That First Day

 The encouraging sunshine of a day that Michaela would remember sang to her. As it spread over the thriving farmlet it freed the voices of so many flowers of lustrous color. The blooms defined a border around abundant plants that arced toward the soil under the weight of ripening fruits and vegetables.  The young woman tended to the care of her pride and joy. She palmed errant pale whisps of hair from her face while she weeded and pruned; all the while, fussing at the green cat that played beside her.  Content to defy Michaela and swat at musically colored butterflies, the animal ignored her good-natured ribbing. 

 

 colored like music?  but I do hear them

 

MY Farm, Michaela always thought of it, separate from the holdings she and her husband shared. It was a walkable patch, perhaps two hundred strides in length and of narrower width by some slight bit. Four riders departed the nearby trail and violated its boundary.

 

 now  what is this

 

She rose to stand, shading her eyes with slim and soiled fingers while following the progress of the horsemen as their mounts ravaged her garden.  The slight woman bent to pluck a berry from one of the plants at her feet and stole a glance at her companion. With her tongue, Michaela squashed the berry against the roof of her mouth. She swallowed a burst of sweet nectar and chewed the pulp while giving free rein to her curiousity. She carried out a one-sided conversation in thoughts directed at her pet.

 

why are they are trampling MY Farm  who are these cretins

 

She shivered and goosebumps grew in the wake of the frisson that washed over her.  Michaela doffed her bonnet to wring it in both hands. Together, she and the cat watched the men approach. The first of many heart-felt wishes for the arrival of her husband came to mind.  Michaela spared a glance toward the orchard behind her.

 

The party, led by a young man outfitted in elaborate livery, - no, he is but a boy,  she realized - had not come far onto the property when the animal Michaela thought of as 'mostly-cat'  became wary. 

 

It came to its feet beside the young woman, pointing tufted ears at the trespassers. Leathery nostrils flaring, the cat sorted through smells in the air for the astringent signature of 'threat'. The cat sank into a crouch of feral readiness, grating a warning that trailed off to grumbles. Lowering its head, the feline drew back lips that exposed dampened yellowish teeth.  The tip of the animal's rigid tail twitched, echoing the creature's agitation. Glancing over a shoulder at the woman, the mostly-cat returned its attention to the intruders. It crept with two fluid paces toward the four men on horseback. 

 

 All but one of the horsemen and their mounts stilled.  The closest of those was a youngster of perhaps fifteen or sixteen summers. The young man sat the saddle of his active mount with confidence.  He was dressed in dusty black boots that came to his knees, blue breeches and a vivid surcoat that sported a colorful crest of some sort that Michaela did not recognize.  His companions wore attire just as dusty but more suitable to the trail. The rider observed the woman but paid more attention to the peculiar cat as he beat puffs of dust from his clothing and shifted atop his athletic steed to maintain balance.

 

 "And who in all the smoky Hells are you?" she thought at the invaders, the distance between them still too far for conversation.

 

The muscular horse under the youth, patience expended, chose that moment for defiance. It stabbed a forehoof into the dirt. A confident rumble from deep in its chest followed. Its rugged head bobbed as if to agree, 'we fight'.

 

That challenge snared the cat's attention and it crept several cautious paces closer.  At the start of its last stride toward the rider the wary feline froze into an attitude of vibrant concentration.  It halted a forepaw in mid pace, let it drift lower until grounded.  Eyes that never deviated from the rider atop his antsy mount grew animated, widening and narrowing, by turns.  Jade-colored hair bristled over the shoulders of the intense feline.

 

Michaela thought the animal appeared restrained somehow.  She heard a mixture of energetic growling and the quavered mewls of cat curiousity as those noises spread throughout the sun-blessed garden. Every sinew of its compact body vibrated. The cat's scrutiny of the rider seemed to be something different from mere predatory concentration to Michaela. Its approach was feline but the response to some prod, beyond her ken and perhaps any human's, altered what had been mostly-cat.

 

Sudden as thought, it rushed to the woman and turned, its splayed front claws foremost, stretching ahead. Near atop them, the raging threat of the no-longer cat squalled defiance as it faced the horsemen.

 

Michaela gaped, overwhelmed. The mostly-cat increased. As she watched, every aspect of civility sloughed away. The cat showed intense feral animosity; the effect more menacing than feline, by any measure Michaela considered.  A faormuc more.

 

"Col, I need you."

 

  At once, a recent argument between them sprung to painful recall.  "Michaela, I cannot read your mind.  That scary cat of yours may be able to, but I cannot!"  Close behind that disturbing memory came the ambush of a skin-tingling realization.

 

 storm bent

 

The cat looked at her and a hissing snarl spit from behind pointy fangs.

 

 The surge of Michaela's heart plumped a vessel beneath the skin at her temple. Her thought was tinged sore with a melancholy she would revisit another time.  It could not drown out the curiousity and burgeoning bloat of discomfort inflating her.

 

 The party of horsemen heeled their steeds into motion and crushed toward Michaela and the animated cat between them.

 

Michaela looked to the animal.  Colored the sedate green of a forest predator, and now glowing malevolence, it quivered as it dominated the territory in front of her.  As it grew more excited, muted-jade hair spread to reveal a subdued pattern of cloud grey.  Lightning shapes began between ears snugged firm against its too-large skull and forked along its flanks. Those markings came to life as the animal quaked.   And the beast grew to near twice its previous size.

 

She gasped and backed away, her eyes grew large and breath clogged in her chest. As frightened as she could remember, Michaela studied her pet, unable to find more than a smidgeon of what used to be mostly-cat. Michaela swallowed a scream, blinking those eyes made wide by the unnerving spectacle. With a hitching whoosh, breath returned to her and Michaela's thin brows arched to mirror the lines of astonishment that spanned her sweating brow. 

 

"What are you?" she thought. "And where is my kitty?"

 

On the heels of that absurd question came grudging but grateful acceptance.  Michaela worked at settling her emotions.  After all, she was not a complete stranger to oddity.

 

aye storm bent and ye would not be a cat neither but it is gladness I feel that you stand here with me my friend

 

The faormuc looked at her, insistent suggestions of an alien intelligence lay behind its intent eyes. Without warning, it turned and bolted.

 

*****

 "NO!"

 

She stamped her foot hard into the garden soil.  Dismay and murderous intentions clashed for her attention as she watched the creature run until it was absorbed by the greenery. 

 

The faormuc ghosted through the foliage toward where it knew the woman's mate to be, nostrils probing.  Scents it recognized pushed ahead of the breeze and compelled the animal to a halt. Stilled, its ears picked out the approach of the woman's mate and others from the rustle of the surrounding leaves as they came into the fruit orchard portion of the plantation.  Following another brief sniff of the air the cat rose and reversed course. 

 

Michaela was no less dismayed when the faormuc soon returned. It whispered through the plants to rest at her feet. She stood staring at the creature, yet to decide murder.  The critter groomed with blythe indifference to her.   No trace of the aggressive predatory intensity the cat had shown remained.  But it was still twice as large.

 

She could not pry her attention from the cat at her feet.  It sat beside her with attention for naught but athletic grooming.  The small and tufted ears perked and rotated to sounds of interest.  Now and again the faormuc looked back at the path it had taken earlier.  Following the animal's eyes, she looked where it directed.  Michaela squeaked her surprise at the whicker of a horse.  She had forgotten the trespassers for a few moments.  They were close.

 

Whirling with a pirouette that ended with her glaring at those who had ruined a fair bit of her farm, she spit out a greeting.

 

"What!  What have you done to MY FARM?  Not a step. Not one more step you inconsiderate bas..."

 

The colorful and confident rider was seven long paces from where the woman stood with her odd cat. While tapping a supple quirt against an itchy blemish on his cheek, he watched the waifish woman dodge and dart as she struggled to spy the damage done. He smiled at her until the heated berating she spewed got on his nerves.  His own temper surged. 

 

That a young woman, not long from girlhood should disparage him so.  And in front of his men; each bound to discretion, true. Yet, still.  He sat straighter in his saddle.  This cannot be. I am the Royal Heir. I shall instill the required discipline.  He heeled his mount a pace closer.

 

"Girl!  You!" 

 

The unpredictable animal lounging at the woman's side interrupted its face-washing in the middle of a casual swipe. The young Royal saw lengthy claws emerge from each paw as the cat stretched in the afternoon sun.  As those weapons reached toward him, it turned each to catch and reflect glints of light. An uncivilized squall erupted from the creature he watched, freeing strings of drool that fell from its jowls to the garden soil.  

 

Despite the afternoon warmth, the display was chilling to the young Heir. Confusion pinched the boy's pudgy face when he noted rainbows of refracted sunshine.  Near enough to discern with some slight clarity, he focused on the cat's talons.  They blazed in the sun's attention and looked to be crystalline? metallic?  He shuddered and thought to himself, "How can that be?"  He also thought that it would be a fine time for protection and regretted telling his men before they entered the farm, "I will handle this. You will await my command."

 

The faormuc allowed its ebon lips to part revealing a pointed smile. Flexing one rapier tipped paw, the cat squared its body to face the noisy boy and grumbled a surly warning.  Each claw dipped toward the pads, one by one, a not-so-benign wave.  With a jaw-clicking yawn it exposed a maw bristling with yellowed teeth that would rend flesh from bone. They were awash in fluid that leaked as streamers from its muzzle, reflecting as liquefied gold with the sun's kiss.

 

Deciding that scents in the air had changed to those of apprehension and sensing the astringency of threat fading away, the faormuc nodded once.  Broaching a dismissive sneeze, it returned to grooming.

 

Michaela was not so unperturbed. She hurled the pesky and demanding rider her undivided attention.  At the same time, her shoulders spread with an unconscious nod toward a larger appearance. The tiny woman seemed to inflate as she rammed her upper body toward the intruders, the slight point of her jaw in the lead.

 

"Are you insane?  Why are you killing my...my..."

 

"My children!" she thought.  Tears streaked the dust on her face into tiger stripes.

 

Tiny fists, rested first on the points of narrow hips, soon beat against her thighs. Michaela marched in place, staccato and graceless, each footstomp raising dust. Though she was angry beyond any recollection, the first cracks of tension creased the corners of Michaela's mouth.

 

The faormuc heard the low frequency thumps and felt their vibration. With patience and interest, the animal watched as Michaela challenged the men.  It voted its assessment of her ability to intimidate with another derisive sneeze.

 

an would ye be after fetchin you own food and what do I call you and would you please please bring my mate

 

The  cat-being turned intelligent eyes to Michaela and dabbed at some of the slobber leaking from its mouth with a paw.  It turned away to give the dampened paw a vigorous shake.  Tiny droplets sat like translucent coins upon some of the nearer leaves.  During the space of several breaths the leaves began to brown and curl. 

 

Rising into an exaggerated hump and then a languid stretch once more revealing all of its claws, the faormuc approached the stalled party. The animal turned its raised tail to the boy in front and sprayed. The pungent cloud spread, dividing the men from the woman it guarded. 

