”

She turned to leave and Bronny followed, but Jemmy did not. Jemmy stayed seated staring into the fire, casually warming her fingers by it. It took a few steps, but Kappie finally realized her friend wasn’t at her side and she turned to look at her, but when Jemmy didn’t even flinch, Kappie stamped her foot in the soft dirt, making an underwhelming thud and stormed off with Bronny.

Once we were alone, I knelt across from her and waited for her to speak. We sat for hours, listening to the wood crackle as the fire died down and rose again when I stacked more logs onto it. Eventually, she spoke.

“I made them leave, you know.”

I nodded. “I am aware, and very impressed. Your skills have increased greatly in a day.”

Jemmy nodded.

“Are you ready for more?”

She nodded again, her eyes glued to the waving embers at the bottom of the fire.

“How much more?” I asked, knowing full well what she would say.

“All of it…” she said. I detected no reluctance, no apprehension in her voice. It was cold and calculated. It was impossible for her to know exactly what she would have to do, but she knew it would not be pleasant and she was right.

[It’s important to note here, I think, that the training each one of these children went through was not as easy as she made it seem. Sirael glossed over the details because she knew better than to write down these things. They are a sort of “trade secret” amongst the Sisterhood of Crones and if anyone were to have stumbled upon her diary—which someone obviously did—those secrets would be out. Which is also why she cut off the day above right then and there. Suffice it to say, what Jemmy went through was painful, horrible, and above all, damning to the soul… or to anyone else that has or will go through the same trial. Dozii is not one to make deals with.]

Wicker and Idle, 6th and 7th of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

It’s been a few days, but things have been busy. So I’m going to cram as little about what happened on Wicker and Idle into a paragraph each then go to bed.

Wicker: Once Jemmy made the deal, she became much easier to train. Just like most crones, she was able to pick up on any concept of using different Trippings and within an hour have something close to mastery over it. Some would consider that cheating, however, we know the brutality of what happens during the deal or how common it is for one to die in the process, it is a fair trade.

Idle: By the end of the night, Jemmy was ready to become a crone. Well, almost… she still needed to be accepted into the sisterhood back at Stregge, as well as make the deal. Her knowledge of Trippings is impressive, though lacking. But, she is ready. There was only one more test before I could take her back to Stregge, she needed to bring me the traitors’ heads. Or rather, Bronny’s and Kappie’s heads. I told her this and she understood. In fact, she did one better and brought them back to me alive before the sunrise and did the deed right then and there. Tomorrow night, we’ll head back to Stregge and finish what we started.

Nitel, 8th of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

Sisters, if you are reading this, I am sorry. In truth, I have failed you. Not entirely, but know that there is not much more that I can do here at the Docks.

Allow me to elaborate…

   When Jemmy went back to her home that dawn to pack a few things for the journey back to you, I felt something was wrong. Knowing to never distrust my stomach, I used some Tripping to get my adrenaline pumping, allowing myself to stay awake. Then, I muttered a little something into my Knockaround to change my appearance. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve used it too many times in one spot, but I had to. Something was going to happen to Jemmy and I needed to be discrete.

   I bolted into the small town and as I got closer, I heard the angry voices of a crowd. Mixed in were the wails of babes and children crying, doing their best to find their mothers and in the middle of it all was Jemmy. She had been tied up and strung to the back of a horse which pulled her on the ground. I wasn’t sure how they got to her this way, she had been trained by myself, after all, and should have been able to defend herself without a problem. I suspect that they got behind her and waited for the right moment. It’s happened even to the best of us.

   I used a Blink Tripping and appeared on one of the roofs and hid behind the chimney to watched as they took my girl and dragged her to the docks as her muffled screams were drowned by the shouts and yells of the crowd. Tears of fear streamed down her face and soaked the gag they put in her mouth.

   I saw her eyes darting every which way and eventually mine met hers and she recognized me. Even through the charm of my Knockaround! Such a bright girl. I nodded to her, reassuring her that everything would be alright and she took some sniffled breaths and waited.

   They were getting ready to drown her now, bringing large stones to the docks and knotting them to her bonds. They lifted her up, heaving her to the water and tears began to stream down Jemmy’s cheeks again. I used Sharp Tripping and the tight chords holding her down released from her arms and legs. The stones dropped and a rather large one managed to smash one of the men’s feet, causing him to let go of Jemmy, leaving the rest to struggle and fail to hold her up.

Jemmy fell into the water but was back up in a flash with no gag on. She rose from the lake, dripping and soaked as she floated up then hovered there. You see, sisters? I taught her well in Trippings.

The overcast sky began to sprinkle rain but quickly turned into a downpour and slowly each of the townspeople turned their heads to see their Jemmy. The little girl they had known all their lives and watch as she grew into a beautiful young woman, now hovered above them in dripping wet clothing, her hair hung over eyes that glared at the world she once loved. It must have been terrifying to the humans. To me, it was glorious.

I watched her mouth move and one of the houses, perhaps it was even her own, burst into flame! Despite the enormous drops of pounding rain, it did not cease in any way. In fact, it soon spread to its neighboring houses. Then she did the same to the other side of the one road town. I hopped down into a crowd of people running in every direction imaginable and made my way to Jemmy.

