Table of Contents

The Pine Lesson ................................................................................................. 1

The Black City .................................................................................................. 16

Amylda’s Prize .................................................................................................. 37

Hearts and Minds ............................................................................................. 55

Tails .................................................................................................................... 71

The Lucky Doe ................................................................................................. 85

The Enemy Within .......................................................................................... 101

You Can’t Choose Family ............................................................................. 105

Milton’s Big Day ............................................................................................. 107

Kolenka Gorisov ............................................................................................. 125

Echoes of the Past .......................................................................................... 159

The Golden Bounty ........................................................................................ 183

Tribute of Blood ............................................................................................. 207

Unification ....................................................................................................... 228

A Case of Exchange Rates and Sorcery ...................................................... 246

 Ian Madison Keller is a fantasy writer currently living in Oregon.
Ian has been writing since 2013 with eight novels and more than
a dozen published short stories. Ian has also written under the
name Madison Keller before transitioning in 2019 to Ian.

The Pine Lesson

Espen approached the librarian with trepidation. His hooves clicked softly on the
wooden floor, despite his best efforts to walk quietly. The squirrel librarian sat bent over a
book behind her desk, her fluffy brown tail curled behind her head, but she looked up
and smiled at him as he approached.
“How can I help you?”
Espen ran a hand through his forelock nervously. “I have a question about
elementals.”
One of the librarian’s dark eyebrows rose, but she merely nodded her head
for him to continue.
“We learned how to speak to them last week in class. I’ve been trying to practice on
the elemental I found, but I can’t get it to respond.” With this Espen, reached into his bag,
pulled out his most prized possession, and set it on the desk in front of her. It was a small
sprig of pine of a type not found it in his southern homeland of Avoirdupois, which was
why he had originally picked it up when he’d stumbled across it as a young colt. He’d
immediately felt the magic radiating from it, although he hadn’t had a word for it at the
time. In a way it had led him here, leaving home to study magic at Dunwasser College.
The librarian leaned over her desk to peer at the twig, her black nose
twitching. After a moment, she sat back up and shook her head. “I’d wager to say
it’s not talking to you because it’s not an elemental.”
“It’s not?” Espen stared down at the stick in shock. “Then what is it?”
Her tail jerked and twitched behind her as she thought for a moment. “I’m
not sure,” the squirrel woman said finally, “but I have some ideas where you can
start looking.” She stood up and gestured for Espen to follow her.
They wove their way through the stacks, only passing one other student, an
upper-level fox student in red robes. She was studying fire magic, while Espen’s
plain brown robes with the yellow bands indicated he was a first year studying
earth magic. Eventually the librarian stopped in front of a large bookcase.
“Here you go,” the squirrel said, gesturing at the books.
Espen stared at the giant bookcase in despair. “All these?”
 The librarian shrugged. “Plant is a pretty broad thing to be searching for,
without something else to narrow it down. Library closes at dusk. Good luck in
your search, young horse.” With that she turned and left.
Espen scanned the titles on the shelves, shaking his head. This was going to take
forever. He chose a book, mostly at random, and carried it over to the closest table. He
gave up after three pages. The author assumed that the reader had a lot more magical
knowledge than Espen had. He returned the book to the shelf and picked another one.
This time instead of picking at random, he carefully read the titles. He found
a volume about how to use magic to better grow plants and took it over to the table.
The book’s title had given him a much better idea about how to figure out
what his sprig was. He knew grapevines could be regrown from a cutting, so
perhaps other plants could be as well. After it was regrown, it would be quicker
than a tail snap to identify what it was. It was almost dusk by the time he was
ready. He had found a spell in the book that did exactly what he needed, but with
his limited knowledge of magic it had taken a while to untangle the spell. As a first-
year student, he was only allowed to check out books from the front, beginner-level
shelves, or else he would just take this book back to his room to try the spell there.
Espen took the stick out of his pocket and set it on the table. Then he held
one hand over the stick, using the other to keep track of his place in the spell, and
began repeating the words while channeling his magic out through his palm. The
stick jumped, dancing as the magic hit it. When Espen finished reciting the words to
the spell, the sprig fell back to the table, lifeless and looking no different, and Espen
sat back with a frown, canting one ear back. He was sure he’d cast the spell properly.
Then the stick shivered and began to grow. And grow. Espen let out a little
neigh of dismay, snatching the library book from the table and jumping backwards.
His chair fell over with a loud clatter. He clutched the book to his chest as he watched
the twig, grown enough that it now looked more like a branch. The branch twisted,
and more branches began sprouting from it, curving and bending into knots. What
looked like eyes made of tree sap formed inside the branches and stared at Espen.
A head-shape began to form from the branches around the eye sockets. The eyes
widened and moved apart, and a horse’s long muzzle grew. Ears like his own sprouted
from its head, made of leaves and wood. A mane of pine needles sprang up along a
neck, stopping at a few inches long, identical to Espen’s short, flat-shaved roached mane.
A body began to form from the mass, pushing out from the back of the fake horse head.
Ever so slowly, Espen managed to get his legs working and backed up, away
from the branch thing, until his back hit a bookshelf. His nostrils flared and his tail
swished, knocking books from the shelves behind him. His instinct was to run, but
the branch thing was on the table between him and the only way out.
A moment later, the twisting branches had settled into a shape. A horse identical
to Espen now sat on the edge of the table. The mane, tail, and fur of the creature were
made of pine needles. Its eyes were amber tree sap. The creature had even made a
crude replica of Espen’s school robes from bark. Espen and the creature were staring at
each other in shock when the squirrel librarian appeared in the aisle behind the creature.
“What is this racket? This is a library! I’m going to have to ask you to—”
The squirrel librarian’s words cut off as the wooden Espen turned its head to look
at her. Her mouth dropped open into a gasping O of surprise. With a chitter of
fear, she turned tail and ran. Her long bushy tail waved like a flag of surrender as
she fled back the way she’d come.
Espen’s eyes widened. He began to call out after her, but the creature’s form
shuddered, and the words died in his throat. The wood creaked softly as the long
horse tail became bigger and bushier, and the long horse muzzle shrunk away,
turning into the shorter, thinner squirrel muzzle. All traces of Espen were gone,
and now the thing looked exactly like the squirrel librarian, down to the style of
robes, height, and fur-length, albeit made entirely of bark and pine needles.
The wooden monster looked at him with its amber eyes and jumped down
from the table. It crouched and then sprang towards Espen with claws
outstretched and mouth open to show wicked looking incisors.
Fear made all the spells he’d been learning fly from his head, and muscle
memory took over. Still clutching the book to his chest, Espen turned his torso
and lifted a leg sideways. He snapped his leg out in a kick, and his hoof caught the
wooden squirrel square in the chest. The creature flew backwards, landing on its
back, but it used the momentum to roll under the table before springing to its feet
on the other side. It turned around and made a very squirrel-like leap to the top of
the closest bookshelf. Then it was gone, running away across the top of the shelves.
This was it. He was going to get kicked out. He couldn’t go home; his parents
had vehemently opposed him studying magic, and he’d had to run away in order to
attend Dunwasser. He knew there was no way his parents would let him come back.
By the time Espen found the strength to move, the creature was long gone.
He wandered the aisles for a few moments, trying to catch sight of it, but the
spaces between the ceiling and the bookshelves was cast in shadow by the low
table lamps. When he returned to the front lobby area, he realized he was still
clutching the book about growing plants with magic. He ducked back behind a shelf,
out of sight of the squirrel librarian who was frantically talking to a rhino professor.
Espen stuffed the book in his school bag. He knew it was against the rules, but he
needed to study the book and figure out what had gone wrong with his spell.
That done, he walked into the lobby. The squirrel’s little ears still swiveled in
his direction before he’d made four steps into the room. She turned to face him,
pointing at him with an accusatory finger. Espen stopped, hanging his head with guilt.
“That’s him,” the librarian chittered.
The rhino delicately adjusted his glasses with his giant hands and peered at
Espen through the thick lenses. “He looks fine to me, Professor Donnell.”
“I’m telling you: I saw it.” Professor Donnell crossed her arms and glared at
Espen, her tail twitching erratically behind her. “It was him, but he’d turned himself
into living wood.” Espen glanced up, confused. Hadn’t she seen him behind the
wooden creature? Perhaps not. If all her attention had been on the plant monster,
it would have been easy to miss his dull brown robes and fur in the shadows.
“I’m not saying you didn’t see what you said you saw.” The rhino leaned
down to pat the much smaller squirrel’s shoulder. “But from his robes, he is a
student of earth magic. Maybe he was just practicing a spell?”
“Spell casting is forbidden in the library!” The squirrel rounded on the
rhino, jamming her finger into his broad chest.
“We both know that students break that rule all the time.” The rhino gently
pushed the squirrel’s arm away and then looked at Espen, giving him a
sympathetic look. “It’s fine, colt, you aren’t in trouble.” This did make Espen
relax, at least fractionally. “You just scared Professor Donnell a little. Can you
please explain what happened, to put her at ease?”
Espen thought fast and decided it would be best to just go along with the
rhino. An unauthorized spell was one thing, but unleashing a monster in the
school was a different story. Best not to mention it. Besides, the wood thing was
probably long gone by now. “Ah, yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for my spell
practice to frighten you, Professor Donnell. It won’t happen again.”
Professor Donnell glared at him, still suspicious, but Espen’s apology
seemed to satisfy the rhino, who nodded.
“There, see?” The rhino patted the squirrel’s shoulder again. “I’m sure the
colt learned his lesson.”
“Humph.” The squirrel rounded on Espen. “Fine. But I’ll be keeping a very
close eye on you from now on. Now, get out of my library. We’re closed.”
Espen nodded and trotted as fast as he dared out of the library, heading
straight for his dorm room. He wished he’d tried to make friends with more of the
other students so that he had someone to go to for help. But so many of them had
given him a hard time about being a horse who wanted to be an elementalist —
one could only take so many jokes about not being able to punch through a
written test — that he’d kept mostly to himself all semester.
It was dusk, and the hallways were almost empty. While there were classes for
the nocturnal animals, they usually didn’t start until later in the evening, and it was late
enough that most of the diurnal animals had already left for home or their dorm rooms.
Espen turned down the hall that led to the student dorms and stopped dead
in his tracks. The wooden squirrel was there, marching back and forth across the
hall as if patrolling. In the dim twilight it looked almost like a real squirrel, except
for the wood grain on its nose and its bright amber eyes.
Professor Donnell or the rhino professor would tell someone about the
incident in the library. It would be easy to put two and two together if a student
reported this creature. He had to get rid of it, before anyone else saw it.
Espen settled his school bag against his side and tightened the straps. If there
was one benefit to being a horse, it was being able to run fast. He set his legs and
took off at a running start, sprinting at the wooden creature. The wooden squirrel
saw him and dashed away. Unfortunately, squirrels were no slouches in the speed
department either. It darted back and forth, forcing Espen to continually read just his
direction. Trying to keep footing on the slick floors was a challenge with hooves, and
bit by bit, the wooden squirrel began to outpace him. But when it darted left, Espen
knew he’d won. The doors down that hall were all kept locked. A dead end. He
turned and slid on the slick wood, his hooves gouging the pristine hardwood floor.
The wooden squirrel was at the end of the hall, darting around and rattling
locked door handles. Espen’s hooves thundered as he charged towards the
squirrel. He had it. The squirrel’s unnatural amber eyes met his, and then it
compressed, flattening itself out, and slithered—he had no other word for it, yet
how could a plant slither?—through the thin gap between the door frame and the
door at the far end of the hall. Espen was so startled that his legs lost the rhythm
of the run, one hoof caught on his other leg and he went down in a tumble,
crashing to the floor. His momentum rolled him into the door with a resounding
thump that rattled the whole building. Doors popped open up and down the hall.
“What was that?” “Sounded like a whole herd of horses ran through.” “I’m
trying to sleep here!” and more shouts and jeers came at him as he crawled back
to his hooves. Of course, one of the few doors that hadn’t opened was the one
he’d crashed into. The one he needed open.
One of the professors, a black fox who taught air magic, appeared at the
end of the hall. “What’s all this noise?”
 “It’s that horse who thinks he’s a scholar,” a golden retriever dog said from
a doorway, turning to point at Espen. “He was running in the halls and slipped on
the floor.”
“Student Sverre, please come with me.” The fox crossed his arms, looked pointedly
down at the gouge in the floor before looking back up and giving Espen a withering glare.
Espen ducked his head, his ears splaying back in embarrassment. “Yes,
professor.”