 

Showing confident nonchalance, the faormuc looked over its shoulder then turned to fasten orchid-bright violet eyes onto the Royal and his men. The animal melted into a feral crouch. A threatful grating noise that no cat had ever made, gravel in avalanche, rumbled from deep within the creature.  Its lips drew back hard enough to furrow the flesh beneath flared nostrils, unsheathing the impressive fangs. The faormuc drooled as it waited.

 

The youngster's horse sprayed snorts of challenge as it pranced and pawed at the soil. His attention wrested from the threatening cat, the young Royal took advantage of his mount's activity by surrendering half a pace as he feigned difficulty in regaining control.

 

Message delivered, the faormuc returned to lie in the sun-warmed soil at Michaela's feet.

 

ohhh  I see  perhaps we might allow Colryn to arrive when he will

 

The horses of the three men behind the colorful rider shied and whinnied as they sensed pheromones alien and threatening.  The lead horse belched a number of forceful snorts. Tossing its great head, the warhorse sneezed a sloppy cloud of spray.  It took back the half pace and did not yield its ground.

 

"Now, see here, young woman," said the gaudy horseman. 

 

From some nook or cranny he withdrew a hankie which the porky Heir held to his nose for several deep inhalations, then blotted his brow with it.  Can this wench not see?  I am to be a King! 

 

He looked to his men as they wrestled their nervous mounts into some semblance of control.  A variety of thoughts and feelings painted the faces of the three horsemen. He recognized tension, concern and a host of others. None of those were confidence in the cocky Royal's ability. The presumptive Heir squared his shoulders. This ends now.  Three armed Faustians and their Lord-to-be will not be cowed by a stripling female and her kitty.

 

Irritation mutating into anger, The Heir to the Royal Throne barked, "You WILL accord me my due." 

 

His royal recriminations went no further.

 

  The faormuc charged the riders. Within two paces the full fury and elegance of the predator displayed.  It covered the seven human strides in four of its own, tail extended for balance and ebony lips skinned back from shiny wet teeth.  As the assault of the monster reached its third pace and it wailed a feline war cry, one of the horses at the back of the group reacted to the threat and turned away. It whinnied with equine terror and bucked. The horse reared and the man on it grabbed the saddle pommel.  He cursed his mount and tried not to be thrown.

 

Before reaching the barrier of musk separating predator from prey, the beast aborted the assault, tucking its hind legs under and scratching to a stop. Clods of dirt and dust spewed ahead of it. Across the boundary, the lead horse stomped its forehooves into the churned dirt. Chiseled hind legs bunched beneath it as the warhorse prepared to lunge into combat.

 

The pudgy boy in dusty and colorful clothing was jostled, close to unseated himself by his horse's reaction to the headlong charge of the nerve fraying beast. He dropped the handkerchief and it fluttered to the ground. The royal arrogance frightened out of him, at last, he trembled in the saddle. The faormuc favored the whelp with a ferocious scowl and sauntered away.  The disturbed child's horse stamped the scented kerchief into the soil of the abused farm plot. 

 

Moving his gaze onto the spot where the nightmare cat had seeped into the concealment of the undergrowth, the young Royal gathered his wits and spoke with a congenial tone he hoped the strange creature might not object to.

 

 "Young, er, Citizen?  Yes.  Citizen, I should think."  He looked back to Michaela, straightened his posture and proclaimed, "I am Crown Prince Italo, Heir to the Royal Thr..."

 

*****

 She laughed at him.  Her mirth rang out in bright jagged peals that savaged what patience and restraint remained to the Prince. The Prince's face darkened and his sneering lips paled to invisibility.  Eyes the color of the mud his party had made of the farm patch narrowed and splotches shaded a vitriolic scarlet rose high on acned cheeks.

 

"A Royal, are ye?"

 

She delivered a mock curtsey with all the aplomb a Lady of the Court might have shown.  One slim leg swept to the side to point dirty toes while Michaela bent at the knee and with a delicate flow of skinny, dirt-smeared arms she bowed low in an exaggerated parody of respectful grace.

 

 "Oh, do forgive me my brashness, Your Highness," she said with all the gravitas of a penitent sniveling at the feet of her betters.

 

Michaela then collapsed into the soil of her vegetable garden and a fit of laughter severe enough to spawn hiccups took her.  She wrapped her dirty arms around her waist, howling gales of amusement. Her hands clutched at filthy clothes and dollops of tears the no-color of crystal slid down her cheeks.

 

"Take her!"

 

*****

"Michaela, GO!"

 

The shout cut through Michaela's sudden shock at the Prince's order to his men.  She scrambled on hands and knees away from the man that dismounted to carry out his command.  Power from she knew not where energized her frantic attempt to escape.  She launched into a terror laced run.  Heaving away from the attacker's grip on her soiled and flimsy blouse, Michaela left him with a ragged swatch in his hand as she fled.

 

Her pursuer was cut off as the rider proclaiming Royalty kicked his steed into the chase.  She turned to look over her shoulder and tripped, rolling onto her backside and scuttling away as the horseman approached.  Michaela's heels kicked madly in the softened soil of the garden and she screamed her terror as the rider urged his horse into a rear that would end with the woman's crushed remains staining its hooves.

 

The boy's face bore an awful grimace of rage and triumph as he stood in the stirrups and leaned forward over the brawny horse's neck.  Strength failed her as she looked at that gaze, spiteful and petulant as any stripling denied just one more sweet, please, Mama.  Michaela sat in the dust, shocked to stillness, as the warhorse neighed a battle cry and the Prince howled a heart-speeding shout of his own.

 

Michaela cringed, her eyes squinched shut in the face of the doom she expected to befall her and so she was spared the sight of the arrow piercing first the left forearm of the young Prince and then ripping into the neck of the rearing brute beneath him.

 

Neither did she see the next projectile, though she heard it as it whisked past her to pin the dismounted man's  foot to the hoof-tossed ground.

 

Nor did Michaela see the faormuc's horrific attack, fastening those claws and fearsome teeth onto the genitals of the rearing warhorse.  With a guttural and jubilant snarl, it ripped them away from the horse's belly.  A flood of viscera and blood emptied from the incredible wound and the steed screamed almost as a human might.

 

The horse collapsed and its rider was thrown, breaking the arrow off and leaving only the distinctive feathering her husband used to craft his weapons sticking out of the boy-Prince's arm.

 

Horrible sounds pooled thick in the air around her. 

 

The worst of those, colors that spoke their own entrancing cacophony.  Michaela's eyes, and ears, sped from the stimulus of rich ruby blood that thrummed, to the trilling call of the pale green kerchief pounded into the dust.  The hue of the sky carrolled and the brown of gore-damped muck beneath the fallen warhorse groaned.

 

The dying horse bellowed labored breaths from its massive chest as it lay on the ground with its eyes rolling in shock and pain.  The animal kicked its legs in a useless gallop and whinnied in agony.  Michaela was unaware that her own tortured breaths rasped in time with those of the doomed mount.

 

Prince Italo howled his own pain from nearby, sickened amazement on the boy's face as he gaped at the yellow-fletched arrow remnant skewering his arm.

 

The first man to chase her shouted curses mixed with his piteous wails of pain as he plopped onto his rump, staring in surprise at the projectile impaling his foot.  The remaining two riders sat in gods-blessed silence, bolt upright in their saddles, hands out at their sides.

 

Michaela's own breath burst from her in a ragged pant.

 

"Kayla?"

 

She did not answer.  Pale and sweating, she shook as though in the grip of some grim and terrible ague.  She looked around with strained eyes incapable of making sense of her surroundings.

 

Her husband brushed his fingers into Michaela's hair.  She jolted and looked up with wild eyes and a startled cry. 

 

"Kayla, it is me.  'Tis alright, now."

 

With a mewl an abused kitten might have uttered, Michaela wrapped her arms around one of his strong thighs.  She felt the muscle flex against her cheek.  The worn smooth deerhide darkened with those tears that leaked from her closed eyes. Michaela's chest rose and fell with shuddering gasps as she cried.

 

Her husband cradled Michaela's head with one large hand, his thumb moving in a gentle and soothing rhythm that in no way matched the anger and malice in his voice as he motioned to the two sitting their saddles.

 

"Jonsai, get those things off their horses.  Marku, skewer the first to balk."

 

"Aye, Col," answered Jonsai.  Turning to the mounted pair, he drew a knife as long as his forearm, it might have been mistaken for a short sword, save for the grip fashioned from the bone of a large animal.  "On the ground, you curs."  He drove the knife point downward in theatrical emphasis. 

 

Oh, good on you, Jon! 

 

"And you shall do so with the utmost caution attainable by those such as yourselves."

 

The horsemen paused their dismounts to look first at one another, then at the man with the big knife and the formal diction.  They hurried off their horses when they realized they had earned the focused and belligerent attention of the bearded man with the crossbow.   The pair resumed submissive postures on their own feet.  They were astonished when the crossbowman let loose a gruff cackle and, soto voce, "...you shall do so..." 

 

Jonsai stiffened then hazarded a fleet glance at Colryn.  He flushed when that glimpse revealed Colryn focused on him.  Jon pumped a warding gesture, with the hand not holding a sword, at Colryn,  "It is my unshakeable belief that this untidy situation is well enough..."  He trailed off as the smile that had peeked from the corner of the hunter's eye reached to tug the corner of Col's upper lip into a smirk. 

 

This is surreal.  These heathens laugh?   We have no time for this  - tho I am sure to be reminded of it soon.

 

Jonsai spat a sour, "I got this."  He went to gather the reins of the skittish horses.

 

Marku, crossbow fitted with a bolt and ready,  motioned the pair a short distance off and ordered them to sit back to back.  Jonsai lopped several lengths of rawhide from the horse's reins and tied their wrists together, giving no thought to how they suffered during the experience.  The men winced but said nothing.  Jonsai and Marku returned to Col and his wife.

 

Jon scratched the day-old beard growth on his face with the point of the knife and gestured to the fearsomely wounded horse with his chin, "Col?"

 

Colryn just nodded and Jonsai moved to the horse which still galloped in futile denile as it lay on its side and puffed pained snorts.  He drove the knife into the horse's chest and pierced its heart.  The warhorse chuffed forceful surprise, kicked all four legs once more, then died.

 

Col held out a hand for the knife and Jonsai gave it over to him.

 

"Help her up, Jon.  Marku, see to that other thing over there, then get him off his ass and over with the others."

 

He traded places with Jonsai, who took Michaela's hand and cooed soft encouragement to the shaken woman until she rose, then supported her with an arm around her waist.

 

Marku kicked the bolt in the captive's foot, breaking it off, and smiled when the screech of pain rang out.  "On your feet, mutt," the crossbowman growled as he grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and yanked him up. Marku then booted the man hard in the ass and the momentum of that drove his foot off the pinioning arrow. He yowled again, whimpered and hobbled over toward his fellows. Jon cut a length of rein from the dead horse and tossed it to his partner.  Marku bound the last captive's wrists then swept his legs out from under him.  The wounded man flopped onto the ground with an agonized groan.  Marku moved off a few paces and stood watchful. He rolled a smoke, fired it and glared at the prisoners.