She looked down at me and I held my hand out to her. She began to float downward and reached out her own hand they almost touched when the noise of something terrible infiltrated our ears. The groan was loud and long and very familiar to me, but not to Jemmy. I had not the time to teach her in the bestiary yet, not that I was permitted to do so anyway.

Her head jerked up and looked down the hellish road to see a fifteen-foot tall figure with the head of a buck’s skull. Its antlers protruded out past the length of a full grown man’s height and its legs appeared to be backward, but when taking a closer look, I’m sure she saw that they were more like a deer’s legs. You know, sisters, just as well as I do what we were looking at.

A wendigo had caught my scent via my Knockaround and hunted me to the Docks. I knew the dangers and risks of using the tool. I just never expected to be hunted so soon and much, much less in the day time. It knew better than to show itself then, but there it was, a creature of the night in the light of day.

My best guess to why it was able to show itself then was because of the heavy rain. I cursed and brought Jemmy the rest of the way down onto the old and rough hardwood. I looked her in the eyes and told her where she needed to go to find you and told her to run. That I would handle the beast. She was reluctant but did as she was told and bolted.

The wendigo bellowed its roar, mixed somewhere between a human voice and a deer call a hunter might use to attract his prey. The sound reverberated off the buildings that still stood and punched me hard in the chest—causing me to fly backward! I used the Hover and Stop Trippings and froze in mid-air. By the time I had my bearings, however, the beast was already at the docks. Its legs must have carried it in less than a second. Perhaps just as fast as a Blink Tripping, faster even!

I have never seen one this big, sisters, and I hope none of you have to either. I hope that not one of you ever has to face this creature….

Using a variety of Blink Trippings and Adrenaline Trippings, I was able to escape the beast, even if momentarily. I am taking the time to write this last bit, so you know what happened and how it happened.

The wendigo has my scent now and it is not going to let me go. But I also knew that I could not lead it back to you. We have hunted wendigos and other creatures in the past, sisters, but we were always together and it was never like this. I do not think that it could end any other way and I leave this with you so that in some way you may find solace in my passing. I hope that Jemmy finds her way to you, sisters and if she does, accept her readily and with open arms. She is ready, she is right.

Goodbye.

-Sirael

A group of soldiers found Sirael’s body—or rather what was left of it—just a day later on Telling, 9th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. The Crone’s diary was found in the mix of tattered clothes and ripped strips of flesh left over. The diary was brought from there to Chalice where I translated it and sent it off to be printed and sold. Later, Cedar approached me and let me know that he could shed some insight on the subject of the magic known as Tripping as well as a few other notes. Naturally, I accepted. Anything to have the upper hand on some of the creatures of the night.

As you may have gathered, Cedar did not deliver as I had hoped, but the insights were interesting; thus, I had the book reprinted and redistributed. You may find copies of the entire diary with Cedar’s annotations right here at the University of Chalice where I teach, as well as select book shops in these cities; Ø, Tahgattah, Tü, and Yamilla.

Sincerely,

-Professor D. D. Highfork

[trazskil]

A Service of Two Masters

(The Land Between Worlds Anthology: Issue #4)

What is God to the impious?” Mast asked the five-person congregation staring at him. Tears welled in the adult’s eyes while a toddler looked around wide-eyed and oblivious to everything but the maple leaves fell from once green trees, now golden as they fluttered to the cemetery ground. “What makes a man great without his loved ones?” he continued. “These are questions that often kept Ad’ja and I awake late into the night. They shaped who we became as men and as priests.

“As his soul passes on to the next life, I wish for all of you to know that where he is going, there is no pain, no sadness, no death. His soul lives on in Messar and, one day, we may see him again. God willing, and by our own acts, we may see him again.”

A gust of cool autumn wind blew through their mourning, tussling the blue robes of the priest. Golden leaves danced in the late afternoon light and the toddler shrieked and giggled. “Leaf! Leaf!” he exclaimed and his mother shushed him harshly. The boy hushed and the congregation looked on at Mast, waiting for him to continue.

“I do not know any of you. Any family of Ad’ja I had known was when I was young and his mother was still alive. But I see the love you carry for him. I see it in your eyes as they fill with tears for him. I see it in your hearts and souls that he was precious to you. Few are we. Few, but strong. Strong because we have loved so dearly and lost greatly.

“Messar knows of this love and, almost more importantly, he knows of this loss. He knows how you feel now and how you will feel tomorrow. I ask you to remember this. Remember this in every moment; the good, the bad, and the terribly sorrowful. Because it is in all moments that he is with us, and will always comfort us when we ask it of him.

“I know many, if not all, of you, are non-believers. But Ad’ja was, and I am. And I implore you to not let Messar leave you alone. He is there. He loves us. He wants the very best for us.” Mast paused, looking over his small audience. He hoped he might see some twinkle in one of their eyes, some epiphany. And when there was none, he sighed deeply. “I wish you all the very best and hope that you may find some happiness in this life. Even with all that may, and will happen, even with all the horrible, horrible things out there in our world, I hope this for each of you.”