Espen didn’t get back to his room until much later. The professor had given
him a very stern lecture about proper conduct while in the halls of the college and
then given Espen a disciplinary slip. He was to wash dishes in the kitchen after
class for the next week.
With a flick of his hand, Espen sent magic into the lamp next to his bed. The
orb inside sprang to life, filling the room with yellow light. Luckily, he didn’t have
to worry about waking up a roommate. He’d been given a single room, since
horses were significantly bigger than many of the other students.
Espen placed his school bag on the tiny desk while eyeing his bed with
longing. He was exhausted and had class in the morning, but he needed to figure
out what he’d accidentally revived.
Long hours of blurry-eyed reading later, he found his answer in a footnote
attached to a word of warning.

While using magic to grow plants, be careful not to magically alter the
plant itself 1 .

At the bottom of the page, he found the footnote:

Look no farther than the infamous Pine Clone to see how disastrously
wrong experiments like this can go.

A Pine Clone? He’d never heard of such a thing, but the name described his
weird transforming pine twig perfectly. Espen sat back, tapping one hoof on the floor
with a rhythmic clip-clop as he thought. He had a name for the creature, but now
what? He sat forward and flipped through the book, rapidly scanning the pages, but
didn’t see Pine Clones mentioned anywhere else. He needed to go back to the library.
 The square of his window was still totally dark. After closing for an hour at
dusk, the library reopened for the nocturnal students. He’d never been there at
night, but it was dark enough that it was probably still open.
Yawning, he repacked the stolen library book in his bag and headed off.
The halls at night were filled with unfamiliar faces.
He was passing through a four-way intersection when he caught sight of a
round, furry squirrel tail out of the corner of his eye down an otherwise empty
hallway. He stopped and turned, recognizing Professor Donnell’s profile. She
wouldn’t be up at this hour, since she worked days in the library. It had to be his
wooden squirrel, the Pine Clone!
Espen wanted to charge down the hall and catch it but his hooves pounding
on the hardwood would give him away immediately and he already knew it was
faster than him. He had a better idea. He pressed himself against a wall out of
sight of the hallway and risked a peak around the corner. The squirrel was trudging
down the walkway towards him. Its head was down, so he couldn’t see the gold
eyes. He couldn’t make out details in the dim light of the infrequent lamps, but it
was definitely Professor Donnell’s shape. He crouched next to the door and waited.
“I’ve got you now,” Espen growled and tackled it to the floor as soon as it
came through the door. They landed hard, Espen on top, and the wooden squirrel
let out a squeak. Espen also let out a snort of surprise at feeling soft fur beneath
him instead of scratchy pine needles.
“Let me up, now!” a female chittered from underneath Espen’s bulk.
Oh, no. Espen jumped to his hooves and was horrified to see the furious
face of Professor Donnell turn to glare at him, her black eyes glinting with anger.
“Sorry, thought you were someone else,” Espen stammered out and then
turned and sprinted away. His ears went flat. He’d done it now.
He ducked through a side door into the gardens. A path wound through the
lawn. Espen ignored it, taking advantage of the wide-open space. His hooves tore
up huge divots in the dew-soaked dirt as he galloped as fast as he could towards
the library. Running like this out in the open, the wind in his mane, he felt a little
homesick for the wide, flat plains of the Avoirdupois lands.
His breath came out in thick white clouds in the coolness of the night air,
and by the time he reached the library, he was covered in a white lather. He
slowed to a trot and wiped the worst of it from his face and neck before opening
the outer door and heading inside.
 Espen took a moment in a nearby water closet to splash his face and catch
his breath before entering the library. The doors were unlocked.
The sight inside felt slightly surreal, like he’d walked into another time and
place. Despite the magically lit lamps burning cheerily on every table, without
sunlight streaming in through the skylights the room was wreathed in shadow. A
white rat with red eyes sat at the front desk in Professor Donnell’s usual spot.
The rat hopped up from his chair and moved to intercept Espen as he
crossed the lobby.
Espen stopped and turned to look down at him. “Are the daytime students
not allowed to use the library at night?”
The rat held up a paw and wiggled it back and forth. “It’s discouraged, but
not really against the rules. We want to make sure our students are well rested.
Mainly it comes up around exams or when a big paper is due, but I don’t have
anything like that showing on the schedule.” He looked at Espen expectantly.
Espen shuffled his hooves and flicked his ears. “It’s a little urgent. Well, I
was here yesterday, or I guess earlier today? Anyway, I was reading Gardening
with Magick by Furaha Knaggs.”
The rat’s eyes widened. “Heavy reading for a first year student.”
“It’s a personal interest of mine. There was a magical plant mentioned in the
book that I wanted to find out more about, a Pine Clone. Do you happen to know
anything about it?”
The rat snorted with laughter. “That’s what brought you to the library in the
middle of the night?”
“It’s kept me up all night.” Espen shrugged. It was true, in a fashion. “I figured as
long as I wasn’t sleeping, I’d come to the library and see if I could find more out about it.”
“Fair enough. Must have some burning curiosity to make you run all the
way here.” The rat nodded to the sweat stains on Espen’s robes. “I’m Professor
Geels. If you’re this eager to learn about something not even in the curriculum,
I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you around.”
“Espen Sverre.” Espen’s ears went back and he ducked his head, but he
held out his hand and shook the albino rat’s outstretched paw.
“Right this way, I know just the book.” Professor Geels led him through the
library, talking the whole way. “Those plants are very interesting. Do you know
we don’t know where they originally came from? They aren’t a natural plant.
Scholars think they’re a magician’s experiment that escaped into the wild. They
can copy almost any animal. Not exact, you know, but they can get eerily close.”
“How dangerous are they?” Espen asked as Geels stopped at a bookshelf
close to where the squirrel librarian had taken him.
Geels waggled his hand again. “Depends on their orders, but usually not.”
Espen frowned. That hadn’t been his experience. Espen was about to ask more
questions when a female voice came from behind them.
“Professor Geels, there you are. I need to know about Pine Clones, and —”
Espen turned, his heart dropping into his chest, as Professor Donnell came
around the corner of a bookshelf. She stopped talking and stared back at Espen,
seemingly as shocked to see him as he was to see her.
“You! What are you doing here?” they both said at the same time.
Geels was looking back and forth at both of them in confusion before bursting
out laughing. “Two people confused about what the other one is doing there,
asking about Pine Clones? Don’t tell me, we have a clone loose on the campus.”
Both he and Professor Donnell nodded.
“I’m sorry about tackling you earlier. I thought you were the clone,” Espen
admitted.
Professor Donnell gave him a sharp look. “We’ll discuss that later. For now,
we need to find that thing before it hurts anyone.”
“How did you figure it out?” He’d seen the thing transform, the professor hadn’t.
“At first I didn’t,” she admitted. “Then I remembered that stick you’d shown
me and how that thing had looked just like you. I was on my way here to do more
research when you tackled me, mistaking me for someone — or something —
else, which confirmed my theory.”
“So, what do we do about it?” Espen asked, tensing up for what he knew
was coming. “I understand I’m going to be expelled, but I believe in cleaning up
my own messes.” Honor was everything for an Avoirdupois. Espen may have run
away from his home and country, but he would always be an Avoirdupois at heart.
“As I said, we’ll discuss your fate at this college later.” She turned to Geels,
who had been watching this exchange with his paws over his muzzle, not quite
suppressing the fit of the giggles he was having. “Now, you were showing the colt
books about the Pine Clone?”
“Yes, fascinating creature,” he said, and then repeated what he’d already
told Espen. “This book has more information.” He picked up a thick volume off a
shelf and held it out to Professor Donnell.
 “That will help later, but we don’t have time for that now.” The squirrel
nervously chewed on a claw and then looked at Espen. “Where did you see it last?”
“In the dorms. I chased it down a hall and thought I had it, but it somehow
crawled through a crack in door and I lost it.”
“I take it that the clone looked like me at the time?”
Espen nodded.
“Won’t stay that way, though,” Professor Geels pipped up between giggles.
“A wild one will change forms frequently.”
Espen frowned and put a hand on his chin, thinking. “It’s still a plant, right?”
Geels and Donnell both nodded.
“So, it’ll need sunlight, water, and soil at some point. Maybe we should start
our search in the garden?”
“That’s an idea.” Professor Donnell nodded, her bushy tail twitching.
“Also,” Espen’s mind was churning now that the adrenaline was wearing off,
“could we use the clone’s magical signature to track it?” He couldn’t remember
where he’d read about that tidbit, but it made sense. Like the way scent-oriented
species could follow a person’s path using just their noses.
“We could,” the rat spoke up now, his giggles almost gone. “But we’d need
to be familiar with the traces of that particular magic. I haven’t ever seen a Pine
Clone in person.” He turned to the squirrel, who shook her head.
“I’m familiar with it. I’d had that sprig since I was a little colt, and I could
feel magic emanating from it even then. It was my good luck charm,” Espen said.
Professor Geels was already shaking his head. “Not going to work. That
tracking spell is far too advanced for a first year student.”
Professor Donnell gave Espen a thoughtful look. “I would have said that
about the spells in the books I showed you earlier, Student Sverre. Yet, I’m taking
it you cast ‘Regrowth’ and that accidentally revived the Pine Clone?”
Espen nodded, flicking one ear back in puzzlement. The squirrel almost
sounded impressed.
“He can do it.”
“Are you sure?” Professor Geels’ red eyes were wide.
“I’m sure. Find the book with the spell and meet Espen and me in the garden.”
Professor Donnell turned to Espen, smiling so wide she showed her incisors. “Let’s go.”
 The sun was just peeking above the horizon, streaking the sky with pinks
and golds as Espen and Professor Donnell entered the grassed commons outside
of the garden. Dew still sparkled on the grass, steam rising as the sun began to
burn it away. Fresh divots scarred the neatly-cut grass where Espen had run
through just an hour earlier. The sight made him wince.
A fence enclosed the garden, and Professor Donnell stopped at the gate to
survey the grounds. The garden was used for several classes. Espen had a beginning