 

Colryn strode toward the rider in fancy dress that had attacked his wife.  Had the three been moments later on the scene, he would be a widower. 

 

Malignant anger radiated from the buckskin-clad hunter in waves that caused sudden silence around them. No bird squawked or cawed or chirped.  The horses stood uneasy, the palpable tension in the air caused muscles to writhe along their flanks, but not the slightest breath or hoof tap broke the silence.  Even the insects quieted.  For just a moment, Col stopped to listen.  He had noted this at other times; strong emotions seemed to affect the environment in ways he did not understand.  He shrugged off the musings and approached the thrown rider.

 

"Who are you?"  He asked this at the same moment that he squashed the wounded arm to the ground with a booted foot then ripped the broken arrow from it.

 

With a squeal that caused birds to wing from the nearby woodline, the Prince fainted dead away.

 

Col moved to the still horse and retrieved a canteen then coated Jon's blade with more blood from the mount's wounds.

 

Returning to the unconscious youth, he painted the wounded arm with horse blood and dumped the canteen's content onto the face of Michaela's assailant.

 

Waking, the Prince spluttered, coughed, and shied away from his large and menacing interrogator.

 

"Get back!  Get away!  You do not know who I am!  I will have your heads - all of your heads!"  He spouted noisy and vile threats until he noted the big man shaking his head with a thoughtful purse of his lips.

 

The Prince's teeth clacked together.  Cradling his arm, he discovered the wound now bleeding a copious and alarming flow.  He thought to begin his vociferous diatribe anew and what stopped him was the remorseless face and fierce gaze of the hunter.

 

Colryn pointed to the arm wound with the knife and allowed a predatory smile.

 

"Oh, I do not believe that.  Look there.  You will not live long enough to see to your threat, looks like you will bleed to death right here in my wife's potato patch, youngster.

 

He bent and the disabled Royal flinched away as Col wiped the bloodied weapon clean on the leg of the Prince's blue breeches, cutting the material in a long slit as he did so.

 

"If I do not kill you, myself, before that.  Boy, I shall not ask again.  Who in all the fiery Hells are you?"

 

Shaking so hard that his teeth chattered aloud as might bones in a bucket handled with vigor, the youth made a visible effort to restore his dignity and announced, "I am Crown Prince Italo, son of King Turgenev of Faust.  My men and I are emissaries on assignment from His Royal Highness.  You would do best to render us what care you might.  My favorable report would likely mean you escape with your lives after only a decade of forced labor followed by the amputation of your dominant hand.  Harming a Royal is punishable by death and that sentence is carried out by scourge.  Awwwp!"

 

Col cut the babble off at the roots by force, grinding the knife into the hollow of the arrogant pup's throat, drawing blood.

 

"Hush, now.  Little kinglet, hear me," said Colryn as he twisted the knife deeper.  The boy-Prince's eyes bulged.  "You and these mutts you travel with are close, so very close, to never seeing crowded Faust or Papa the King again.  These lands are sworn to no man, nor will they be.  Faust is far from here and that is suitable.  None will come to your rescue.

 

"You have a decision to make, young royal.  Live or die.  You will go on from this place,  afoot and armed with a single dagger.  Bullying scum such as you deserve naught else.  Those that threatened my wife have paid with blood.  If you survive to reach Faust, so be it.  If you balk, you die here and your carcasses will feed my swine.

 

"Choose. Now."

 

He stood over the cowering young man, arms crossed, one fist brandishing the sword-length knife.  Early afternoon sun shone on Royal blood that snaked down the blade to flow over fist and forearm, leaving serpentine streaks behind.  Colryn's dark eyes communicated the awful truth and inevitability of his bargain.

 

*****

"Follow them, Marku.  Three or four days.  If they tarry or attempt to return, kill one."  Col thought for a moment then brushed sweaty hair back with a palm and sighed.

 

"Not the pup. Faust has little reason to venture this far afield, but we cannot make of this an unforgiveable honor gripe.

 

"Make them certain they are shadowed.  How you accomplish that is up to you, my devious friend," he said with a wolf's grin.

 

"Two days out, kill a hare and leave it within reach.  Before your return, provide them two hares.  Give them reason to continue away from here, Marku - and to fear ever returning."   The bearded man smoked and nodded.

 

Colryn turned to his bookish gangboss. "Jon, see to our new hoofstock.  Have Cookies deal with the butchery of that one," he said with a nod at the dead warhorse.

 

"Come, Kayla.  Let us get you cleaned up," he said as he traced the tracks of tearfall on her dirty face with one thumb. "The spuds will have grown bigger by the morrow and that is soon enough to fetch them."

 

He returned Jonsai's blade and took his wife away.  Black thoughts swarmed like a murder of crows in his mind as he led her to their neat little cabin nestled just at the woodline of their holdings.

 

*****

Jonsai took the provisions from the horses and dumped them with unveiled contempt at the feet of the four subdued tresspassers. 

 

"Take this, you miserable whelp, and be gone from this land."

 

He spat on the Prince's boot and slashed their bonds with the gut hook of a smaller and more utilitarian hunting knife.  Jon spiked the blade between the princeling's splayed thighs and turned to gather the reins of the remaining horses to lead them to the corral.

 

With sullen expressions, and frequent bleak looks as their mounts were led away, some broke down their supplies into bundles.  Another cleaned and dressed the Prince's wounds then tended to his own puncture.  The party set off on the journey home.

 

*****

 Marku watched them go, shaping his beard into a spearpoint with both hands.  He bore a smile that had little to do with humor, at first.  He planned his campaign.  The sniping and growls and bleats of pain as they staggered under loads and wounds amused the jovial Lore Adept.  The Prince and his emissaries resumed their trek to Faust. 

 

Git along little doggies.  Your path will become more unpleasant than this. 

 

Marku guffawed a great laugh that once again had birds bursting from perches in the woods.  He pawed through what was left behind.  Most of what was there was unremarkable. Some dandy clothing suitable for audience.  He laughed some more when he thought of Col's expression should he show up at the evening meal dressed in this foppery, grizzled and unshaven, wearing his holstered throwing axe and its larger, more brutish, cousin strapped to his back, fist wrapped around the stock of his crossbow. Perhaps he should do that very thing.  He was certain that Kayla would get a chuckle out of it, as well.  The man continued to rummage through the items until coming upon a scroll tied with wrinkled ribbon and bearing some sort of waxen seal.  He would take that to Col before leaving to trail and harass the Faustians.  Marku left the discarded contents where they lay. Perhaps the hands could make use of some of them.  He headed for the bunkhouse to ready his gear and let the others know of the spoils.

 

*****

As Michaela and Colryn approached their cabin, she noticed the near-cat lounging in the shade of an awning that sheltered a small but well-made table and several chairs of similar quality.  The feline alternated lazy grooming with occasional useless swats at the airborne insects that frolicked nearby and pestered it.  Its eyes never left the two as they progressed.  When the pair was closer the animal rose and stretched then padded its way toward them.

 

Colryn stopped, his wife stepped one further pace and halted, as well.  He cocked his head in curiousity at the cat that was distinctly larger than it had been when he and his men set off that morning.  Michaela spared her husband no notice and remained focused on the feline as it closed the distance and twined about her ankles, rubbing its head against her legs.  She felt a vibration against her skin and heard the soft and comforting sounds of the continuous purr.

 

none of that, you!   we will speak of this

 

She leapt across the distance to Col and smacked him in the center of his buckskin-clad chest with a dainty palm, demanding an explanation.  The cat peeled away while it was still safe to do so.

 

"Where were you?  And what took so long?

 

Colryn laughed.  The tension of the recent events melted a bit, his crows took flight, and he swarmed his diminutive and perturbed wife into an embrace.  Michaela battered his shoulders with toy fists.

 

"Release me!  Ye will not turn away my questions.  You will not." 

 

Her protestations weakened and she grasped him about the waist, desperate for his solidity. Kayla's voice was muffled as she stood with her face buried into his chest and with a little girl's squeak told Col what he already knew but dared not say aloud.

 

"Col, I was scared."

 

He took hold of her shoulders, just now beginning to hitch as she neared tears once more.  Held at arm's length, he looked at Kayla with gleaming eyes and the tiniest of smiles.

 

"Wife, do you mean to say that facing down four armed men without a weapon of your own...nigh stomped into fertilizer...in your own garden...by a warhorse, was disconcerting?  Kayla, you disappoint me."

 

Colryn's wife tore away from him and stalked into the cabin on stiffened legs.  Before Michaela slammed the door with vigor enough to shake dust from the eaves, she spoke her mind.

 

"It is my fond wish that you enjoy your nights spent in the bunkhouse, Husband," she said in honeyed tones.

 

He sat in one of the chairs and enjoyed shade with the cat.  He could not concentrate on the sparse facts he knew of the faormuc.  They watched the sun gather up skirts of cloud as it curtsied toward midafternoon.  Kayla clattered out the door, a brace of heavy duty gardening tools over her shoulder.  She was scrubbed clean and had on galoshes that swallowed her to the knee.  Her eyes flared a warning at the two beasts that stood and watched her galumph toward Her Farm.

 

*****

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons and Warnings

Colryn smiled at the cat, shook his head, and then smiling wider, made his way toward the bunkhouse of the men he employed to watch over the animal herds and patrol the nearby forests to keep predators at bay, those with two legs and those with more.  Along the way the cat fell into loose formation with him.  As they skirted the fenceline that contained some of the cattle that Col owned, an ambitious young bull broke from the herd and trotted toward them.

 

Col and the cat that was larger than he remembered watched it come.  His cattle were not the passive, grass-fed, stout and somewhat lazy sort that dotted the pasture land of some of the neighboring ranchers found here in Selena.  These were aurochs; rangier, more muscular animals that were prone to foraging for their food in the predator filled wilds of the surrounding forests.  They were hardy beasts, impervious to foul weather and unrivaled protectors of their family groups, in particular, and the entire herds' calves, in general.  These bonds extended to the select few humans that provided care for them.

 

Several adaptations set the auroch apart from their more sedate cousins, one of those being they were omnivorous.  They could, and would if necessary, eat meat.  Also would they eat grass and hay, which made it possible to domesticate them to some extent.  This breed much preferred the forage to be discovered far inside the old growth forests, and that is what made them worth raising despite the challenges involved.

 

In the wild, their cloven front hooves, sharp as the finest cutlery, were both weapons against aggressors and tools used to dig past the roots and into the forest floor to uncover a species of mushroom that grew in massive colonies below ground.

 

Their necks were far longer, close on a third of the body length, which enabled them to reach high into the surrounding trees for fresher meals, with a greater water content.  This variation also gave the animals access to a variety of nuts and seedpods as well as the somewhat common chewsome herbs that sprouted from the gnarled bark of a few of the tree species.

 

The diet of nuts, seeds, mushrooms and herbs combined with the auroch's other forage to make their meat a tasty, and expensive, delicacy much prized by the well-to-do and those ranchers ambitious enough to raise them.