After the service, Mast stayed by his friend’s freshly covered grave for a while. The soil was fresh and moist, its smell reminded him of a thunderstorm on a summer’s day. The mother and son stayed, too. They were not from Ichiké and traveled far to the small town just for their friend. Those who lived nearby left within a half hour. Mast glanced from time to time at the toddler, who played in the leaves. Throwing them up and letting them fall on his face squealing with joy, paying no mind to his grieving mother who stood next to Mast.

“He spoke highly of you,” the woman said through her sniffles. “Ad’ja always wished he could be with you, here in Ichiké, instead of being stuck in Chalice. He never said it or admitted it, but there were days when you could see it in his face….He loved you.”

“You knew him well?” Mast said.

“Better than most, I would say.”

“What is your name, woman?”

“Roven,” she said, pulling her raven hair out of her face and placing it gracefully behind a long pointed ear.

“You’re an elf!” Mast said, noticing the detail for the first time.

She looked at him, her golden brown eyes piercing his, and nodded.

“Ad’ja never mentioned you, Roven. Were you close?”

“Very,” Maven said and looked toward her son, who Mast noticed, also had pointed ears, but not quite as long as his mothers.

“I see.”

“You must understand, he wanted to tell you. He wished he could have told you of his family, but he also feared your judgment.”

“I understand,” Mast said, sighing. “I wish he would have trusted me, but just because we were sworn to a life of abstinence does not mean that we don’t have our free will. We are allowed to leave for whatever reason.”

“He did,” Roven said, looking at her son. “For Ja’met and me.”

“I am glad he found some happiness then.” He smiled at her then looked back at his friend’s gravestone.

“It was his last wish for you to know of us…” Roven started, then began weeping.

“It is alright, Roven. Thank you.”

She nodded, her head hanging low. “He is with the world now, she will take care of him.”

“Was it difficult?” realizing that his friend was not able to convert his wife.

Roven looked at him, her brow creased in perplexion.

“For you to have two different faiths, I mean.”

“Oh,” she said. “At first, yes. But we loved each other enough to be respectful of each other’s faiths and move forward regardless.”

“I see,” Mast said, choosing his next words carefully. “What will you teach, Ja’met?”

“He will need to decide for himself what he wants to believe, if in anything at all.”

Mast nodded and smiled approvingly.

Roven nodded and they stood in silence until the sun was almost gone and Mast walked her and Ja’met back to the inn where they were staying until morning. He was happy to have met them. Happy to know that his dear friend had lived well in Chalice, happy to know that his wife and son were also going to live out the rest of their lives with the knowledge that Ad’ja loved them and have a friend here in Ichiké for whenever they might need one. He embraced Roven when they arrived at their inn then walked the short way back to his little chapel in the center of the small town.  

Mast lit the many lanterns in the main hall, letting the light greet the oncoming night. The illuminated building showed beautiful stained glass art depicting Messar creating the world, making his first breathing, thinking creations. Then humans and their cousins, the elves and other beings seemingly akin to them with white skin and long pointed ears, now extinct and almost forgotten. They wrapped around the room, each one separated by a pillar, each one telling a piece of the story of the world until Messar made the Barriers and stopped speaking to his children.

Now, there were few who knew Messar existed, even less who had faith in him. Ad’ja was one of them and now Mast is one of the last. He constantly searched for anyone who would take up the mantle or even listen to him. But, it seemed, even these days not even the young people were interested in God.

The new gods and the freedom they brought were more appealing to them. The new gods didn’t demand that their children follow commandments or to even strive for righteousness. All they wanted was an occasional sacrifice and all was forgiven. All was permitted. They liked the new gods because it was easier to live as one wanted rather for a higher purpose.

Mast sighed and sauntered to the altar at the back of the chapel. He knelt there, his knees felt older than they had in years as he bent and put his weight on them. Though he looked older, he was only in his early forties. Lately, however, his body felt as though he should be several decades older as if he was dying along with the last bit of faith left in Messar.

Looking up toward heaven, he spread his arms and vocalized his prayer. His voice barely an echo in the hall, his eyes unable to penetrate the stone ceiling above, he laid out his thanks and desires to God.

“There has to be someone,” Mast whispered. “Someone to carry the mantle, to continue your legacy. You must know of someone, so lead me to them!” He paused and thought long and hard at what he was going to say next. “I am one of your last servants. Surely you will not let me perish without habilitating someone else! You must help me, you must! It is your religion, Father. I am only a messenger. I can only do so much with the limited power of the voice you have given me. So give me more.

“Please, I beg of you… give me more! I do not ask for power, simply responsibility. Don’t let this die with me! God! My God! Do you even listen any more!” Mast’s echos drowned in the new sounds of his sobs. “Please,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Please, just send someone….”

As his last words died in the silence around him and his sobs were no more than echos in the empty chamber, the priest lifted himself off his knees. He did not turn around to put out the lights. Instead, he stood, hunched over the altar. His breath heavy in his chest, his pulse thundered in his ears. That was the last straw! He thrust out his arms and with them the altar. It toppled down the few steps it was perched on with a loud crash!