earth magics class here once a week, and he’d frequently seen another group of
students at the other end tending to the plants and herbs, but he didn’t know if it
was for a class or just a hobby. This early in the morning the garden looked empty.
Since it was used for teaching, it was divided into sections that each featured
plants from different climates and environments. There was a large clump of various pine
trees towards the far end, and it was there at the professor seemed to focus her attention.
“Should we wait for Professor Geels?” Espen asked as Professor Donnell
opened the gate and headed inside.
“Only if we can’t find it visually.” She glanced up at him as she spoke, and the
bags under her eyes made her whole face look drawn. She looked as tired as he felt.
The squirrel trudged off down the path and Espen headed off in the
opposite direction. “It’ll be faster if we split up.”
“Good idea. Call out if you find anything.” The squirrel’s bushy tail
disappeared around a bend in the path, hidden from behind by a big bush with
thick green leaves bigger than Espen’s head.
It was slow going. Espen pushed aside branches and leaves, making sure he
wouldn’t miss the clone hidden under low-hung branches or in thick bushes.
After he’d been at it a while, Professor Geels found him and handed him a
thick book. The rat’s red eyes sparkled with excitement. “There you are. I found
the spell. Page 109.”
“Thanks.” Espen settled down in the dirt cross-legged, spreading the book
across his lap.
“I’m so excited to finally get to see a Pine Clone in person,” Professor Geels
said, sitting down next to Espen. His long, hairless pink tail wagged behind him,
brushing the leaves around.
“They’re pretty creepy,” Espen said absentmindedly as he began studying the
tracking spell. It actually looked easier than the spell he’d used to revive the clone.
Geels prattled on about magical creatures while Espen did his best to
memorize the spell. Espen never responded, but that didn’t seem to bother Geels.
 Finally, Espen closed his eyes, held out his hand, concentrated on the feel of
the clone’s magic as he remembered it, and cast the spell. He felt the magic
dancing around him, and then he felt a tug on the left side of his muzzle. When he
opened his eyes, he could see a glowing blue line trailing through the garden to
his left. The path the clone had taken!
“It worked,” Espen said, shutting the book. Geels looked impressed. He
stood up and took the book back from Espen’s lap. But as soon as Espen moved
to stand up the blue glow faded away.
“Lead the way.” Professor Geels exclaimed.
“I can’t.” Espen hung his head. “The spell ended when I stood up.”
“Oh, yeah. You’ll need to concentrate on it to keep it going.”
Espen groaned and sunk back down to the ground, holding back out his
hand for the book. Opening back up to the page with the spell, he began casting it
again. But he was exhausted, and the magic wavered again as soon as he moved.
He opened his eyes after the third failed try to find Professor Geels poking his arm.
“Professor Donnell found it, come on,” Geels said, taking back the book again.
Espen crawled back to his feet, yawning, and followed the white rat through
the garden. A faint, “Over here!” reached his ears, and he was glad the rat had
better hearing than him. He never would have heard the squirrel from this far away.
Professor Donnell waved at them from a bush as they came close. She was
hiding behind the thicket, peering around it at something farther away. Espen and
Geels tip-toed up and joined her.
Professor Geels gasped in surprise when he caught sight of the clone and
Espen barely suppressed a groan. At some point it had taken the form of a tiger.
In the bright sunlight, it was obvious that the thing was a plant, yet it was still
eerie seeing a perfect copy of a tiger rendered in branches and pine needles. The
clone was standing motionless in a big patch of ivy, facing towards the rising sun.
“What do we do now?” Espen whispered to the two professors.
Professor Donnell tapped one edge of her librarian’s robe sleeve to show
Espen the red fire symbols embroidered there. “It’s a plant, so it should be afraid
of fire. I’ll circle around and drive it back to you, then you use your magic to
move the earth out from underneath it. Trap it in a hole.”
Espen nodded. “Got it.” The spell to move earth was one of the first ones an
Earth Elementalist learned. So far, he’d only practiced with flinging things off tables,
but moving the ground from underneath the Pine Clone’s feet shouldn’t be too different.
“What about me?” Professor Geels squeaked, his red eyes wide. He was
clearly terrified.
 “You run to get help if things go wrong.”
Geels nodded.
Professor Donnell nodded back to him and crept away, keeping low to the
ground. Slowly she made her way around the still clone. When she was in front of
it, Espen lowered himself to a crouch and held out his hands, bringing the words of the
spell to his mind. A small glowing golden ball appeared in his palms, ready to be thrown.
With a roaring battle-cry that impressed even Espen, Professor Donnell burst
from the bushes directly in front of the clone. She held a ball of fire between her
outstretched palms and she waved it at the wooden tiger.
The clone stumbled backwards, and Espen tossed the golden ball of his earth
magic. It hit the ground at the wooden tiger’s feet and earth exploded up around it in
a plume. The squirrel had been too close, and the earth plume hit her arms, knocking
her backwards. She flailed, trying to keep her balance, and accidentally let go of the
glowing ball of fire. It flew into the cloud of dust flying around the clone, whooshing as
it hit something inside. Chunks of earth, plants, and rock began to rain down around
them. Geels squealed and ducked, holding the library book above his head. Espen
lifted his arm and covered his face, trying to keep the flying debris out of his eyes.
A moment later the deluge stopped and Espen dropped his arm, waving his
hand in front of his nose to clear some of the dust away. He peered through the
cloud, catching sight of a bright yellow glow.
The good news was his spell had worked perfectly. The clone was at the bottom
of a hole about three paces around. The bad news was that it was only about three
hands deep. Espen estimated that if he stood in it, it would only come up to his knees.
The even worse news was that the clone was on fire. It ran around the
shallow hole, its pine needle fur burning merrily. Stopping, the clone shook its
limbs to dislodge the burning needles. They went out as they fell into the dirt,
leaving singed and smoldering branches bare.
Professor Donnell, hacking and coughing, was just getting to her feet on the
other side of the hole. Being so close, she’d been hit with the worst of the debris.
Her robes and fur were so covered in dirt that she looked made out of earth.
Her coughing drew the clone’s attention, and it turned its back on Espen,
moving towards the squirrel. The professor’s eyes were glued shut with the dust,
so she couldn’t see the danger.
“No!” Espen shouted, bursting from his hiding place behind the thicket. The
wooden tiger had crouched with claws bared and was about to leap at the helpless
squirrel. Espen charged, jumping at the edge of the shallow hole to tackle the clone
from behind. They went down in a heap, landing with the clone face down on the
ground underneath Espen. In the tiger shape, the clone was almost as big as him.
The clone’s limbs were still hot from the fire, burning Espen’s skin where it
wasn’t protected by his school robes. The Pine Clone bucked and writhed under
him, swiping at him with wooden tiger claws. Espen tried to hold on and pin the
clone’s arms, but it was just too strong.
The fight was strangely silent except for Espen’s grunts as wrestled with the clone.
For its part, the clone didn’t make a sound. The wooden tiger made an undulating
motion with its back and cracked the end of Espen’s muzzle with the back of its head.
Blood gushed from Espen’s nose as he reared back and let go of the thing’s arms.
The clone twisted under him, slashing at his exposed chest with its wooden claws.
Blood welled from the cuts, and the pain was excruciating, like three lines of
fire burning down his front. Espen’s scream was echoed by Professor Geels. The rat
turned on his heels and dashed away, screaming for help. Ignoring the pain in his chest
and nose, Espen made a fist and punched the wooden tiger’s face. The clone’s head
snapped back and Espen grabbed the clone’s wrists and pushed them to the ground.
They struggled against each other. Professor Donnell recovered and lifted her hands to do
a spell but hesitated, clearly unsure how to blast the clone without hitting Espen as well.
His vision had narrowed to a pin prick by the time he heard a commotion to
the side and heard Professor Geels yelling, “Over here!” Suddenly they were
surrounded by mages. Someone cast a spell and the clone went limp. With the
resistance gone, Espen collapsed on top of it.
“Is that blood?” “Get a healer!” “Stay steady.” Everyone was yelling at once
around him.
Espen crawled off the clone and lay back in the grass, as far away from the
chaos as he could get. As soon as he moved, a group of excited mages and
scholars circled the still Pine Clone, chattering loudly.
An armadillo in the robes of a healer came up to him.
“May I heal your wounds, noble steed?” she asked quietly, kneeling at his side.
Espen nodded and the armadillo monk held her hands over his lacerated chest.
A moment later energy flooded through him, washing away the pain. The cuts scabbed
over and by the time she pulled her hands away, it looked like they were weeks old. Not
the battle scars his father had expected him to get, but still Espen was proud of them.
“Thank you.” Espen said. The armadillo looked pleased, giving him a small
bow before getting to her feet and wandering off to check that no one else needed
her services.
 Espen got up, intending to go back to his dorm and pack. He needed to figure
out what to do with his life now that his dream of being a mage was shattered.
Professor Donnell ran up to him as he began to walk away. “Where are you
going, Student Sverre?”
“To get my things…” he trailed off as she glared at him, her bushy tail
snapping irritably.
“What makes you think you’re expelled?”
Espen merely waved a hand to the chaos going on around the fallen Pine Clone.
The squirrel shook her head. “You made a mistake. Students do. But you
did your best to try to clean up your mess, even though you should have asked
for help sooner. I trust you’ve learned your lesson about swallowing your pride,
and asking for help when you need it?”
Espen nodded vigorously. “Yes, professor.”
Professor Donnell smiled. “I thought so. A hard lesson, but a good one to
learn early.”
“What will happen to the clone?” Espen looked back at the chaos, still
curious about the strange magical plant despite everything.
“It’s the perfect opportunity for the students to be able to study a rare plant,”
the squirrel gave a wry smile. “The hardest part will be getting the thing to stay put.”
Espen laughed.
 Cedric G! Bacon loves stories, both reading and writing and
listening to them. His work has been published by Thurston
Howl Publications, Goal Publications, Furry Mystery Box,
and Rabbit Valley Press. He currently lives in Florida with
his girlfriend and two cats.