 

The curious bull halted as the cat jumped to the top rail of the fence.  It bowed and pawed at the earth, swinging a head topped with forward facing horns tipped like lances.   Atop the railing, the cat sat watching the bull do what bulls did. The near-cat-once-more twitched tufted ears as some insect or other buzzed and caroused around its head.  The bovine rushed forward a few paces and resumed swinging its head and pawing the ground.  The feline hopped down, turned away and sprayed the animal full in the face with musky urine.

 

   Colryn chuckled and moved further away.  "Cat, I believe you will find this lesson simple to remember."

 

With a trumpeting nasal squeal that caused the others in the closeby family group to turn toward it in alarm, the bullock ran to the fence, placed its front hooves on the top rail and shot its own stream of urine at the cat, drenching it.  With an affronted yowl, the soaked feline tore off across the yard.  It stopped now and then to give a violent shake that wrung a nimbus of pee droplets from its coat, then rolled in the grass and screeched disgusted cat noises.

 

Jonsai rode around the bunkhouse on one of the acquired horses to see what the commotion was about.

 

Col continued toward him, still chuckling, holding up a hand to stay his progress.

 

"Tis nothing, Jonsai.  The cat was learning things.  Gather the men, we need to jaw some about today.  Has Marku gone?"

 

"Nay, Col.  He is still working on his kit," he said.  Looking at the animal tossing in the grass and spitting cat curses, Jon frowned, then asked, "Is that thing bigger?"

 

"That is one of the things we will talk about, Jon.  Round them up."

 

*****

 Striding through the door of the cabin, Colryn saw eleven men scattered around the great room, some leaning against the oaken walls, others seated.  Jonsai came from the kitchen area with a large mug of coffee, steam wafting from it as he offered it to the boss.   Col blew across the top of the cup and sipped. 

 

"Who is not here?"

 

"I have Boots and his crew riding herd on one of the family groups out in the boonies.  They will return before sundown, Col.  Marku is in the tack room.  Shall I fetch him?"

 

Shaking his head, Colryn told him, "We wait until the others return."  He sniffed the air.  "Cookies has outdone herself again." 

 

He chatted with the men, while food smells made empty stomachs grumble, tobacco smoke wafted from an assortment of pipes and rollups and coffee flowed.  Colryn had the group laughing at his telling of the stories of the scalded cat and Jon's scholastic hectoring of the captives, when the lowing of the returning family herd sounded.  Jon dispatched several of the group to go and help the crew get the animals settled and insisted they hurry everyone back to the bunkhouse once that task was finished.

 

In groups of twos and threes, Boots and his five men, along with the few Jon had sent to help them, traipsed through the doorway.  Marku cantered up to the house and hitched his horse to the porch rail, comiing in last.  He caught Colryn's attention and flipped the beribboned scroll to him.  Catching it, he raised a questioning eyebrow but the woodsman just shrugged.

 

"Found it in the emissaries cast-offs."

 

With a thoughtful look, he tucked the scroll away then Col told them all to get some food and something to wash the dust down. 

 

Cookies scurried into the room and announced, "Chow.  Eat, you buffoons or the hogs will feast on your dinner."

 

A playful chorus of comments like, "As well they should!" erupted from the gathering.  Cookies harrumphed and turned her rather large and prominent backside to them, giving it a sharp slap, muttering under her breath, "Ungrateful wretches.  Serve you right if alls ye ate from here on is beanies an' pork rinds."

 

The men chowed down on large bowls of hearty stew in a savory spiced gravy with fresh-baked herb bread.  Cookies wandered the room refilling coffee mugs and was returning to the kitchen when Col stopped her.

 

"You should hear this, Cookies.  It may concern us all." 

 

She nodded and motioned with the coffee pot that she needed to return it to the cook fire, then came back and scowled at Boots until he moved over on the large bench so she could settle her out-sized behind.

 

"I am sure most of you have heard some of what happened to Michaela this afternoon.  I shall not retell the whole of it, Jonsai can fill you in on the details.  There is one thing of import that every one of you should know.

 

"It concerns Kayla's mostly-cat.  It is not, any longer. Or, not only a cat, I suppose."

 

Confused looks and muttered questions spread around the group listening to their boss.  'not a cat?'

 

Holding up a hand to garner their attention once more, he continued, "It may have once been a cat but now it is different.  Why it is different is what is important.  Kayla can tell you much more about this, but for the nonce this is what you need to hear.  The animal is storm bent.  As she once explained to me, any animal may suffer this and it is not known why.  A storm bent creature has but one focus and is quite attuned to the darkest of sorceries.  In the presence of profound and most dangerous evil wizardry, these animals change.  They become something very different - faormuc."

 

He paused to drink from his mug and give the hands a chance to take hold of his message.  Marku, perhaps the most worldly amongst them, leaned against the wall tapping his steepled fingers together, a thoughtful frown behind his beard.  Cookies hissed in a noisome breath, her eyes widened and she stabbed forked fingers before her in a superstitious gesture said to ward off evil.  Jon gazed into the distance, a neutral expression on his face, thin lips sipped his own coffee and the others again looked confused and voiced still more questions amongst themselves.

 

"Once more, Kayla is the authority on this.  She has forgotten more of the lore of magick than any of us will ever know.  Speak with her as you will, but know this:  The faormuc come to be so that they might battle the darkest and most powerful adepts of sorcery.  This day did we run afoul of a formidable and dangerous magician."

 

*****

For a short while after, Colryn worked the room making small talk with his men, answering what questions he could until Marku caught his eye, then walked out the door onto the porch.

 

Colryn worked his way to the door while Jonsai set the night's watches and the others drifted off into smaller groups throughout the house. Before leaving, Col made it a point to stop and speak with Cookies who seemed to have been sorely affected by the information he had shared. 

 

Snatching a hunk of the herbed bread and dipping it into some gravy, he nibbled at it as she spoke of her concerns.

 

Winding down, Cookies said, "A'int afeared to tell ye, bossman. I wants no part of sorc...uh, sorce...damn wizards and theys ilk.  Theys foul, them magickers is." 

 

Holding up the last bite of bread, Col smiled at the distraught woman and said, "Cookies, you are a magician.  No one that did not practice wizardry could do the things in this kitchen that you do."  He popped it into his mouth.

 

She blushed and swatted him on the shoulder.  "Be off with you, flirt.  And take this to Miz Kayla," she told him, handing Colryn a bowl covered with a towel and several chunks of the bread resting in a small covered bowl set atop some coals held in a larger earthen container.  She returned to the kitchen to begin cleaning up the evening mess, growling under her breath, "Was I some damned wizard I could magick this slop away."  She snorted and went to work.

 

Moving to the door, he put down the bowls and clapped Jonsai on the shoulder,  "I owe you my thanks, Jon.  And Michaela's, as well," Col told him.   Only just able to conceal his mirth, he went on,  "But we really have to work on your command presence."  From out past the porch, the bark of a laugh was followed by a snickered, "...you shall do so..."

 

Jonsai rolled his eyes a bit and curled his lips into a wry expression, "Mayhap your gratitude will be remembered come our day of pay," he said.  "And - raising his voice to be heard outside - while neither of you belligerent cretins were present to witness my commanding performance, my parting sally to the mongrels sent them on their way with unmistakeable and profound chagrin."

 

They all belly laughed at the noisome and eloquent fart Marku's horse released. Col gathered his things and went onto the porch.

 

*****

Marku was giving his gear and his horse's tack a final inspection when Colryn stepped off the porch and came abreast.   The woodsman leaned over to check for stones in his mount's hooves as he stated with certainty, "That cur was no wiz, Col.  Nor any o'the mutts with'im."

 

Nodding in agreement, he replied,  "I know, Marku.  There is no mistaking that the cat is faormuc, though.  And as I understand it, there is no faormuc without foul magick."  He shrugged.

 

The woodsman finished his preparations, rolled a smoke that would be his last for some time, as the odor traveled far and hampered stealth.  Lighting it, he drew deep and woofed irritation as a seed burst and scattered burning embers into his beard.  He pawed through the fur on his face and, satisfied that he was not going to need to shave, lit it again.  "What does Kayla have to say about it?"

 

Before answering, Col looked down and kicked a few times at a clump of dirt.  "We have not had the chance to discuss it."  He said no more and stood gazing at his own cabin.

 

With a hearty cackle, Marku said, "Oh ho! Banished again, are ye?"  He laughed some more and coughed smoke out of his lungs.  Flipping the foul thing away to arc into the dust of the yard, he said in fair mimicry of Jon's smooth voice and manner,  "Fear not, boss.  As it happens, the penitent will arrive bearing splendid gifts," nodding at the bowls in Col's hands. "I want to hear more o'this when I return and I want to know what that scroll says, too."

 

Having forgotten about the scroll, Colryn touched the spot where he had tucked it away with his elbow, assuring himself it remained.  "I suspect there will be much to speak of when you return.  Take great care and return safe and sound, Marku.  Do not forget that there is magick in this somewhere."

 

"From your lips to the ears of the gods, boss," he said as he unfastened the reins from the railing and swung into the saddle.  He wheeled his horse and trotted away.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Scroll

He was halfway to their home when Col almost dropped Kayla's gifts.  Off to the west, from somewhere deep into Michaela's farm, the faormuc, that most formidable and awesome weapon lay in the dirt, whining miserable and exhausted feline squalls of disgust. 

 

Col laughed for most of his trip home, slowing down and taking extra care so as not to dump the bread and stew.  He did not notice that the cat had gone silent.

 

He was still laughing as he shouldered the door open, planning to serve Michaela's dinner up and share the scalded cat story. 

 

That plan would be delayed. The cat, the damned faormuc, my wife's fine pet! thought Col, crouched at the far side of the great room. Nothing in its aggressive stance promised mercy. An aggravated mewl, high-pitched and piercing, came from the beast.  It got up to slink toward him and its huge claws carved scratches on the wooden floor. 

 

Armed with nothing deadlier than a bowl of stew, Colryn cursed the cat in a quiet voice, "I hope the smell of bull piss on you never goes away." 

 

Behind it stood Kayla.  Her head went back and forth between the cat and Colryn once, her gamine face awash in disbelief tainted by anger.  She said nothing aloud.  Somehow, Michaela held the animal's belligerence in check.  She turned to Col, not willing to speak and disrupt the delicate balance of control.  Michaela's large eyes willed him to become a statue. 

 

Colryn, the hunter, was intrigued.  The breathing person in him thought that unsound. He became a statue that shivered as his wife approached the faormuc and confronted the wild creature in silence.

 

*****

You will cease this now.  That male is my husband, my mate.  He is not a threat to you or to me.  Stop.

 

 The faormuc looked Michaela in the eye, her thought-speak had never before held the adamance, the command, it sensed now.  A sparkling thread of caustic drool formed at the corner of its jaw.  It showed no teeth. 

 

Kayla stared back at it with eerie intensity.  She took a deep breath and tested her control by speaking aloud.  "Colryn is not a threat," Michaela said.  Her quick look at Col showed the statement to be a warning to him, as well as a declaration to the faormuc. 