“Damn you,” he huffed, then, “DAMN YOU!!!” he roared. “You hear me? Damn you! Damn you to your own Hell! You’ve left me alone! Left me to rot! And now, I damn you, Messar! If you’re there, if you’re listening, I’ll see you there. Two damned souls and it’s your fault.”

A slow clap rose from the pews behind him. Mast spun to see a very short, old and wrinkled woman. Her black hair pulled back and peppered with white was long and still very lush for her age. She smiled at him, a closed lipped grin that was almost welcoming. Almost. If it was not for the nearly physical aura that she brought into his chapel, he would have guessed that Messar had sent her in his time of need. But he knew better.

“It seems I may not have to kill you after all,” said the crone. “He is dead, you know…”

Mast said nothing. His face like stone, he did not move.

“Messar is no more and I’m here to finish what needs to be done.”

Mast let out a slow breath, “This is why you are able to step on hallowed ground, I suppose?”

“Indeed it is,” the crone nodded approvingly.

Mast kept a straight face. He knew that Messar was not dead. He was a god, the god! And God does not simply keel over and die or become the victim of some assassination. The only reason why this soulless evil was allowed in, or even near, his chapel was because he had carved a path of unhallowed ground straight to the point where she now stood.

“The last of his soul is deteriorating as we speak,” the crone continued, “and we were sent out to make sure the last of his disciples are… taken care of.”

“Sent out by whom?” Mast asked, keeping the conversation going, hoping to distract the witch as he moved toward the closet at the far left corner of the chapel.

“I think you know.” The crone gave a crooked, knowing smile that stopped Mast dead in his tracks.

He had several encounters like this in his forty-some years, yet when it came down to it and he asked each unholy thing who sent them it was always a direct answer. They always told him who had sent them. The name of a demon, some duke or duchess that was tired of not being worshiped by everyone in his or her dutchy. Each time he had handled it in a different way, but he never thought any of their masters would have been the master.

“Aaah,” cooed the crone. “I see that fear in your eye. Know it well, in fact. It was the same look that your friend in Chalice gave me right before I made him swallow my own blood.” With that, she took out a knife from her dress sleeve and drew the blade along her own throat. Blood spilled from thence and she showered the cold metal in it. “All he wanted,” it continued and smiled wickedly, “was for his family to be left alone. I promised him I would and he drank freely then choked for life that was never coming back.”

Mast’s heart jumped to his throat, his vision blurred and all the while the crone ambled toward him down the aisle. The bloodied knife in her right hand, her left hand healing the throat closed as less blood fell from it with each step. She was a little more than five feet away from him when his vision came back and he sprang into action!

This was no different than any other run in with the unholy! He knew exactly what he needed to do. He jumped to the side, as the knife swiped past him, and bolted for the closet. His bones, too old for his body, he felt every impact of the stone floor beneath him as his feet pounded the ground. But he had to keep moving.

The closet was only a few feet away now and Mast could almost taste the holy acid behind its doors. He could feel his pulse in his temples now, air refused to enter his lungs and it felt as if his own skull may explode in some red and grey storm. Breathe! He did and reached the shortly after. He clawed for the knob and wrenched the door open!

It was empty.

The entire five-feet tall, two-feet wide, and one-foot deep closet was completely, obliviously empty! The dust that had accumulated over the years was the only thing left, leaving behind silhouettes of circles where the vials and flasks had once sat.

“It’s simply amazing what happens when you give someone a few buckles to go past your hallowed ground barrier and steal your holy acid,” the crone said. Her voice scratched and whined like a door on old hinges.

Mast grit his teeth and clenched his fists. He turned and saw that she was looking at her nails nonchalantly, picking the now dried blood out from under them with a thumbnail. A scar was barely visible on her throat where she had slashed it.

“Not to mention, breaking those hallowed barriers so there is nothing holding me back from doing this!”

In the blink of an eye, the crone was at Mast’s chest with the tip of her knife, still coated in her blood. He was quick enough to raise his hands to stop the blade right over his heart. He knew he was beaten, but kept a sturdy grip on the crone’s wrists as she bore down on him, the knife less than an inch from his skin. There was no way out of this one and the only thing left to do was to wait for his inevitable demise. So he looked defiantly into the crone’s black eyes and chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Messar is not dead,” Mast said. “You and your master know this, as do I. But in the meantime, you will continue to rot in your swamp with your sisters—many of whom I’ve killed—and wait. Wait for a victory that will never come. Because your master is a liar. He uses you, just as you used money to buy your way into this holy place. There’s a name for things we use, crone, do you know what that is?”

The crone raised an eyebrow at him.

“Rubbish,” Mast said and laughed. His voice filled the chapel and vibrated his own eardrums and when he was finished the crone already disappeared. But she was kind enough to leave him a gift. He raised his arm to see he was bleeding from a nice, clean cut.

He sighed and collapsed to the floor. The venom from the crone’s blood coursed through his veins now and he would be dead in a few minutes. He contemplated his life then and realized he had no regrets. Because there was never time to regret anything in his life, so why would he in death?