The Black City

The quiet blanket which had draped itself over the desert spires became
interrupted by gurgling gasps and strangled rasps of two figures struggling amid the
sands. One form was the tall bulk of a wildebeest, his longhorns like an outline against
the gibbous moon, the curved scimitar he held high like a thin line of death. The
blade was positioned just above the head of a cheetah — lithe and supple, her left
paw checked the wildebeest’s descending right as she fought off her teeming death.
In that brawl, Merry Tavrel made no sound, for silence was the key. She had
felt his presence since crossing the Kushetan Mountains and had sensed it would be a
matter of time before this scout of Suleyman’s would strike. She resisted her enemy’s
terrific plunges, the fangs of the blade shearing away her tunic and bringing slim trickles
of blood to clot at the surface of her yellow fur. The wildebeest’s wrist was like a mass
of woven steel, and at any moment those sticking thrusts would find their home in
her heart. The awful eyes and wordless curses from the wildebeest were the reminders
that she was not safe, that resting here — if only for a few moments — meant death.
Hooking her hindleg around the assassin’s, the wildebeest fell to his back
and Merry was upon him instantly. She brought the muzzle of her wheel-lock
underneath the wildebeest’s jaw and quickly pulled back the trigger. The boom
briefly illuminated the scout’s shocked face, sound muffled as blood and brain
sprayed up in a mist and settled back onto the tan sands in a crimson colored stain.
Merry braced herself and looked over the hills, groping at the hilt of her long
rapier. That short and deadly fight could have alerted this assassin’s confederates,
with more of Nureddin ibn Suleyman’s raiders close by. But she had a suspicion
that he was alone at the present. Bringing the canteen up to her lips, she cursed
the dry air which landed on her tongue and corked it back. It had been days since
her last drink, and without food or water she would not make it another day.
Eventually, be it day or night, she would either become another victim to the
oppressive desert or Suleyman would finally catch up to her. Delirium from
exhaustion, exposure, starvation, and dehydration would follow until death’s
gloomy pallor draped itself over her weakened form in all its painful indignities.
 She was dressed in a pale short-sleeved tunic and breeches that ended just
above her hind legs. Girdled about her waist was a dull bronze belt upon which
hung a broad double-edged dirk on one hip, a sheathed rapier slept on the other
while the useless canteen banged listlessly at her thigh. At both were twin heavy
pistols and slung over her shoulder were the powder and balls to feed them.
Flaring topped boots of shagreen ensconced her feet and protected them from the
murderous heat of the day and treacherous sands of the night.
She was a wanderer, attracted to this far end of the world by an admiration for
the unknown, and the untold treasures with which she wished to pull from the ground.
Throwing in her lot with a brace of similarly minded soldiers of fortune, all spoke of tales
of forbidden cities and cursed items and brushed warnings aside. They had encountered
a curse all right, and its name was Suleyman; he and a horde of desert raiders met
them and the adventure quickly concluded with a battle that swept all but herself into
eternity, leaving broken bodies floating in rivers of blood about the drying dunes.
Now casting stealth to the wind, she bound over the plateaus and cliffs, the weird
silence cutting through her like a hot knife. But even Merry recognized that for all one’s
will and instinctual endurance, she was not far from collapse. With the sunken sun long
a dream behind her and the moon high, flooding the desert with its weird ethereality, the
sands rippled and shimmered like an ocean wave about Merry. Unto these wastelands
had to be salvation of a sort: the drivers in the caravans once spoke of oases in this
country, but to reach them would be an impossibility in her condition. If not Suleyman’s
men, then it was the savage Peyravi, desert bandits, and the omnivorous scaled badkar
lurking behind crags resembling stones, that would write the song of her doom.
Suddenly she came to a halt, and she peered out from weary and sunbaked
eyes, believing at first that she was seeing a mirage. She could make out spires and
turrets and minarets, with high gleaming walls of deep black stone. In the darkness,
it resembled a long and looming shadow — a city in the middle of nothing! What
a mad idea, she thought. It was like a dream; had she the tears she would have
sobbed from joy at the sight. Yet caution held her firm: many had lost their lives to
the madness of the desert, as they chose to trust only their eyes and not their senses.
Merry sniffed the dry, acrid air and paused to reflect on the sight inside her
tired mind. If it were a mirage then surely it would disappear back into nothing if she
waited long enough. Closing her eyes and blinking several times, she anticipated the
illusion to fade back into the horizon. To her delight, the apparition remained tangible.
“Lord take me, but it’s worth a try,” she rasped. Commanding movement to
her legs, she trudged on, intending to close the gap that existed between herself
and the walled sanctuary.
 Approaching its massive gate, Merry perked her ears and listened, then
glanced upwards to the parapets. Experience had told her to expect guards armed
with bolted arbalests and cannons, raining curses down upon her head before the
shafts flew. She was curious why there were none, but she pushed the thought
from her mind as spasms of hunger racked through her emptied belly and she
banged on the gate, finding herself greeted by equal silence on the other side.
Drawing her saber, she pushed the gate inward and stepped inside. The interior
was wide and bordered by vertical doorways and arches that rose high into the
sky. There was a dry, stale aroma in the air, leaving the cheetah perplexed.
In the center, she spied a stone effigy of a creature. Its bulbous head and
blank, unseeing eyes perched above what appeared to be a mass of tusks and
tentacles, gave her a cold feeling of dread up and down her spine. It was squat,
just barely medium eye-level with the cheetah, and teemed with an imitation of
life that left Merry unnerved. Such effigies were not new to her. Each locale had
their own gods and goddesses. Followers placated these deities in different ways;
some in the violent traditions of sacrifice, and others in the way of fur and supple
flesh. What god this was, she hadn’t the faintest idea. But she did know that it
exuded a plume of vile wickedness, and she tore her eyes away from its glimmer.
Trailing her eyes towards the base, she noticed the body of a male camel lying
at the thing’s feet. Attired in light, cool robes over which there was a mailed hauberk,
a fitted bronze helmet was fixed around his long angular head. Merry surmised that
he was a guard or a solider of some kind, and upon closer examination, she noticed
his eyes were closed and mouth agape with no air passing through his lungs. Merry
felt for a pulse at his neck beneath his fur and confirmed the lack of life in the camel.
What turn of the fates felled him, she could not fathom. Merry considered
leaving, but it was her thirst that held her in place. She glanced around until her
eyes fell behind the grotesque statue, spying the circular curb of a well. She dashed
towards it and reached the rim. Her tail flicking with breathless curiosity, Merry
lowered a pail into the nothingness. As she pulled it back towards the surface,
jubilant at the spring water swirling inside. The cheetah brought the pail’s rim to
her dry lips and quaffed, the cool tang stinging briefly at her throat as vitality
reached every inch of her body. She dunked the bucket back down and pulled out
another gulp, then another which she poured inside her emptied canteen.
Then a scream tore through the air. Merry raised her head to see the dead
camel shoot from the ground. His amber eyes were ablaze with life, his short-
sword drawn and clutched tightly in his hoof as he made a rush towards the
cheetah, swinging his weapon with deadly form and furious intent.
 Merry tried conjecture and backed away from the camel’s murderous
rampage, receiving only a blank and dull look from the ungulate as a response. Just
as the camel raised his sword arm to bring the blade down across her breastbone,
Merry’s sword met his in midair and knocked the weapon loose from its owner’s
grasp. Her rapier then sang through the camel’s neck and sheared him of his head,
blood jutting high into the air before the ungulate’s body fell coldly onto the ground
Merry approached the now-dead camel slowly and cursed again. She raised
her head to the walls above and braced herself. All was quiet, and it appeared
that no one had seen the action take place. Merry was relieved but the knowledge
did little to ease her mind. Sheathing her rapier and removing the bit of gold the
camel had, she took the dead camel by his hind legs and dragged him into the
shadows of an empty doorway, head tucked underneath her arm.
It perturbed her that none had been alerted to her presence. For a city, it
would be teeming with life and filled with many contrasting scents. Instead it was
still and appeared abandoned. Yet that was impossible: no one simply disappeared
into thin air. And then there was the matter of the camel — how was it possible for
him to rise from a seeming death and attack her? She looked around, expecting
the answer to be just around the corner to assuage her nerves. Unless there was
something to the eerie tales spun by the wizened mercenaries whose bones now
littered the desert steppes, and such a notion caused her tail to twitch violently.
She had plunged herself at the edge of what the natives called the Cursed Lands,
avoided by all who came to Akoma. What strange and mysterious events occurred to
christen the region with such a name held many variations, but all agreed that the
lands were a place to avoid if an adventurer could. And then there was the matter
of the camel: how was it possible for him to rise from a seeming death and attack her?
Her eyes fell again to the grim effigy. Black blood from the camel had dashed
onto its stony tentacles and dripped like mucous. But was it now a trick of her weary
mind that the thing appeared to breathe it all in? And was it moving? The thing appeared
to shift and turn its head. She blinked several times, believing her weary sunbaked eyes
were tricking her, but the statue seemed no longer to be level with her, having expanded
in height and length and brooded over the cheetah with a silent judgment of death.