 

The cat lowered its gaze to the level of her chin.  It gave a rebellious but half-hearted snarl then turned and looked at Colryn. In grudging increments, the faormuc subsided. Its forest colored coat relaxed and the flashing lightning bolts were concealed.  Instead of lying back flat along its skull, the ears faced him, dark tufts wiggling atop them.  

 

Colryn watched, his stomach made queasy by the fight-or-flight instinct. The confusing thing that might be  mostly-cat again padded toward him, tail held high, a slight and stiff wave in it. 

 

"Relax, now, Col.  You will be safe.  Do nothing to alarm that animal," said Michaela.

 

The cat, seated now in front of Col, looked over its shoulder at Kayla then craned its head up at the man once more.  It drew its black lips back at the corners and released them, just the once.  The effect looked to be a fleeting, apologetic grin.  With one paw, and no claws, the cat bumped against the scroll Colryn carried. 

 

With magickal immediacy the faormuc returned but retreated toward Kayla and became defensive.  It sat in three quarter profile to the surprised hunter. The cat's legs were pulled in to protect its vulnerable belly. Lightning streaked along its flanks. The creature spat and hissed, once flashing a clawed paw toward Colryn.

 

"Col?  What have you done?"  Michaela shook her head, blew a fast harsh breath through her nose. "No, I meant,  what do you have?"  She looked at her husband with pleading doe eyes.  "Oh, be careful."

 

Col fished the scroll out with a controlled and soothing pace, gave it a glance and held it out to the faormuc.

 

Which then batted it out of the man's hand.  It leaped along the same tragectory the scroll had taken.  Quick and intimidating, it turned to defend the territory between Colryn and the scroll.  The beast alternated scrutiny of Colryn with plaintive yowls directed over its shoulder in the direction of Michaela.

 

As she stepped further into the room, her dangerous 'pet' spared a glimpse to offer another cajoling wail.  It faced Colryn then with much more agitated intensity.  On its feet, it hovered over the space surrounding the scroll.  When she was one step from it and leaning toward the scroll the faormuc encouraged her with one brisk nod of its head. 

 

Michaela picked up the scroll, showed it to the faormuc and retreated into the kitchen while waving it in front of the cat's nose. "Kayla, it is a cat.  Not some dog to be lured with a bone," she chided herself.  The faormuc followed though and she gave Colryn a quick, reassuring peek.  The faormuc's peeks at her husband were not as comforting.

 

*****

Colryn went and sat in one of the chairs outside.  He was fixated on the thought that he should have poured a mug of cider. He recalled what Michaela had said of storm bent animals the time or two they had spoken of them.

 

Caught between powerful sorcery and an unnatural creature bent on destroying it. 

 

How do I protect Michaela?

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Discoveries

Marku, the Lore Adept, trailed after the Faustians. Following the most direct path home, the royal party of emissaries,  he choked a cackle that could reveal his position to them, took the trail that would lead them into  the woods.  Marku smiled.  He did not expect their stay in the forest, when they reached it, to be long.

 

He rode behind the princeling and his men, patient.  They were not trying to hide their trail.  All along the way, signs of their passage were evident.  Marku followed the trail of overturned rocks, crushed grasses and broken stems, finding equipment and supplies abandoned in order to lighten their load.  He read the sign as he came to it, paying special attention to the discarded bits - some of the things could be useful to one more attuned to the surroundings.  He shook his head, wondered how they would survive their long hike, and scavenged these.

 

In truth, he could follow the party with his eyes closed, letting his horse do the walking, tracking them by their loud and constant carping borne on the wind.  Once, he heard a splash followed by howls and curses as some of the men failed a stream crossing.  Colryn's directions to leave food for them in a couple of days would be important.  No animal of the field or forest that they could hunt with their sole weapon would be found anywhere near the raucous travelers.

 

The woodsman ambled along, picking from a pouch of trail rations, detouring into the woodline once to let his horse eat some apples and drink cool water from a shaded stream Marku knew of.  The princeling was no challenge to shadow and Marku let his mind wander, keeping alert only that part which would recognize threats to his own travel.

 

Marku's love of the forest and the unearthing of its secrets had been born of necessity.  His father, Gerald, Marquise Du'Vulliere, a distant province, had learned of Selena and its wondrous aurochs.  Seeking to increase a fortune his spendthrift wife was just as determined to deplete, he trundled the shrew and his only son into the wilds.

 

The boy's life there was interesting.  Although his mornings were spent chafing under the tutelage of a varied cadre of travelling instructors that his father insisted upon in order to further his education, neither Father nor the shrew cared a whit for what Marku did after. 

 

Selena's rough and tumble environment enchanted him.  Not many had yet come to scratch and carve out their lot in this rugged land.  It was a vast, forested place alien to anything the boy had ever known.

 

The few other children near Marku's age were not interested in his friendship, seeing instead a privileged brat to be tormented. Left to his own devices, Marku chose the company of the herdsmen employed by his father. 

 

His first foray into the woods, riding herd on one of the family groups taken to their preferred forage, marked the beginning of a respectful affair.  From that point on, he explored and studied the forests of his new home with every moment he could spare.  It was during one of these explorations that he met a hunter named Colryn.

 

Though older, Colryn treated Marku as well as one could expect.  It was he that began to teach Marku the lore of the woodlands that went beyond the knowledge of the cowherds.  In the fullness of time, it was Colryn that introduced him to the Lore Master that would set Marku's path in stone.

 

Marku's attention was captured by the dwindling noise of the men he followed.  There were less than two hours or so remaining before sunset.  The woodsman climbed from his horse, fastened the reins to the saddle's pommel and spoke to it,  "Wait, horse."   Marku knew that the animal, unless threatened by some predator, would be there when he returned.  He removed the axe slung over his back, secured it to the gear his horse carried and, taking his crossbow, slipped away.  He skirted the woods, parallel to the course the party had taken.

 

Ah, Your Highness, what are you and the - what was it Jon called them? Oh, yes - mongrels up to now?  He recalled Colryn's instructions: "If they tarry or attempt to return, kill one."

 

In only the time a meal taken at leisure would expend, Marku heard the men once more.  He drifted into the trees and hesitated for a few moments, taking stock of his surroundings.  The woodsman closed the distance with care.  He was not trying to be silent, nothing that moved in the forest was.  He crept toward the men with soft steps that had no pattern, stirring a few leaves now and then, crushing a twig or two, stepping over trees, downed by age or storm, rather than atop them and risking a tumble.  The Lore Adept's passage disturbed nothing.  Squirrels gamboled in the boughs above him, insects trilled their mating calls, birds perched in peace, showing no alarm of the predator that passed amongst them.

 

When the smell of woodsmoke came to him, Marku paused to swivel in place.  He used his nose to lead him until the sounds of the Faustians came to him clearly.   Near the edge of the woods now, he sank into the underbrush and made his approach. 

 

 Marku slithered a meandering path.  Nature did not offer up many straight lines and few things were more visible to a watcher than the line of flattened grasses that trailed behind a creeping novice.  He used the same stop-and-go pattern he had used in the forest, and for the same reason.  In short order, Marku was able to part the foliage that concealed him and see the princeling's group.

 

*****

His-Royal-Highness-to-Be sat and grimaced as the others made camp. 

 

"Corrigan! A squab would not cook through over a fire such as that." 

 

Italo threw a clod of dirt at the man with the perforated foot who then limped off to locate more fuel for the fire. He needed no more to tend his own blazing thoughts -Then get off your Royal arse and build it up your own Royal self, you Royal jackass. Corrigan was careful to let no trace of his displeasure show on his face or in his demeanor.

 

Corrigan looked over when Carvhal pitched a brief whistle at the man, no more than the peep of one of the squabs that so concerned the Crown Prince. He put down a load of wood he had gathered from the forest's edge.

 

Carvhal was unaware that he had walked to within several paces of the bearded man with the crossbow that he had last seen at that accursed farm. He winked at Corrigan who nodded his thanks, trudging back to the fire with enough fuel to cook the damned Prince, let alone a bird. Carvhal ranged around their camp looking for pests, or worse, that might interrupt the Prince's rest.  He carried their only weapon. 

 

Across the site from Prince Italo, the remaining man sorted through their belongings, setting what food they had and the various utensils they would need aside. He hummed a ditty and there was a pleasant smile on his face.  His eyes were a bit vacant. He looked to the young Royal and noticed Italo fidgeting and picking at his clothing. The man got up and carried one of the blanket rolls to Italo, laying it out beside him.

 

"Would Sire wish to wear clean garments, Sire?" His eagerness to please showed and the man rocked from foot to foot as he awaited a response.

 

 Italo began to spit what Sire would wish but drew those scathing words back when he saw the hurt bloom on Ashby's face at his tone. The man was a dolt, and his condition repulsed Italo, but he was a useful and devoted servant. 

 

"Yes, Ashby. Sire wishes that." Italo had learned the hard way that to change many of Ashby's words to him confused the man. His response to not understanding the Prince, and many other things, was to throw a tantrum during which he would beat himself and wail, "Ash is idjit! Ash, the dolt! Ashby is a dummy!" and every other deprecation anyone had ever thrown at him.

 

The smile blossomed again and the man scurried to carry out Sire's bidding. He returned with underthings, a  tunic and some trousers, far less colorful, and balancing a bowl of water with a washcloth swimming in it.

 

Ashby bent to give the items to Italo, nearly dumping the water into the Prince's lap. The bite of anger was on Italo's face but the words were yet to come when Ashby's eyes got round as saucers. He retreated to where he had been sorting supplies. The Prince's servant sat with his back to Italo and the thumps of blows could be heard. "Ash, you dolt!  Ash the idjit, good for naught idjit, Ashby!"

 

Corrigan looked up from where he was spittings strips of salted bacon onto green branches that would not burn through before the meal was cooked. He glanced at the Prince who was rolling his eyes at the spectacle, noting what the Royal Cur did not.  Six or eight paces behind the Prince stood Carvhal.  He held the knife like a dagger and stared holes into the Prince's back. Disgust and rage boiled, steaming off the only armed man in the group. 

 

In an instant, as though a blanket had dropped over them, every sound fell away.   Ashby ceased his self-abuse. Crickets held their chirps, no wind blew to rattle branches or course its sighs through the grasses and plants, the sizzle of grease that fell from the cooking bacon into the fire stopped.  For long moments the world held its breath. 

 

"Ashby?  Ash?"  Corrigan called to him in the silence.  When he had his attention, he asked, "Would you like tea?"  The other man nodded, his round eyes swimming in unshed tears.  "I could make some if I had three - he showed the man three fingers - flat rocks to put in the coals."  Ashby held up three fingers.  Corrigan nodded.

 

The smile came back and he said, "Ash can find rocks.  Ashby will, Gorgon."  He could not pronounce Corrigan's name, had never been able to.  He held up three fingers and set off in search of flat rocks.

 

Marku began his retreat.

 

*****

He was not worried about the other three men.  Marku knew that, if necessary, he could elude them.  The impaired man, Ashby, was a different kettle of fish.  In his enthusiasm to find the rocks Corrigan had asked for, he might stumble by chance onto Marku.  There was no reason to risk that.  The emissaries were going nowhere tonight, except to sleep.