Besides, now he would see who was right.

[trazskil]

The Boy at the Barrier

(The Land Between Worlds Anthology: Issue #3)

“… and that’s why lava is liquid fire!” Galen shouted triumphantly. Pounding the table with his fist making the mugs of mead shake and spill.

Groans and shouts of discord were heard throughout the tavern as three men shot up from the round table, now drenched in the frothy alcohol. Two of them left huffing to themselves but one of them, a soldier, stayed behind.

“You daft brute!” the soldier shouted. “You’ve soiled not only my trousers but my mind as well!”

“What do you mean, I soiled your mind?” Galen asked, feigning offense.

“Lava isn’t ‘liquid fire,’ you ninny!” the soldier exclaimed, his face growing redder by the second. “It’s molten rock.”

“Oh?” Galen said, paying little attention to the insults battering him from this puny man. “And how’s the rock got so hot it’s turned to liquid? What do you think’s heating the rock?”

The soldier gaped. Not quite sure how to answer such a ludicrous question. Galen’s lips spread into a smug, victorious smile and smacked the soldier on the back laughing. He laughed hard and long and when the soldier thought he was done, he laughed some more! So the soldier began to laugh, too, thinking maybe it was all some joke and he was the butt end of it.

“So,” the soldier said, a nervous chuckle caught in his throat. “You don’t believe that lava is liquid fire?”

“What?” Galen asked incredulously. “Of course it is! It was just terribly funny to see you get so hot and bothered about your ‘opinion.’” He laughed heartily.

“I don’t believe this!” The soldier threw up his arms and stormed out of the tavern.

Galen chuckled to himself and sat down at his table again, took his tankard in his hand and drank the last gulp before signaling the barmaid for more. She came over in a hurry and filled his empty container.

“Send Miss Tabin over, will you?” he asked the pretty, young brunette.

She smiled politely at him, nodding and went to her mistress.

Miss Tabin swung her hips maddeningly on her way over to him. She wasn’t gorgeous by any means, but she wasn’t ugly either. She was somewhere in between, but to Galen she was perfect. He couldn’t seem to ever take his eyes off her unless he was otherwise occupied and even then, he often stole a glance. He grinned into his tankard of mead and gulped a number of times before the woman of his dreams stood in front of him with her arms crossed over her breasts.

“Miss Tabin,” Galen said, still grinning. “I suspect that my service was to your expectations?”

“Aye,” Miss Tabin said, her long red curls bobbing as she nodded. “It was. I know I can always count on you to ruin the evening of the uninvited. They always hate hearing your ridiculous theories and always want to leave shortly after.”

“They wouldn’t dare stay in the same place as some daft brute,” Galen barely contained his chuckling and raised his tankard. “Afraid they might catch my stupid!” He burst out laughing so loud the entire tavern seemed to shake and more tenants shot glares toward him but he just raised his mug higher at them and smiled a toothy grin.

Miss Tabin smiled crookedly, giggling a little herself, and shook her head at him, her red curls framed her freckled face and emerald green eyes, then looked back at Galen. Those eyes pierced his very soul and for a moment he was sure that she could tell him all his secrets he’d kept to himself—along with all the secrets of the world. The kinds of secrets only gods would know or perhaps the leviathans which swam deep in the ocean below. And with this power, it would be impossible for her to not know his feelings for her and… and what would she do exactly?

But those eyes, gods those eyes! Her gaze on him made it difficult to breathe and he refrained from clutching at his chest even though it felt like his rib cage was slowly collapsing in on him. He hoped dearly that she would let him come up for air! That she would show him some mercy! Just as he was sure he might faint from asphyxiation, she turned away from him to look around the room and Galen gasped silently.

“You don’t have to call me Miss Tabin, Galen,” Miss Tabin said, looking back at him. “You know my name, you may call me by it… at any time.” She winked at him, smiled, and walked back toward the bar.

Galen’s heart jumped to his throat, chills ran through his body and before he could get another word out she was already back at the bar and was serving soup to those who had paid for it.

He did know her name. He had only said it once. It tasted better on his tongue and sailed effortlessly through his lips like home-brewed honey mead. Which is damn good as it is. But her name meant so much more to him than all the money in the world and he would only utter it when he was absolutely sure he had no other option. He shuddered again, chills running up his neck, all around his skull, his eyes rolling back…  If he ever got to kiss that woman’s lips it would be the end of him. By the gods, it surely would!

“You wanna hear one of my theories?” said a familiar voice, breaking his reverie.

He looked up to see a skinny frame that matched a thin face and long blonde hair. “I dunno, Konnor” Galen said, smiling at his old friend. “Do I?”

“If you don’t act on that soon,” Konnor began, gesturing back with his thumb at the bar where Miss Tabin stood, now cleaning mugs, “Then someone else is gonna come and sweep her away. Someone like me.”

“Nah,” Galen groaned. He knew that she would never go for some scrawny welp like Konnor. But still, he worried just a little. “What do you know?”