Suddenly, another scream broke her thoughts. Ears perked and picking the
sounds from deep inside the door she had gone in, Merry drew her saber from its
hearth and pulled back a curtain. Creeping towards its direction, she paused
inside a wide and long chamber. The walls were adorned with curious velvet
tapestries of dull yellowish green with fantastic and alien designs, many depicting
the creature in the square. Littered along the stone floors were relics of
decadence, gold lined cushions and robes abandoned by their owner.
The cheetah followed the direction of the scream, traversing several open doors
that led into other rooms. All were decorated the same, with a wealth that would be
the envy of many. But she paid no heed to these riches, as her senses were occupied
by the familiar copper scent of blood around her, some of which smelled fresher than
others. All around her, Merry detected the stale, loamy scent of lingering decay as the
frightful screaming reached a feverish pitch, then let out one final cry that broke short.
Then, silence.
The unnerving specter of the quiet made the cheetah anxious. Pacing, she could
not wrap her mind around the hell-gates she had wandered into. She was keen to turn
back when she passed another open chamber and salivated upon sight of a table, upon
which both food and drink had been laid out. She scented the air and caught the bouquet
of a perfume which still lingered, perhaps from the beast who’d prepared this meal.
The cheetah stole a chair and then seized a goblet, finding a black liqueur swirling
inside which she emptied in one full gulp. Merry then went to the food, devouring the
meat and fruits with relish. While a thought occurred to her that the meal may have
been poisoned, it did not lessen the famish she had endured. So be it: she reasoned that
she would rather die of poisoning with a full belly than of starvation with an empty one.
Once satisfied, Merry leaned backwards. The food and drink relieved the
fatigue that had clouded her mind and she could think properly. Yes, there were other
beasts in this silent metropolis, as evidenced by the fresh food and too fresh perfume,
as well as the screams. Where those screams had come from, along with the amounts
of blood she had seen and scented, left her with much unease. In the corners of those
dark corridors could lurk an enemy, and she was apprehensive to remain still for long.
Then a soft rustling gathered her attention. Merry growled and whirled from
her chair drawing her saber, head lowered and in a crouched fighting stance facing
the doorway. She waited for the sound to be repeated. When it did not, she inched
closer in that direction, parting the curtain and revealing, at the floor, a dusky
colored long necked gerenuk wearing a marine gossamer robe with a narrow girdle.
There was a bejeweled necklace about her throat and a similar item was wrapped
around her wrist. There was great fear in her eyes as she shielded herself from the
cheetah’s menace, speaking rapidly and in the language of the inland river tribes.
“Who are you?” Merry asked awkwardly, mixing her Calabrese tongue with
the unfamiliarity of the gerenuk’s language.
 “My name is Zunna,” the gerenuk answered breathlessly. “I do not wish you
harm, mistress. I heard something in the dining chambers, and I wanted to chance
a look. But who are you? What do you in Karashehr?”
“Meredith Tavrel, but you can call me Merry,” was the reply.
“Are you a solider?” asked the gerenuk.
“Of a sort,” corrected Merry with a quick and wry grin. “I march the world
seeking my fortune from the depths of time, and I came in from the desert
pursuing sanctuary from mine enemies. I’ve no money to pay your masters for
this meal, but if you’ll allow me to…”
Before Merry could continue, she saw the gerenuk’s eyes widen with a surge
of horror and fear, cutting back to the edge of the doorway. “Quick, mistress! We
must hide!”
Merry had no time to protest. Zunna had grabbed the cheetah by her arm
and led her away from the doorway, hiding behind one of the golden couches.
A soft light came slowly up the way. On the other end holding a candle was
a male crocodile, his robes made of a distinctly richer fabric similar to what Merry
had seen strewn about in the empty chambers. His sleepy eyes looked to the table
and saw the empty spread. Rather than be perturbed by his lost meal, the croco-
dile instead spread himself across the dais and laid down.
Merry wondered if he were sleeping, then she could slip out quietly. As she began
to rise and make a movement, a faint sound whispered inside the room, causing the
hackles on the back of Merry’s neck to become erect. Zunna watched and suppressed the
hysterical gurgle building inside her own throat by clasping her hoof around her mouth.
Darkness bathed the inside, the soft and comforting light from the candle
extinguished. But Merry could sense it, feeling the dread slithering with an uncanny
doom that was unlike any movement the cheetah had ever heard or sensed. She
kept looking and saw the shapeless blot enter and her flight-or-fight receptors roared
in her mind. But she remained frozen in place, staring coldly out at the scene.
Soon the obsidian shadow was upon the crocodile and engulfed him in its
onyx. So, content one moment, he was now screaming in the next, similar to the
shrieks Merry had heard earlier. The shadow lingered long over the dais until the
sounds grew strangely quiet, followed by the sickening crunch of bone grinding
and crunching against ghastly teeth. Then the shadow slowly receded and
disappeared back out the doorway from which it came.
Merry waited for a long time until her curiosity won over her unease. She
gripped the hilt of her rapier tight in one paw while keeping the other wrapped
around the butt of her pistol, ready for anything. Keeping her eyes to the doorway,
she went to the long cold candle and revived it, then turned her attention to the dais.
There was blood, massive amounts of it left behind as though it were spilled wine.
The crocodile was gone and Merry’s brow furrowed deeply and she clenched her jaw.
Her memory of Zunna returned when she heard a low cry from behind the
couch. She moved back to her former hiding spot and lifted the gerenuk up.
“What sort of madness be this? What is this city, where dead guards spring back to
life as though it were nothing, and shadows drag a man off into the dark to their doom?”
“This is Karashehr, the Black City, mistress,” came the gerenuk’s answer.
“Here in this forsaken desert, fear is not smoke and the evils of many ages reign,
just as they did in the story of the Beginnings of All Happenings. Here you’ve come
to a place seeking your rest, but it is instead that here you will find your tomb.”
Merry made no immediate reply, but she felt the fur between her shoulders
twitch furtively. She glanced backwards at the empty hall just off to the side, wary
at the breathless silence which brooded over her head and did not the like the
grisly and grim gray light which seemed to filter up and surround them.
“So where is everyone? Surely a city as great as this cannot be abandoned.”
“Nor is it,” said Zunna, then quickly added, “at least, not yet. What you see
before you is one great palace, where each wall and every doorway connect with
one another as one giant tunnel. But it was foolish curiosity which reared this evil
city up from nothing, clever adventurers who crossed wide plains to seek new
fortunes. And so, they came to this location, rearing it up from a deserted oasis,
and thrived for nigh eons. Now they are nearly extinct, and what remains of the
citizenry are those laying in a state of fantastic slumber all around us.”
“Asleep? But why?”
Zunna shuddered before continuing. “Their ancestors were too clever. Subsequent
generations became vague and erratic, losing all sense of achievement as everything
they would have done had already been completed for them. With no plans, they turned
to the cultivation of the deadly Venus Lotus for those who wished to sleep forever in the
place where one’s soul can cross the plains and valleys of fantasy in an unending dream.”
“Do they not awaken?”
“They do in time,” the gerenuk answered, “and sometimes those awake will
continue on with their lives as though there were no pause. They will eat, drink,
make merry, and then fall back asleep. For others, a type of madness overcomes
them. Their desire to remain in their dream worlds overrides all sense of logic,
and they will lose any ability to discern our reality from that of the clouds.”
Merry bit her paw, mulling over this for a pace. Her mind turned to the guard
at the gate and let the words from the gerenuk digest around her. It caused her fur to
twitch, noting the idea that there were likely hundreds, if not thousands, of folks lying
as cold as death with glassy, unseeing eyes soon wakening into gibbering insanity.
“And the shadows that carry others off into the dark,” Merry began. “What
is that? More sorcery?”
A chill passed through Zunna before she replied. “Lukhthyr the Ancient
One. Whether he arrived with the founders of this city as a bargain for good
fortune from beyond the outer gulfs of the stars or was already a presence at the
original oasis is not known. But the people of Karashehr worship him, and are
aware that he sleeps below their feet, dreaming along with them and awakening
along with them. They believe it was Lukhthyr that brought such luck to Karashehr
through the passages of the seasons and they await the moment he rises.”
“And then?” Merry pursued, unease dripping from her words.
“When Lukhthyr grows hungry,” said Zunna, shudders twitching through her
shoulders, “none are safe. Those same connecting corridors allow Lukhthyr to
steal his chosen meals while they dream and to hunt them when they are awake.”
“Those people,” Merry grunted, “are either foolish or brave.”
“You come from the east, mistress,” laughed Zunna, though her tone was
sad. “You know nothing of this city, or the evil which populates it. Lukhthyr howls
through these halls as a wind blows across the desert sand. Why else would they
chose to sleep their lives away, if they can? It is better than the maddening
realization that death is just a few feet below their feet. Those who do awaken
choose to stimulate what little time they have with the wines of the golden lotus,
healing their wounds and reinvigorating the most senescent.”
“Only to be devoured by their god,” murmured Merry. “Well, these are affairs
that do not concern me. The desert and my enemies would be a far kinder adventure,
and if you will show me the nearest way out of this risible city, I shall take my leave.”
“You would waste valuable time in trying,” said Zunna.
“And why is that?” snarled Merry.
“Please do not misunderstand my words, mistress. Lukhthyr is on the hunt