 

He pulled back with as much caution as he used in the stalk.  Not a great deal of time remained before sunset and the nocturnal predators of Selena would soon stir.  When he was far enough away that the men would not hear him, he sped up and used less care.  The noise he made would intimidate some of the forest's hungry but less brazen denizens, chasing them away.  When Marku found the horse where he left it, he stowed the crossbow, climbed into the saddle and began the search for a suitable spot for his own camp.

 

*****

 He found it in a copse of trees that had spread out of the forest and grown into the clearer fields.  It was close enough to the path taken that none of the princeling's men would slip by his notice if they reversed their course.  To ensure that, Marku took a few small dried and hollow gourds from his gear along with a spool of dark sewing thread.  He put a few pebbles into each and suspended them across the trail with the thread.  He led his animal to forage, tethered it there and ate from a pouch of trail rations. Marku would wait to start his own small cookfire, in a depression that restricted its illumination, until later.   

 

He walked among the closest trees and reached up to pluck a bit of chewsome to spice the bland mix.  From the far side of the tree a matter-of-fact female voice said, "Remember this, man:  Not all."

 

When she came around into his view, he marvelled at how a being as miniscule as she could project a voice that commanding.  Marku grinned, winked, and held up the single sprig he had taken.  The woodsman inspected the tiny person before him.  She was clad in what could have been spider's silk, colored not forest hues but in shades and degrees of light.  These tones enabled her slight-statured kind to blend in a remarkable way into the diffuse highlights and somber shadows of the woodlands.  Dressed as this and moving with abundant caution, they were nigh invisible at daybreak and dusk, as he could now attest.  Many a night had he and other men of the forests spoken of the 'edgers'. They were an unknown quantity and woodsmen spoke of them with respect.

 

  Marku, in all his time and attention given to the mastery of woodlore, had never seen one of these beings in detail, never for longer than the heartbeat of a hummer bird had he seen them at all.

 

She climbed the tree with sure and liquid motions that appeared effortless, until they were face to face. 

 

"You will call me Spark, man.   How shall I address you?" 

 

Marku was surprised to sense that she harbored animosity for his kind - hells, perhaps 'tis me.  The tone and quality of her clipped speech left no doubt.  There was an unsubtle and confident dismissiveness.  Spark was unimpressed.

 

The sun arced toward its slumber and she all but disappeared. Her gossamer attire became translucent as a creeping band of sunlight that illuminated more of the trunk absorbed her.  She waited, still and ethereal.

 

"This is extraordinary, Spark.  I am pleased," he said, sounding like Jonsai at the beginning of one of his lecturing pronouncements. 

 

She interrupted him with a brusque, "Did you hear my question?  Man, you are not deaf?" 

 

Marku was thankful for the beard which hid cheeks rouged with embarrassment.

 

"I am to be called Vul."  The woodsman delivered this with a direct and assertive tone, a bit peeved with the tiny dominatrix. He had thought the similarity of 'Marku and Spark' uncomfortable, his full family name unwieldy and out of the question. The comfortable truncation of that into 'Vul' worked, or so he believed at the time. 

 

His eyes studied the small being's just discernible position at the edge of the sunlight and then she darted onto the contrasting bark.  Spark concentrated on him with amused curiousity, incredulous. 

 

Could man be other than spineless?  Might they somehow be of use?  Pffftt!  The beardy Vul, though? 

 

Spark and the others tasked as 'embers',  not edgers, as humans labeled them, were vested with a great deal of trust in their mental acuity, as much, if not more so, than in their physical gifts.  Theirs was the task to study and learn, both of and from, the race of man. 

 

"Yes, I call you Vul."  Her pronunciation of the name was inflected with the slightest vibration ahead of a distinct 'f' sound.  Spark unbound a wicked smile and repeated her conclusion, "Yes, you are Vul."

 

*****

"Who are those men?"

 

Filching another bit of chewsome herb, he motioned to a log bathed in dappled light where they could speak with some comfort.  "Come sit with me, Spark.  This tale will take some telling."

 

Spark considered the request, and the future, then made one of her own although the woodsman heard it as an order.  "Give me your hand."  She leapt from the tree into his palm when it came close.  "I will touch you, your face."  Marku hesitated, surprise writ large across his features. Her arms flapped an impatient upward arc, "I will do so now, Vul."

 

He lifted her.  She studied his visage with extreme care. Finding what she sought, she leaned forward and placed her miniature palm against that spot over the bridge of his nose that would sprout furrows when he concentrated, as now, and would become permanent in not many more seasons.  Spark turned then and without fear launched herself with a flawless swan-dive into one of the pockets of his jherkin. 

 

Had Spark not done that, she would have been dumped to the forest floor when Marku's surprise caused a spasmodic straightening of his arms toward the apparition that appeared before him. A pace and a half away, Spark appeared to him as a girl of about sixteen summers with red-gold hair that stood a mere two feet tall. 

 

Arms crossed atop the lip of the pocket, Spark rested her head on them so that she could look up at the bearded man with comfort.  She explained, "From this day on, whenever you are in direct contact with one of my race, you may see any, or all of us, as you will."  Spark's voice seemed to emanate from the doppelganger that stood in front of him, still and unconcerned.

 

He was flabbergasted into jaw-dropped silence. 

 

"Close your mouth, Vul."  The apparition winked and then crossed its arms.

 

He looked from the vision before him to the being in his pocket several times.  Marku put a pinch of the trail mix into his mouth and chewed as amazed thoughts flew crazed patterns until finding perch on the memory of something she had said, "...see any...of us...as you will."  His eyes grew large and a prayer of thanks sped away to whichever gods might be responsible for granting him this boon. 

 

Marku concentrated, and the image of Spark grew to the size of a young woman with ringlets of red-gold hair cascading around her face.  To spice the pot, he imagined her perhaps a decade or so older. And with longer legs.  And lusher curves.  Marku tugged at his beard, concentrated until the doppelganger's clothing changed. A bright smile on the Spark he saw beamed welcome and finished his modifications.

 

"I did not expect your discovery of that to take long," she said.  Muttering an exasperated "Man!" she released her grip on his pocket to sink out of sight.  Her doppelganger threw its arms up to the sky, shot Marku/Vul a look of disgust and turned its back. 

 

Though she could not see him any longer, Marku looked down at the pocket where Spark had disappeared to fume in silence. He wiggled his eyebrows, pleased with himself.

 

*****

When Marku/Vul heard nothing more from the irritated Spark and the apparition for a bit, he went to his horse and began to separate those things he would need to continue shadowing the princeling on foot.  He took a light blanket that was coarsely woven, some food and the items needed to cook and serve it and put those near the log that was now more in shadow than dappled sun.  When he turned to go back to the horse, Cookies stood before him, hands on stout hips, with a gapped smile beaming from her pudgy face.  He blinked. 

 

"The longer we remain in contact, the more I will learn of you, Vul."

 

He tried to imagine Spark as he would, failed, gave the apparition a sour look, then returned to the horse.  The woodsman packed the rest of what he would need into a valise that could be carried on his back, leaving the battle axe fastened to the horse.  He balled the reins and tied them with twine so they would snag no brush on the animal's journey, said to it, "Home, horse."  Marku slapped it on the rump and his horse trotted away.  The balled reins would also indicate to those at the ranch that Marku was under no duress and had decided to continue afoot.

 

He sat with the log at his back and dug a shallow hole in the forest soil.  In the last of the day's light he inspected it to make certain no roots peeked from the walls.  They could catch fire and spread below ground for a long distance.  He spoke with Spark/Cookies as he fashioned a small cook fire.  After whittling some branches and creating a tripod with them, he filled a pot with water and added some potatoes and carrots along with a portion of salt pork.  The scent of the bland meal would not carry far.  Marku hung it from the branches over the fire and wished he could smoke.

 

*****

He finished explaining what he knew of the men Spark had asked about, relating the story of the altercation at Kayla's farm and Col's instructions. He poured the water from the pot around the edge of the fire hole assuring himself no flame would find purchase there.  At some point, the Spark he first saw reappeared, sitting across the fire from him. Cookies vanished. He offered her his only bowl, she shook her head, speared some bits of the potatoes and carrots with a small stick and placed them onto a broad leaf. 

 

"Do you know of the faormuc, Vul?  Do any of you?" 

 

"Kayla knows something of storm bent creatures and has shared that knowledge with her husband, Colryn.  He told us what he could."  He nibbled his meal and watched Spark.  She ate in silence.  The small woman gazed into the evening shadows.

 

Faormuc.  I must warn the Fey.  And how does this human woman come to know of them?  Where is the sorceror?  How to divine the foul magician's intent?  Humans?  Oh, Forest forfend.  There must be a different path. 

 

  Spark made her decision.

 

"Embers will accompany you, Vul.   I will now leave.  There are preparations to be made."

 

"Embers?"

 

In answer, Spark came to him and touched his finger. Marku saw her again as the young girl - and from the forest came several other apparitions, two of them male and three others, female. As they gathered, she released Marku/Vul's finger. 

 

"We are embers, Vul - not 'edgers', as you and others have named our kind. Sleep, Vul. You will not be disturbed.  We will meet again."

 

The half dozen miniature beings conferred amongst themselves. The light of the dwindling fire shone on their silks, dying them shades of red and orange. 

 

"Sleep, Vul." The embers scattered.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Warlock's Ire

 The warlock sat in contemplation.  It was not restful.  Suspended in the space where his eyes focused was a burning sun, no larger than his fist. There were no other lights in the cavernous room. Circling in concentric paths around that star were planets. Orbiting them, moons that varied in size and appearance.  Now and again, the magician reached out to impede the path of one or another. The result of that interference was chaos; celestial bodies that clashed, rebounded, launched into eccentric trails that mirrored his vile mood.

 

Seated in a chair of elaborate construction, Patarkos stewed.  Taken from a long dead language, the name translated to 'The man, or the soldier, who walks in front'.  Tremors shook him and his gaunt face was suffused the purple of a strangulation victim.

 

"Where is the whelp?  Where is the scroll?"   He shouted, though there were none to hear him.  None able to answer him, at any rate.  He rose, smashed his palms together and thunder roared. Plump spiders legged into the furthest reaches of their stringy domains. Dust, guano and several stalactites fell from a ceiling lost to shadow.  At once, as though fired by lightning, every candle in the room burst into flame and the whirling constellation shattered its bonds.  It coalesced in a far corner of the room. The paths of the planetary bodies shivered.

 

Patarkos strode to the scrying bowl. The enraged sorceror put his hands on either side of the bowl and demanded, "SHOW ME."  The thick metallic sauce ignored the warlock.  Wavelets skittered across the surface, powered by the trembling of his hands.  But that was all. 

 

"Bah!" He turned away in distress.  With his hands clasped and stubby forefingers tapping a rapid and confused tattoo against his whiskerless chin, Patarkos tried to concentrate. 