“I know,” Konnor paused to drink, “That Niall feels similarly as you for her, but about you.”

“Shhh!” Galen said, waving frantically. “Don’t say her name!”

“Why not?” Konnor asked, then paused with his fingers on his chin. “Ooohhh! Right. You get all weird when her name passes through your ears.”

“She has some sort of spell on me,” he said, wistfully.

“Oh, gods below!” Konnor cursed, rolling his eyes. “Would you get a hold of yourself, you big, ugly brute!”

“Hey, it’s alright when a stranger calls me names but coming from a friend, that’s just not right. Not right at all! And besides, it’s daft brute. You could at least get it right.”

Konnor held up his hands as if surrendering.

Just then another mug slammed down onto the table, spilling liquid over its edges. The two friends looked over as a grey-bearded man sat down. Konnor and Galen looked at each other then back at the uninvited elderly guest.

“May we help you?” Konnor asked the man.

“I heard that you’re the man to theorize with.”

“Could be,” Galen said, slowly.

“Well, I’ve got a topic for you. If you think you can handle it.”

“How about you tell us your name first,” Konnor said, folding his arms.

“Ah. Of course! My name is, Golden.”

“Golden?” Konnor asked, raising an eyebrow. “You mean, like of gold?”

“Yes.”

Konnor looked at Galen, maintaining his previous expression, but Galen continued on.

“Alright then, Golden,” Galen said, spreading his hands over the hardwood table. “Welcome. I’m Galen and this is Konnor. Let’s hear this topic.”

“The Barriers,” Golden said, cocking his head.

“Really?” Galen asked, raising an eyebrow himself.

“What’s so special about the Barriers that we should spend our time conversing about them? And with a stranger no less?” Konnor asked. His tone was like a grindstone across a newborn’s cheek.

Golden paused before answering. He took a long drink from his mug and swished his gaze back and forth between the two friends, contemplating his answer. He did this for what seemed like a long time before speaking again.

“Who put them there?” he finally asked, pointedly ignoring Konnor’s abrasive nature. “Why are they there? And most importantly, when will they be taken down?”

“Easy!” Konnor said, now fully annoyed. “The gods put them there. They’re there to protect. And they’ll never be taken down. Now if you’ll excuse us, we were having a drink…  between friends.”

“Your friend doesn’t seem quite so convinced,” speculated the old man.

He was right, Galen’s face scrunched up like a rag being rung out as he thought about the questions.

“You’re drunk!” Konnor said, pointing a finger at him. “Galen’s obviously got to sneeze or thinking too hard about Niall. Now, I think it’s time for you to bugger off.”

“Peace. Golden isn’t doing anything wrong,” Galen said his tone calm. “And don’t say her name, please, Konnor.”

Konnor shrugged, as if indifferent.

“And I wasn’t thinking about Miss Tabin nor did I have to sneeze. His questions are interesting, don’t you think?”

“No,” Konnor said sighing. “But I’ll indulge you. What do you think, then?”

“I don’t know,” Galen said, honestly. “I’ve never really thought about it so much. They’ve always just been there. Ever since I was a little boy I’ve known about them.”

“And they were there centuries before either of you were even born,” Golden pointed out.

“So what?” Konnor asked. “My answers are still the same to your questions.”

“Your answers may be,” Golden countered smoothly. “But I’m interested in what Galen has to say about the matter.”

Galen was silent for a long time before speaking. The air was still around them, filled by nothing more than the distant music which played in a corner on the other side of the tavern. Everything else, even the drunken laughter and playful shrieks from the barmaids seemed dull to his ears. He took a long drink then set his tankard back down on the table in an almost reverent manner. All the while, Golden and Konnor watched patiently.

“When I served in the King’s army,” Galen began, his tone almost somber, “I was set with a squad, out patrolling the Northern Barrier. I hated that job, Konnor knows that. I never understood why we needed to be out there. Nothing has ever broken through that isn’t meant to and so there is never any danger. But there we were, the six of us marching every day between twelve and sixteen hours. One week from east to west, the next from west to east. We never saw another being of any kind; not one single crone, highwayman, wendigo, vampire, banshee, changeling, nary even a sprite. Thinking about it now, it’s as if the Barriers ward off anything, even humans. Unless the pay is good.” He said wryly.

“But on our last day out just hours before we were to switch turns with the next squad, we found a boy. Just a single lonely boy. He didn’t seem lost or hurt or scared. Rather, he was determined, anyone could see that. He had a pile of various sized rocks next to him. Each he took in hand, tossed it in the air a couple of times, then hurled them one by one at the Barrier. Each one deflected off at such speeds it might have killed anything that was unlucky enough to catch the ricochet.”

Galen paused to take another drink of mead and signal for a barmaid to refill his tankard before continuing. He smiled only slightly and only to himself as his mouth disappeared once more behind his drink. He took a breath and continued.

“I marched up to the lad to tell him he needed to leave, that he was trespassing on dangerous land. But just as soon as I was no more than two steps from him, his head jerked up at me and locked the deepest shade of gaping violet eyes anyone has ever seen, with mine. It was so unnatural for a human to have that shade of eyes. Perhaps not for a pixie or even a dark elf, but for a human? Anyway, the look was so intense, it stopped me dead in my tracks. Eventually, I crouched down to his level to speak with the boy more cautiously.”