and will find you until he is satiated. None can leave once they enter and you
would either perish or go mad in the attempt.”
Merry stared at the gerenuk with a steeled expression, not betraying the
curdled blood coursing through her veins. The thought of lying in wait for the
cosmic horror to come did not sit well in her stomach. Her fur prickled, and she
cast about each corner of the room, left with a strange feeling of unease.
 “I noticed a tower north of here, just overlooking these walls,” the cheetah
said, scratching her lower flew. “Could one reach it and leap from the highest
minaret to the other side?”
“It may be possible,” replied the gerenuk. “But the drop is steep and would
surely kill you. And if you did not die then, your broken form would be left at the
mercy of the sun.”
“I choose not to think of that. Is there shelter nearby?”
“There is an oasis about a day’s march west. Two days will lay the silk road
and the Emirate Coast.”
“Then that is the choice I will have to take,” Merry said. The cheetah
wheeled on her heels but was halted when the gerenuk gripped Merry’s tunic.
“Wait,” Zunna said.
“What is it now?”
“Take me with you.”
Merry eyed the gerenuk with suspicion. “Why? Don’t you want to give in to
your fate like the rest of these brain-dead morons?”
“Nahin,” answered Zunna. “I was never meant to be here, and I have no
desire to give myself over to Lukhthyr. I have no money or means, but I will repay
you, just please take me away from this city!”
Merry considered the offer carefully. She looked down at the gerenuk and
noted the outline of chain galls about her limbs and the mark of the yoke around
her neck where the fur thinned. The deep grooves of the whip were crisscrossed on
her shoulders and trailed down her back, and she could hear the echoes of hard
voices barking down on the gerenuk, and the whips cracking like cruel lightning.
“Very well,” Merry said. “Lead, and do not betray my confidence.”
The gerenuk nodded and rose to her feet. She made a motion to run towards
the cheetah and embrace her but thought better of it once she sensed the malice from
her enigmatic savior. She shuffled quietly to the edge of the doorway, resisting the urge
to look down at the trail of blood leading out and into the darkened outer chambers.
The pair used their senses to guide them in the dim light — Zunna warned
that any flame could alert the demonic god to their location. Crossing each
corridor like ghosts in silence, Merry’s mind considered the peril outlined by the
gerenuk. There were subtle clanks and deathless breathing the further they went
down into the ivory colored chamber, each sound causing the duo start violently
back, with Merry raising her pistol at phantom nothingness.
Zunna’s fear was quite evident as they entered a wide marble hall. Glancing
inside a few rooms, they spotted several sleepers dozing peacefully, blissfully unaware
of the doom lurking just a paw’s reach away. Affixed on mantles and perched on
side tables of each room was the awful image of Lukhthyr, towering high over their
slumberous attention while incense from the black lotus burned lazily, taking them
deeper into their dreamscapes and away from the weird doom which awaited them.
Zunna shuddered at this sight and moved around it, making towards a wide-
brimmed wall. The countenance of Lukhthyr was carved just above from black stone,
the spidery tendrils from his head gaping open in wait. Rubies of deep red glistened in
a mockery of life, and for but a fleeting instance Merry thought to pry them loose and
take, but a strange feeling stopped her, the longer her eyes gazed on that evil visage.
Here, Zunna pointed to the long veins of vines sculpted into the masonry and
pressed a leaf inward, causing the structure to slide away with a wheezing gasp.
“This door opens into a corridor which leads up,” she said, pointing to the staircase.
A faint groove rent the bottom, startling Merry quickly as if she had stepped over
the edge of a canyon and into the abyss. She ran her heel over its length, made as
though many had been dragged away by their very paws to who knows what horror.
“I’ve been in this location once,” said the gerenuk, trembling. “I swore never
to return, but I know it well as the only means for our escape.”
“You appear different from the others you describe,” Merry pointed out.
“What was it that brought you to this den of utter madness?”
“Thieves in the night who stole me,” came Zunna’s reply. “I was exchanged from
merchant to merchant as though I were plunder, until the day an army of roving bandits
ambushed the caravan I rode with and slaughtered the party. How I survived, I know
not, but survive I did with a lone steed to carry me across the desert. I know nothing
more after that, until I woke up inside these gates and was made aware of my role.”
“Which was?”
“Soothing the madness of the awake. To them, I am little more than a
dream, a plaything, until their senses return and then I am put through paces I
never imagined possible. There,” the gerenuk said, leaning against a walled
tapestry. “The connected corridors will lead to the minaret this way and —”
The thought was not finished, for as she spoke a great misshapen paw shot out
from the darkness and ensnared Zunna by her horns. The gerenuk was snatched off
her feet and dragged headfirst through the opening, which closed as quickly as it had
opened. Merry reached ineffectually at her, but all her paws grabbed was air and the
wall once more displayed nothing but its solid surface. Only from beyond came the
muffled sounds of a struggle, a faint scream slowly receding, and merciless laughter
which froze the marrow in Merry's bones and sent chills up and down her spine.
 Mad with horror, the gerenuk kicked and fought wildly at her kidnapper. At a
few points, her unknown captor dropped her to the ground. Zunna struggled to run, but it
availed her to nothing. The pitch black of the secret wall left her with few options, and she
was caught quickly and lifted up like a child to be carried over the shoulder of her captor.
She was able to get a look at him, a tired and gaunt male leopard, whose
eyes were heavy and glazed over. His senses had left him, and all that was
contained within the leopard was raw instinct. It was what the gerenuk feared. She
could feel the leopard’s hot breath and oozing saliva at her thighs and sensed all
the lotus-addled thoughts of what he and others may do to her body.
Then, she spotted the jade handle of a thin dagger from the leopard’s girdle.
She jerked it from its home, then drove it inside the leopard’s side with as much
force as she could summon. The leopard roared and the gerenuk slipped from his
grip, scurrying quickly into the dark of the nearest wall. There, she crouched, panting
and shaking, and pressed herself as flat as possible to hide from her wounded enemy.
Soon, he was joined by several other wakers, all leering and mumbling. Their long
sleep had left them wanting something that went beyond desire of food and drink, and
they would not, to the dismay of Zunna, be sated until they had what they desired.
The thought chilled her bones and melted her spine as though it were wax.
She could feel the carnal anger radiating from these beasts, bathing the black corridor
with an eldritch light which only fanned the flames of their lustrous fury. Zunna moved
carelessly backwards and knocked over a stack of rocks. She saw the beasts perk up at
the sound and turn their eyes towards the gerenuk’s direction and her heart drummed
madly in her ears. She was frozen, and the dagger dropped from her hoof forgotten
as she cowered at the framed outlines of these demons. One attempted to snatch
her from the ground, only to earn a snarl and a shove in return, with Zunna claimed
by a new fiend. Another seized her by her ears and pulled them back with such force
that tears raced to the surface of the gerenuk’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
She was dragged deeper down the corridor, with the parade of beasts all
looking dimly at her, their paws and hooves fondling for a touch and wondering if
she were truly real. The mob lugged her inside a room that appeared disused for a
long time, with cakes of dust clinging to the formerly elaborate furnishings and
tapestries. There, she was thrown down to a silver dais a short distance from the
entrance, and as if trapped in a nightmare, she felt the first demon, a terrier with,
clamber on top of her and strip her gossamer robes from her body.
 Zunna shrieked and scrambled away from the dais, only to be dragged back and
held into place. The terrier wrapped her hooves and hind legs with a silk rope and ran a
paw down the arch of her side, caressing the meat of her behind and tail with a famished
look. Zunna could only turn away and close her eyes, feeling great waves of nausea
deep inside her stomach. She prayed that it would be over with fast, as she felt someone
lick up the length of her long neck, parting the fur to kiss and bite the skin underneath.
Then, the lights became extinguished and suddenly Zunna felt the room
become very cold and all became silent. Zunna sensed the agitation settle when
next came the awful sound that lurched forward from the shadows, the peril
unseen and then the harried screams that echoed up and down the room.
Zunna opened her eyes and wished immediately that she had not: against the
blackness she saw the horror unfolding, as an awful cry tore from deep inside the dark
and a figure became suspended in midair for but a moment before disappearing into the
bleak ether. The maddened beasts of Karashehr retreated away, trying to scramble and
escape the profane horror. In their insanity, something rational had become awakened. It
had recognized the fear and horror they tried to dull and trick themselves into forgetting.
The gerenuk twisted her head about, realizing she was now alone. Her limbs
twitched with anxiety, fearful of what she might see as something loomed and
moved in the dark. Its form, as best she could make out, was huge and bulky, and
seemed to grow like a weed from out of the void. She could make out the vague
outline of a body, but it appeared to belong to no ordinary creature, nor that of
the effigies which adorned the city. A grim light flashed over something
resembling a great scaled and misshapen head, as fear gripped her soul and she
felt her limbs spasm at the thing’s approach and at the blinking, toad-like face.
Suddenly, she began to feel a cold and damp furor as a tendril slithered
sloppily along her body, tugging her up the way she had seen it do the others.
She screamed again, pleading for help, hoping the dread would cause one of
these beasts to snap into common sense and do something.
And then the screams started again. Only they came from far behind the
creature, as barks of rage and hellfire echoed in the corridor.