 

*****

When she neared her destination, Spark took to the trees.  She seemed to fly along the thin branches at the tips of boughs and leaped between them as no limber squirrel ever could.  The ember took that path not only because it was fastest but due to the nature of the area she approached.  The innermost Sanctum of the Fey, the center of their aging society, was ensconced in the trackless depths of Selena's magnificent forest. Confusing brambles, interlocking boughs, foot/paw/hoof-snaring tangles of roots and the indescribable maze they created ensured that the Fey would live undisturbed.  Even the adventurous and opportunistic aurochs of the woodlands avoided foraging here. Predators did the same.

 

Once beyond the maze, Spark was able to return to ground level.  She passed groups - castes - of others that tended neat farms that grew vegetables and fruits, hemp to fashion bridges and snares, light and malleable balsa and broadleaf plants with which the Fey built their homes in the trees. Some saw to the breeding of the colonies of silkworms in their cloudy bags that hung from catalpas.  There were children about, but not so many as necessary. 

 

There were no sentries, nor need of them.  The Forest, and their own magick, provided the Fey security.  Spark approached the Sanctum and announced her need to one of the administrator caste.  She was shown inside, at once.

 

"The Commune will see you now, ember."  One of the Fey, dressed in gray silks with decorative and contrasting piping at the seams, ushered Spark into the Chamber.

 

"Thank you, administrator," she said and followed his direction. Inside were the five members of the Commune, the regulatory body of the Fey.  There was no ruling caste.  Representatives of the ember, administrator, healer, cleric and, Spark was surprised to see, the liana castes made up this Commune. Caste members of the Fey were never accorded the distinction of capitalizing the individual castes.  Equality in their society was the rule and no exceptions were granted. There were other castes amongst the Fey and the membership of the Commune changed on occasion.  When Spark last had reason to address them, one of the educators held the position that the liana now occupied.

 

A facilitator offered Spark fruit juice which she took, thanking him. "Commune, I have grave news to share."  She sipped at her juice, then announced, "A faormuc has manifested in the human lands."  Spark said no more.  She knew what came next.

 

"Hold, ember," said one of them.  "We will convene the entire Cadre here in one hour.  Facilitator, direct the educator, farmer, husbandry, and builder castes to assign a representative.  You will represent the facilitators."

 

"As you wish, Commune.  By your leave."  Before he could depart, Commune administrator told him, "Share nothing of this development, yet."  He nodded his understanding and departed to carry out the Commune's directive.

 

"Come, Spark," said Commune ember, "we have time to get you food and clean silks."  She took Spark's hand and led her away.

 

*****

Michaela, Colryn and Jonsai sat outside under the awning.  She had the scroll opened. Bits of sticky sap from one of the nearby trees held it that way on the table.  The cat grumbled and paced, wearing a path in the yard.

 

"Jon, look at this." He stood and came around behind her to see.  "I see this sigil that could be 'King' and if it is, I am certain that the one which follows must be 'Faust'.  And here, do you see this one that looks to be an overturned rook, from the game of Castles?  Could that be 'surrender'?"

 

   "I do believe you are correct, Kayla.  And these?" Jonsai pointed over Michaela's shoulder.  "See how they rise from smaller to taller in succession.  That could be 'season', could it not?"

 

"If you two are right, this scroll conveys an ultimatum."  Col drank from a mug of cider and watched the cat wear a furrow into the dirt. "We will take our luncheon with the men, Kayla. We will return, soon. This damned message will wait. Jon, will you join us?"  Michaela cleaned the sap from the corners of the scroll, rerolled it and tucked it into the bodice of her blouse.  The three set off toward the bunkhouse.  Giving wide berth to the auroch pen, the faormuc followed.

 

*****

That morning, as the sky began to pink ahead of the dawn, Marku coaxed another small fire from the coals and hung a pot of water for tea.  Before it boiled, the five embers sat across from him. 

 

"I have had to change my thoughts about harrassing the Faustians," he told them.  "At the first, it was not important to me if they suffered.  My one goal is to chase them home.  There is one among them, though, I would not choose to harm. And one I want to talk to."

 

As he spoke, he wove grasses and other vegetation into the coarse blanket.  When the water roiled, he added loose tea leaves to it, took the pot from the fire and let it steep. He looked at them and said, "I need a skunk."  Marku/Vul explained his plan to the embers as he poured some tea into a cup.  "I will gladly share, but have no other cups.  Any ideas?"

 

Two of the embers slipped into the forest.  After a short while they returned with five reeds and hands full of dripping moss.  They tossed the moss onto the fire where it steamed as it choked the flames.  When each had been given one of the reeds, they stood around the pot and sipped their fill. 

 

"There is a spring seep about ten of your paces in that direction," one said, pointing.  The Forest will not aid us if we leave it endangered," he continued, gesturing at the fire pit.  Marku pursed his lips and tilted his head in confusion. "The Forest lives, Vul. It may aid or hinder our plans, as it wills.  This is beyond your ken, but it is, nonetheless, the truth."

 

Marku went to fetch water. While on the way, it occurred to him that the ember that spoke to him had no problem forming the 'v' sound.  He laughed. He did not think Spark had a speech impediment.

 

The embers went to get a skunk.

 

*****

Shadows danced, spawned by the flicker of many dozens of candles of every description. From slim tapers to robust towers, from fat, squat types with multiple wicks to votives in small, colored glass or crystal containers, from candelabrae and one enormous chandelier suspended high above his head, wisps of smoke and the scents of melting beeswax and tallow wafted.  Their combined output of smoke and heat would have overpowered even the Great Hall of the castle above him, but that was not the case here in the lair of the warlock, Patarkos.

 

He sat, naked, in the massive chair centered in the chamber created by volcanic might some eons ago.  The room was so huge that the light beaming from the candles produced only pinprick reflections from its basalt and obsidian walls.  Patarkos looked at the spot where the small star, its own light near to overpowered by the candleshine, held sway in a far part of the cavern.  He smiled without mirth.  More decades past than the sorceror cared to contemplate, a Master Wizard, he croaked a laugh and tipped a flute of spring water in the star's direction, had shared what would be his final lesson with a young adept.

 

"Of all the paths, all the sources, of power, there is none more predominant than that of the earth itself, young Claude." 

 

How I despise that name!  The incensed warlock reached out to the constellation and a mud colored planet with its moon streaked from orbit to hover before him.  Claude.  We name you, Claude.  Though he had certainly been too young to remember the naming ceremony, the sorceror could envision the part his parents had played in his great and terrible mind's eye.  He trembled as he recalled the others, adepts with magnitudes less potential than he, teasing him, "Behold Clod, the mighty carrot-top hedge wizard."  Patarkos stripped more of the planets and moons from the solar system and flung them into the distance.  He could still hear laughter. 

 

Straining with the effort, Patarkos regained control of himself.  He poured the remainder of the water over the dirt colored planet and its satellite then batted them away.

 

I must locate that worthless child.  And even the gods will not protect him if he has failed me.

 

Patarkos fastened his attention onto a table that then slid across the stone floor toward him.  It halted beside the sturdy ironwood chair.  He took a rawhide thong from it and held it between chapped lips.  The warlock bunched his flame hued hair into a top knot that revealed the shaved clean sides of his knobby skull. He tied it with intricate windings of the leather.  From the table he took a container filled with a cloudy tincture and dipped his finger into it. He whispered the words of power as he anointed each temple.  From another bottle he poured flakes of silver into a bowl.  To that was added dye so black that it seemed to swallow the light around it.  Patarkos blended these and began to paint his body with the sigils of runes. They started at the bald sides of his head, continued over his gaunt face and did not end until they reached bony ankles.

 

The name he was christened with was not the warlock's sole insecurity.  It had been years unrecalled since he had last seen his reflection in a mirror glass.  He would cringe when he caught sight of his image by chance in a window or pool of still water.

 

He returned the table to its place with a gesture. Patarkos could feel the earth essence seep into him.  It started as a tingle that made the hair on his skinny arms and back of his neck stand erect. It would progress until he felt rooted by the fundamental gravity of the planet beneath his feet. 

 

It was this chamber that brought Patarkos to Faust.  He had been drawn to this area by the emanations of strength and power. He believed, at first, that it was the considerable power of the Selena woodlands. His discovery of this cavern beneath Faust's castle seemed preordained. Wasting no time, he sought Faustian employ. Patarkos had no love for Turgenev - nor any other. He saw the slovenly monarch as nothing more than a means to an end.  Only on the rarest of occasions did the wizard associate with him, at all. 

 

The warlock dressed.  Not for him the feminine robes of the charlatan hedge wizards or the arrogant clerics that pretended piety while fleecing their gullible flocks.  Patarkos was a warlock and he garbed himself as a warrior ought.  He donned a supple leather tunic and breeches - and when I take Selena, it shall be auroch leather - overlain by fine-linked chainmail.  The wizard stepped into hobnailed boots and fastened a wide, boiled leather belt around his waist.  To it was attached a wicked obsidian dagger fashioned from stone taken from this same chamber.  He finished with a boiled leather helm topped with a chainmail coif. 

 

As the power infused him, Patarkos calmed.  He paced the floor with his hands folded behind him.  The wizard could not fathom what had occurred.  Why was Italo hidden from him?  The idiot was enchanted with the notion that his father would think him worthy of a mission.  He swallowed the warlock's lie with the eagerness of a suckling babe. He would not have abandoned the quest of his own accord. Could he be dead?

 

Patarkos did not know why the imbuements he had placed on the scroll, and hedging against chance, the decorative quirt, he had given Italo failed. As long as one or the other remained in the damned child's possession his location could be pinpointed.  The warlock supposed Italo could have died on the trail.  He had to know.

 

The sorceror pivoted in place, his breath extinguished all but the five towering candles in the giant room.  Patarkos had one other way to locate the missing whelp. It was time to summon occult assistance. There was no need for the pentagrams used by amateurish adepts or the fearful exorcists. His strength and the power to be had in this chamber consecrated the area around the bulky chair. For many paces in every direction, Patarkos was safe against the cunning vehemence of demon-kind.

 

Patarkos spoke the words of conjuration and the demon unfolded from the shadows.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pursuit

Reconvened in the Chamber, the Cadre of the Fey listened with rapt attention to Spark.  There were no interruptions during her report.  

 

"...and that is the whole of it," she concluded.  Spark drank juice to wet her parched throat and waited for the questions she knew to be forthcoming.  She did not have to wait long.

 

"This Vul you speak of, he is trustworthy?"

 

Spark replied, "Vul is human."  She shrugged and a slight grimace appeared on her face.  There were a few chuckles and Commune ember smiled at Spark. She had invested her own time and effort into the study of man as all of the ember caste must. She was perhaps the best able of the Cadre present to understand Spark's reluctance to venture more of an opinion, but probed further.

 

"Try harder, Spark. You alone have the knowledge of your 'beardy Vul' that will help us to reach the decisions we must."  She grinned when Spark tossed a frown her way following the suggestion that Vul somehow belonged to her.

 

"I followed him through the Forest as he stalked those men. I observed the care with which be prepared his camp. It is obvious that he has respect for, and experience in, the woodlands."  Spark sipped from a cup, ordering her thoughts. "Vul appears to be level-headed; despite his surprise at our introduction, he was poised. Beyond the initial shock when I 'opened' him," Spark nodded to Commune liana, "his reaction was acceptance."  Spark chose not to share Marku/Vul's experimentation with the '...see us as you will...' experience.