‘What are you doing, boy?’ I asked, now curious.”

“‘Throwin’ rocka at this here magica,’ the boy answered in a most particular accent. One that bounced and rocked like a canoe down a mountain slope. He must’ve been from Yamilla, I’m telling you, they’ve got quite the accent there.”

“‘Why?’ I asked him.”

“‘There’s somethin’ wronga with it. Gots’ta breaka it to fixa it.’”

“He turned from me, all casual like, and started throwing rocks again. Each one exploded off with a funny twang that came from the Barrier itself. I watched as he threw a few more and noticed that when the stones made contact with the invisible wall, there was a sort of ripple. I felt it, oddly enough, crazy even to think about it. I felt the quick and almost invisible, but very present, ripple in my chest as it did on the Barrier.”

“‘What do you mean, it’s broken, boy?’ I ask him. It was odd, but I swear I felt something pushing me to press him for information. Curiosity had taken me.”

“‘It’s not right,’ he said. ‘It’s all wronga.’”

“‘What do you mean, boy?’”

“But the boy just said that same thing over and over. ‘It’s not right. It’s all wronga. It’s not right. It’s all wronga. It’s not right! It’s. All. WRONGA!!!’”

“He launched the last rock so hard I could have sworn I heard something crack, perhaps from the Barrier itself? The rock ricocheted and launched at the boy’s head, cracking his cranium in two. His skull had opened up like a melon and he was dead within a matter of seconds, if not instantly.”

Galen stopped speaking. This time, he took an even longer drink and tried not to spill all over himself as he shuddered a little from the memory. It had been a long time since that day, and he had never told anyone about it. Not even his captain. None of his squad had, in fact.

They buried the body and decided that it was better that no one ever heard of the boy and his violet eyes. No one would believe them anyway. A boy at a Barrier? How preposterous! Sure, some sort of malicious thing, but never such innocence. Even if they wanted to tell someone, it was as if there was something there in the thickness of the trees, or perhaps the roots of the mountain, that held their tongues behind their teeth.

Konnor never pressed him about his weeks at the Barrier. His friend only knew that he didn’t like the Barriers, nor did he like to talk about them. Something kept his jaw clenched shut on the matter, not that he had a choice. That something never really left him. Until tonight that is.

Dreams had often brought visions of the violet-eyed boy who always repeated his last words to him. “It’s not right. It’s all wronga.” And sometimes, he wondered if what the boy said—those six simple words—had any meaning or if he was just touched in the head. He always waited for the boy to say something else to him in his dreams, to explain his claims, but he never did. Galen had begun to think, in the last few years, that there might be something to what the boy said. There was something disturbing about the Land Between Worlds and its Barriers which held the continent and its inhabitants in for hundreds of years or more. Maybe it really was “all wronga.”

He looked up and saw that Konnor was staring at him wide-eyed and jaw dropping to the floor. Golden sat as silent and calm as a lamb, smiling knowingly as if he had already heard this story one thousand times or more.

Konnor’s mouth gaped and he waited for some laughter to erupt. Or even the slightest hint of a smile from his friend. He looked between his friend and the stranger and when he found no signs of some ludicrous joke, he threw his arms in the air and let them slam down on his thighs, making a loud slap.

“Oh my gods!” he exclaimed. “You’ve gone completely mental!”

“I don’t think—” Golden started.

“Oh you don’t, don’t you?” Konnor interrupted. “Listen, pal, I don’t know who in the hell you think you are, but all I smell is trouble. You come in here, prattling about the Barriers like they’re some grand spectacle and proceed to ruin the night of my dear friend by bringing up memories. Memories, by the way, that I’ve never been able to get him to so much as a whisper! I think we’ve had quite enough of your company for one night. No, make that a lifetime! Now get out. Get the hell—”

Konnor felt a large hand on his shoulder and turned his head slowly to see Galen looking at him tentatively. The look told him that it was time to stop and so he did. His anger didn’t flush from his face, however, and it stayed hot for a long time after. But he took a drink anyway and kept his mouth shut.

“Konnor has a bit of a temper,” Galen explained to Golden. “You’ll have to excuse him. He simply has his friend’s best interest at heart and doesn’t want me to get hurt.”

Golden simply nodded as if he understood. “This place is called The Land Between Worlds for a reason. Have you ever thought about that, Konnor?”

Konnor shrugged and scowled.

“The Barriers are to keep us safe. To protect!” Galen said. Though they all knew who he was trying to convince.

Konnor just harrumphed.

“Is that right?” Golden asked. “What of the boy throwing rocks who haunts you so? What had he said? ‘It’s all wronga.’ Do you still think the Barriers are there to protect us?”

Galen raised an eyebrow at him and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Golden was already there. “No, no. You’re probably right. He was just some lost, lunatic child who killed himself,” the bearded man sighed and rose from the table. “Gentlemen, I best be off. I see that this conversation will go no further tonight and I have a great many places to go.”