When the secret panel gave, after many long minutes working her rapier
against its edge, Merry entered cautiously and descended into the darkness
carefully. Then she came alive when she approached dark, furtive figures in
middling shuffles, their eyes blazing red with a hate Merry thought only possible
from soldiers on a battlefield. A light further down the chamber illuminated them,
where rising above their shouts were Zunna’s screams.
Merry did not hasten to conciliate with them. The camel had shown her the
folly of that action. Blood mad fury coursed through Merry’s body and she raised
her pistol at the first enemy who descended on her; a second later it was smoking,
the bravado down on the stone floor with his brains oozing out.
A tall shrike shrieked in her ears and swooped, raking her side with razor-
sharp claws. But before he could dig in, Merry buried her dirk between his eyes
and he dropped in a mass of bulk and feathers. She unsheathed her rapier, when
the another made a move forward. It was a jaguar who took a mighty swipe at the
cheetah with his claws, lusting for blood. He tore away half her tunic then drew
back to go again. He overreached, allowing Merry and her deadly blade to whirl
with lightning speed and shear through fur, flesh, and bone and the jaguar’s head
rolled off into the darkness while his body staggered drunkenly before falling still.
The people of Karashehr pounced but Merry was quicker. She spotted two
beasts coming at her from both sides and, stepping backwards, watched as the blade
of one went into the breast of the other and felled him. The startled attacker had not a
moment to reflect on this mischance or wrench his sword free when the cheetah brought
her saber down on his head, cleaving his skull to the teeth. Moving like a wheel of death,
Merry hacked and slashed and shattered all that came her way. A male tiger trudged
up from behind before Merry had a moment to sense him, not realizing it until the tiger
had his prize and tore her ear to shreds between clenched teeth of fury. Roaring in pain,
Merry drove the muzzle of her second pistol deep into the foe’s skull and fired, feeling
the warm rush of blood and brain matter wet her paw as she slid from under the corpse.
Through the deadly ring of steel and fangs, the attackers shrank back, with some
crouching in quiet rage at the uncertainty of their actions. Others faltered, with some of
their sleep-induced insanity beginning to loosen itself from their minds and the slow
realization of their actions seeped in with their retreats. Merry watched as they paced.
Lost in thought, she did not notice a misguided young lion, with his mane barely grown,
leap forward and grab the battle ax from his downed neighbor, then rush towards
the cheetah with a leap of incredible quickness and agility to deal his death-blow.
The lion’s judgment was flawed, as Merry’s blade whistled through the lion.
Scarlet fell like drops of rain down onto the heads of the remaining beasts, while a
crimson caricature barely resembling the lion fell to the ground with a sloppy thud
amid a haze of red.
She looked around to each muzzle and snout as the beasts eyed her with
agitation. Merry returned the glances, her saber stained as red as her fur, then headlong
down the chamber. The horde of beasts were at her back, howling and barking for
her blood. Their mad exaltations receded into horror then silence, as they fell back
behind the cheetah, who believed their retreat to be a trap. Retaining her sword,
Merry bound through the tunnel’s entrance and nearly fell over a corpse at the mouth.
Then she raised her eyes and looked up at the nightmare which held Zunna
upon the dais, her shrieks and tears piercing the silence like sharpened dagger
points. Merry froze at the monster’s awful shape and watery eyes bobbing in and
out of its skull. That her mind did not shatter in a conclusion of insanity was a refuge
she refused, for Zunna’s screams and pleas rang out and stirred Merry to her senses.
She charged at the creature; the lightning blue shine of a blade quickly
followed dark red crimson fury against the billowing mass’s onyx form. It opened
what may have been its mouth, and a roar that came from beyond cosmic
understanding escaped and shook the room. The thing dropped the gerenuk and
Zunna hit the ground. Even in the dim light, Merry could see its bulk was
awesome as it towered high above her head. The battle-lust within the cheetah
bated back any fear, and she charged the monster, attacking head-on.
It was a foe unlike any Merry had encountered, but this did not matter. It
was not invincible as far as she could surmise, with rivers of oozing life jetting out
and flowing about her in gibbous waves as she hacked and slashed and rent at
whatever she could, shearing through whatever she could determine was an
approximation of flesh that could be stabbed at and dealt damage.
But if the thing were close to expiring, it showed no signs of it. Tendrils as
hard as iron clubbed into her, knocking her back to the floor several times and
then surrounding her with that perilous darkness that she had seen take the tiger.
Several times, the tentacles lashed her open and tore through her back, feeling
like the whip of a thousand scorpions ripping through her fur and flesh.
She fell, her body and tail a crumpled mass, reflecting the shadow of
oncoming death upon her. This was it, the end coming, and Merry could not
escape its abysmal embrace. The trail would conclude here, at the jaws of this
black blot of horror from the stars. Her brain reeled from the punishment and her
breath came in whistling gasps. She opened a puffed and clouded eye and stared
into the gelatinous face of the cephalic creature. Then she looked down and saw
Zunna, the gerenuk’s wistful and sad face unlatching something like a hurricane
inside the cheetah, who had promised to carry her away from this evil city.
Merry writhed free and tore loose a snarling howl from her throat. She then
lunged towards an approximation of the monster’s bulbous head, twisting her body
and thrusting her saber forward with her remaining cache of power and strength.
The blade found its mark and sank down deep between the monster’s scaly crags
and the creature gave a contraction of fury that engulfed the room. Back down
into the tunnel it went, carrying the bruised, broken, and battered body of the
cheetah behind it, who refused to let go as she worked the saber at the creature. A
fierce joy surged through Merry. She ignored the pain from the wriggling talons of
its tentacles as they gored and raked at her flesh, arms and legs. If she could not
defeat this foe, then it would know what a fight it had found itself in indeed!
Soon, a powerful light blinded the cheetah and she was blown backwards
against the wall. A swirling flame of aquamarine witch-fire surrounded both
herself and the creature, and suddenly the monster started to dwindle in size.
Merry staggered up to her feet, struggling to lift her sword. She commanded her
legs to go and rush the glowing monster, but they refused, and she stood still,
braced and held erect by the wall behind her back.
Instead, she watched as the thing retreated further down the corridor until the
light it wrapped itself in dwindled, disappearing into another chamber. For a few brief
moments, it left traces of this light behind like cheesecloth. Merry reached out to touch
it and felt the cold dampness, until it too vanished into the unknown behind its master.