 

"Why did you open him, ember?" 

 

The question came from Commune liana. Opening of another was not a decision to be made based upon capricious whim. Information flowed in both directions between the opened and those wielding the power that permitted it. The action could not be undone, save for the death of the recipient. This ability, the raison d'etre of the liana caste amongst the Fey, bestowed power - and its intimate nature destroyed secrecy. The question was one that had occupied her thoughts as Spark made her way to the Sanctum of the Fey. The answer disturbed Spark, as it would the Cadre.

 

"I do not know, Commune liana," Spark said.  There were gasps. A few harsh and surprised expressions greeted her admission.  "I can only offer this: I witnessed the 'quietude' at the camp of the men Vul chased.  That is a rarity that I have only known the Forest to bestow when humans and their complex emotions are involved. I made the decision then. I did not know when I opened Vul what I was to learn later."  She swung her gaze from caste to caste.

 

When there were no comments, Commune administrator looked to each caste, "If there are no more questions, the Cadre will deliberate.  Ember, you will remain in chamber to be available for questions. You may contribute to Cadre discussions.  Have you anything further?"

 

 "Only a question, Commune. A faormuc walks with the humans.  Do the Fey?"

 

Spark's feelings were torn regarding the answer yet to be decided. She dipped her chin and said to the Cadre, "By your leave."  The ember at the center of a coming whirlwind chose a chair and listened. 

 

*****

 Jonsai gathered all the men within hollering distance and sent them for the others. "You two go on in.  I shall gather your inquisitors, Michaela."  Jon grinned at her and she stuck her tongue out at him.

 

  Michaela and Colryn went into the house and got dusted by Cookies.  She hustled up to them and turned to hug Miz Kayla.  Cookies stopped, straightened up and beat the flour off her clothing. Instead of only Kayla, the resulting cloud consumed everyone.

 

 "Come on, Miz Kayla." Cookies tugged at  her hand, "C'mon." The two women chattered and ducked into the world of Cookies. As they passed a counter, Cookies picked up a leather whip. She used it to point out different things until Michaela stopped her.  "That is a remarkable, umm, quirt?   You wield a whip, Cookies?"

 

Michaela's guide cackled. "Yep. One of them boys I sents ta butcher that horsie brought it back for me. Thinks he can butter me.  Hah."

 

Michaela put her hand over her mouth in time to hide the smile, "I would like to see that, Cookies.  May I? Please?"

 

"O'course. But outta this hot kitchen! C'mon, Miz Kayla."

 

The "grub boss," who had once kicked Boots for calling her 'grab ass', had hustled most of the way across the great room when the cat's head came around the edge of the front door. It stopped and growled with its face only. Cookies slid toward it. Her clogs made a scraping sound until she stopped.  With her mouth open, she turned to Michaela, the lash still in her hand. Before Cookies spoke, Kayla stepped in front of her.  Colryn turned from where he was reading something by a window.  

 

"It is alright, Cookies."  Kayla stared at the cat.

 

 The faormuc came with a pantherish stride. It focused on the two women and paid no attention to Colryn, who was moving toward the women, as well. There were no feline growls, or purrs for that matter, coming from it. The sleek feline crossed the oak floor, seeming to glide.

 

Michaela faced Cookies and said in a chipper voice, "Tis alright."  She nodded and smiled.  The cat tucked its head around Kayla's thigh. Violet eyes stared at Cookies. "The faormuc just..." Kayla hunched her shoulders, made little fists and screwed her eyes shut. 

 

Kayla you are a a a ohhh  I could kick you

 

"Faormuc!"  Cookies whirled toward the kitchen and the cat surged ahead. The faormuc took the leather quirt out of her hand.  It circled until all three of the humans were in sight.  It sat with the small whip between its teeth.

 

"Hmmmph. Kayla, your scary cat likes girls better."  Col sat at the edge of one of the chairs. Michaela walked to the faormuc and took the whip.

 

 "Yep, Miz Kayla.  'Tis alright wi'me if you keep that thing long's you like.  Could take your time, sure."  Cookies sidled into her kitchen.

 

*****

Patarkos lounged in the chair, cleaning the dye from under his nails with the black stone knife. One of his war-booted feet crossed over the other. Bafamel closed on him. 

 

"Your nonchalance will bring you to me one day," the demon said. Bafamel walked a wide circle around the sorceror.  "Why am I summoned?"

 

"You will find a man, Bafamel.  This will aid you."  Patarkos pointed two fingers at the solar system across the chamber and the smallest planet detached from its orbit. The warlock used the same fingers to guide the approaching sphere.  "Catch, hellion."

 

Bafamel rolled one thorny hand and the planet fell to its palm.  The sphere disguised more mass than it suggested, its weight noticeable. 

 

"That is the daughter of the man you seek.  Say hello to the demon, dear."

 

Tingling the spawn's palm, the planetoid that it held vibrated. Bafamel's starburst pupils illuminated and the fell creature sighed before closing heavy lids over them.   It feasted on the hysteria it sensed from the trapped mortal.  And prayers?  Does the child pray to her impotent gods for deliverance?  Closing its spiky fist around the globe, the hellspawn waited for the warlock to continue his instructions.

 

"No?  Well, no matter."  Patarkos rose from the chair and addressed the being.  "I do not care what becomes of the man you will find."  He gestured with his receding chin at the ball in the demon's possession, "Nor that." Patarkos sheathed the knife, faced Bafamel and said, "You will bring the boy he travels with here." 

 

*****

Marku/Vul drew the camouflage blanket over him and crawled a serpentine path toward the camp. He held the fluff of a dandy weed up a few times to gauge the direction of the breeze.  Marku did not release the bundles of seed to sail on their way. He pushed them into the soil, the back of his mind thinking they might grow.  Ashby, the only one of the party awake in the princeling's camp, might not notice the floating passage of the seeds but the opposite could happen, resulting in discovery. Marku maneuvered upwind. Carvhal would come to him. The woodsman stuck a piece of juicy grass into the corner of his mouth and smiled past it.

 

His companions herded an adult and two young skunks between them. When the procession neared the quiet camp, the skunks smelled food and it focused their attention. The herding embers sent the scavengers on their way and hurried upwind themselves.  An invasion of striped animals scurried right past Ashby and into the midst of the sleeping emissaries.  Ash's eyes bugged and he choked out, "Huh...hu...hunks!"

 

Prince Italo roused from troubled sleep at the shout.  His servant, separated from Sire by the fire he stoked, pointed at the invaders. He clapped both hands over his mouth. No more sounds came from the wide-eyed Ashby. The skunks followed their noses around the camp, scarfing up tidbits of the meal from the night before. The Prince risked one quick look, belched a curse and pulled the minimal protection of the blanket over his head. Italo kicked Corrigan, unfortunate enough to be closest. "Get them!" and all his other Royal demands were muffled by the blanket that covered him. He curled into a tight fetal position beneath the covers and squawked.

 

Corrigan's reaction to the boy-Prince's screaming and the kick that tore his dream to tatters caused the man to awaken with startled jerks.  A large skunk standing on its forepaws with a bushy tail folded over the white stripe on its back bid him 'good morning'. That threatful display might have been sufficient for the adult but the juvenile skunks did not share their companion's wisdom or restraint. 

 

Carvhal grabbed Ashby by the shoulder and he hustled them both out of the encampment.

 

*****

Bafamel croaked at the warlock that paced a scant few inches from the demon's hungering grasp, "And that is all?"

 

"Hmmm? Oh, yes."  Patarkos flapped his fingers in the fiend's direction and continued his teasing stroll at the periphery of protection. "Yes, yes, be on your way, hellion. You are dismissed." 

 

Two of the five towering candles guttered. Their glowing wicks breathed away wispy tendrils of smoke. The table that held the warlock's dark-art supplies vibrated and its feet scratched against the stone.  Starred pupils in the hellish being's huge eyes novaed into bright warning and its twin racks of spiked teeth grated against one another. "Your agony will endure," promised Bafamel.

 

Patarkos took his seat and resumed cleaning his fingernails. "You have my command, demon.  Be off." He crossed his booted feet and ignored the outrage consuming Bafamel. Demons are so very melodramatic. How I enjoy these visits.

 

*****

Marku smiled until the first inkling that something odd, and perhaps awful, would occur. It came as the trio of skunks abandoned the camp. They streaked away, tripping over one another in their rush to escape. Musk exploded from the striped animals and trails of urine sparkled the grass behind them. The hidden woodsman spit the blade of grass past his beard. He did not understand the terror and panic in their actions. They followed the path taken by Ashby and Carvhal who saw them coming and sprinted in another direction. Ash pounded through the brush, huffing and puffing "hunks hunks hunks" from his heaving lungs, several paces ahead of his savior. Marku saw no sign of the five embers that accompanied him.

 

Despite a cloudless sky, the morning light dimmed over the Prince's encampment. The cause of that darkening remained invisible until Corrigan detonated into mist.

 

Bafamel's fury was terrible to behold. The demon dropped the globe, forgetting that another tormentable soul resided within. Its torturous interlude with the arrogant and demeaning magician required absolution. Still unseen, the fiend lifted Corrigan, who until that moment had counted himself fortunate for avoiding skunk spray.  He rose far into the sky, unable to scream his fear. A whistled keening came from the doomed man. 

 

 There was the sound of a magnificent clap, many times more intense than the thunder of the most furious storm, and Corrigan was reduced to gore. Hot blood rained over the camp and the thing that killed him.  Bafamel could now be seen.  

 

The demon's eyes blazed from a nightmarish face dripping its victim's blood. Bafamel's disproportionate body,  highlighted by bluish-gray entrails that hung from numerous warts and spines, towered over Crown Prince Italo, Heir to the Throne of Faust. 

 

Italo's trousers darkened at the crotch. His eyes bulged from sockets in a blood spattered face as he marvelled at the insane destruction not two paces from where he stood. Gibberish spouted from the Prince's lips as the creature that mutilated one of his men turned its attention to him.

 

"Boy, I have come for you."  The powerful voice came from behind the squashed skull of Corrigan. Bafamel held the head of the Prince's man in front of the youth's face.  Grey matter streaked with blood and yellowish fat oozed from every orifice and all of the fissures the demon's violence created. Bafamel drank in the boy's terror, nourished and amused.  The hellspawn's laughter boomed from its gargantuan chest and a flurry of obscene confetti blurred the campsite. Grass stained with bits of Corrigan covered Italo. He spewed last night's dinner and repeated a breathless mantra, "I will be King. I will be King. I will..." 

 

After the hellion flung Corrigan's ravaged head into the forest, it seized the chanting Italo around the waist with both thorny hands and departed. The boy's hysterical screaming continued long after his flailing body receded into the dawn.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Impressum

Texte: J.B. Jones
Bildmaterialien: Karen Arnold (find her other wonderful artwork at Kaz@pixabay.com)
Lektorat: J.B. Jones
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.12.2016

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Widmung:
For Claire, who saw this chapter in my life unfold long before I had written it.