“Go?” Galen asked. “Go where? You’re in Nükta. In the middle of nowhere! Moreover, it’s the middle of the night. Too many dangers on the roads when the sun’s not up! Stay the night here, I’ll have Miss Tabin make you a bed.”

He started waving over the beautiful woman, but before she had the chance to see him Golden stood, and waved off the large man’s offer. Generous as it was, he did have a great many other things to attend to and not much time to do so. He set a buckle down on the table to pay for their drinks, tipped his hat to them, disappeared out the door and into the night.

“What. The good. Hell?” Konnor sighed, completely baffled.

“You should really watch that mouth of yours, Konnor,” Galen scolded. “It’s gonna get you into trouble with someone, if not Miss Tabin, first.”

Konnor rolled his eyes at his large scarred friend then excused himself and swiped the buckle off the table, pocketing it.

“Hey!” Galen said.

“What? We drink for free here, mate. One of the King’s currency from some vagabond ain’t gonna be missed.”

“That’s honest tipping money, at the least!” Galen said, pointing at his friend's pouch where he had so deftly pocketed it.

“So tip her!” Konnor said, then made a kissy face at him.

Galen grumbled to himself but pulled out one of the rectangular coins with the middle cut out and placed it on the table and made sure Miss Tabin saw it before he went up to his room for the night. Gods how he wished Miss Tabin would go up with him! Not necessarily for sex, but just to have her company. To be the one that holds her and loves her exclusively and forever.

In his room, he undressed and hopped into bed, pulling the covers up to his chest then blew out his candle. He lay there in the dark and thought about the boy at the Barrier and the Land Between Worlds and what the gods had intended to keep them safe from. Or was it the other way around? What were they keeping them caged for?

With eyelids weighing down, and before this thought could carry any further, he closed his eyes embracing the darkness. Sleep came quickly and just before his subconscious took him, a knock on the door started him awake. He huffed, deciding that it was better to just wait until whoever was on the other side of that door was gone, then get right back to sleep.

A second knock came, as expected but then a third, a fourth, a fifth! Then silence. Finally, came silence. Galen knew that if he just waited it out, whoever it was would get the hint and—a sixth knock came so loud it nearly knocked him out of bed. He felt a thudding in his chest and not just from his heartbeat.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“What?!” he growled.

A soft knock this time, as if the someone outside had switched from the flat of their palm to the tip of their finger. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Konnor,” Galen said, throwing the covers off his body and marching to the door. “I swear, if that’s you out there, you’re gonna end up with a fist in your gut and your lungs knocked out onto the floor.”

Galen swung the door wide open only to find that there was no one on the other side. Taken back, he craned his neck out and looked to both sides of the hall to see if anyone was maybe trying to get the jump on him. But no one was out there. Not a single soul. So, thinking maybe someone had the wrong room and realized it almost too late, he closed the door, inviting the dark of the night back into his room.

He turned and tried unsuccessfully to rub the sleep from his eyes to no avail. When he opened them again, just before reaching his bed, he saw a child-sized, silhouette perched there. It faced away from him, on his bed frame. Galen’s heart skipped a beat and a cold chill ran down his spine. Trying to regulate his breath was impossible and it came out shaky as he stepped cautiously around the bed. When he got closer he heard whispering from the figure. It was slow and somehow familiar.

“You gave me a right scare,” Galen managed despite his growing fear. “Now, why don’t I show you out? Maybe we can go find your mum?”

The figure didn’t respond. It didn’t turn or even look at him. It just kept whispering the same rhythmic sentence and he inched forward ever so slightly to find out what it was saying.

Three feet from the bed and it was still nonsensical susurrus.

Two feet from the bed and still gibberish.

One foot from the bed and still the same. Damn. Gibberish!

Finally, Galen was no more than six inches away from the dark figure who, he now realized, was a small boy. The boy was whispering the same thing over and over and over again. He realized that it was not one sentence, but two.

“It’s not right. It’s all wronga. It’s not right. It’s all wronga. It’s not right. It’s all wronga…” The boy stopped finally and turned his head to Galen’s gaze, revealing doe-like, violet fires for eyes. The flames swirled and danced in a shadowed face. Like Miss Tabin’s dress, they spun wildly as she danced to the fiddler’s music. Light beamed from them, making the dark room dim and beautiful.

It was just a dream, though. Soon he would wake up, just like he always did in these visions. Yes. He would wake up to the smell of breakfast and go down and wish Miss Tabin a wonderful morning as he set about his chores. He would daydream about her and in the night he would rid the tavern of silly men and drink just until he got tipsy and then go to bed and start all over again. Yes. Just a dream. It was only a dream.

But this time Galen didn’t wake up and now he understood what the sentences meant. The boy at the Barrier wasn’t insane, he was right! It wasn’t right. It was all wrong! He understood. And as he did so, the boy disappeared from his sight like smoke in a starry sky and soon, all he saw was the Northern Barrier where he had been, all those years ago.

“It’s not right,” Galen said, picking up a stone and testing its weight in his hand. “It’s all wrong.”