Zunna followed the combatants as they descended back down the tunnel. It
had taken her a moment to break free of her cords and seek out radiance to help
her fight the darkness. She picked up the faint, panting gasps from Merry and found
her leaning against a wall, resting her bloodied paw on the pommel of her sword.
Merry said nothing and brought a digit to her lips to silence her. The gerenuk
understood, but she could not abide by the instructions without bearing witness to
the cheetah’s injuries. There were deep gashes that traversed her body from the top
of her head down to her feet; her muzzle was scratched and pulped, with discolored
bruises along one ear and oozing blood streaming down the side of Merry’s head
from the other. But Merry’s upper torso was the worst to look at. Zunna beheld the
shredded fur and flesh dangle like shredded cloth. It was as though the cheetah had
endured the worst torture imaginable, then thrown down a cliff to suffer some more.
“Did I get it?” Merry panted. “Is it dead?”
“I… I cannot tell,” Zunna answered. The eldritch light was now a faint
memory of the foul god. “Oh, why did you come back for me, mistress? I am but
a stranger, yet you risked your life for me!”
 “We’re friends in this adventure,” Merry replied, grinning with a grimace of
pain. “I promised to take you with me, and I would not leave here without
fulfilling that promise.”
Zunna reached to touch the cheetah, but Merry slid towards the ground. She
clung to her hilt and lowered her head, breaths coming in shuddering flutters.
“When it lashed me like a heathen, it got me with some a type of poison,”
Merry said faintly. “I will probably die as no beast has perished for thousands of years.”
“What shall we do?” the gerenuk asked, leaning in to listen to Merry.
But the cheetah passed out from the blood loss with no answer, still alive
but only clinging. Nervously Zunna rose to her feet and moved about the darkened
tunnel, running her hooves along each groove and cranny. She wondered that if
the secret wall that brought her here was one, there must be others. That the
knowledge did not come to her sooner made her feel foolish. She banged her
hoof along each surface, hoping and praying that they would lead somewhere.
She gave a yelp of happiness when she felt one wall swing inward, feeling
the gust of dusty, cool air blow in her face. A faint light appeared in the distance,
throwing shadows that gave her heart a slight jump. She had to calm herself,
reasoning that this was the best she could hope to accomplish.
Zunna dashed back towards Merry, whose yellow eyes were now open with
a blank, dimming stare.
“I… I think I found something,” Zunna began.
“Is it safe?” Merry asked weakly.
The gerenuk shook her head. “But we have to try, there is no other option!”
Merry grunted in agreement. She grabbed a jutting edge and heaved herself
upward, gripping Zunna’s shoulders for support as she moved stiffly and slowly
towards the entrance the gerenuk had made.
Surrounded by the veil of black, the companions listened to all sounds,
finding the silence more unnerving. Zunna glanced at the cheetah, only barely
surmising how ghastly her pain must be. The blank glare in her yellowed, bloodshot
eyes were matched by the heavy gasps for air that refused to come easily inside
crushed ribs. Each step Merry took came with a shiver and shake, and Zunna
wondered if this would be the moment that her savior would fall dead on the floor.
They paused at a door made of stone, held fast by a bolt made of gold.
Zunna hesitated, casting a quick glance at Merry who stared at the door stoically.
Held up by raw power and little else, Merry swayed at her feet as she withdrew
the bolt, then readied her saber.
“I can hear them,” she muttered.
 “Who?”
“The rest of them,” replied Merry. Her tongue was thick, and with each word
she spoke blood fell from her gums. “Suleyman and these mad peoples. I did not
think they could reach us so fast. But there they are, waiting for us…and here we are.”
“No one’s here, mistress,” said Zunna. “I hear nothing.”
Merry ignored this and took the lead. They were met by the same oppressive
onyx down another corridor, until coming to a stop at a tapestry of red and gold.
Merry stood in front of it, panting and shaking, pointing her sword.
“Through there,” she said. “I hear them. The scent of a thousand mad
beasts await us inside. Howling and screaming…they want to bathe in our blood,
Zunna. But I… I won’t let them.”
Zunna leaned her ear against the cloth. She shook her head. “Mistress, there is no
one on the other side. But I do hear what sounds like running water. Do you hear that?”
Merry nodded. “Good. Always good…to slake one’s thirst…before death.”
Zunna said nothing. Heart leaping from her chest, she drew the tapestry back,
revealing a wide empty chamber. At the center, they spied a massive fountain, with
jets of cool water fanning out into aqueducts to be filtered across the slumbering city.
The gerenuk took Merry by her stained paw and led her inside. But the
cheetah resisted, protesting that she could hear the swords clanging and the beasts
howling. She eased herself from Zunna and plunged her head into the pool’s
crystal jets, lapping at it as though she could not get enough. Raising up, she
breathed deep and Zunna saw the sanity restored behind her eyes.
“Your back, mistress,” Zunna began. “You will not get very far in your
present condition. Let me dress your wounds.”
Merry was quiet, but moved stiffly onto her stomach, her saber held tight in
her paws and eyes darting at the two archways behind and in front of them.
Zunna was given a better look at the full extent of the cheetah’s injuries. Her
seared fur revealed discolored and mottled flesh underneath, in differing shades of
blue and grotesque yellow. Several boils had appeared, and on touch one burst
open, emitting sickly black fluids that were horrific to her senses.
The deeper cuts and bits of torn flesh she licked and bandaged by removing strips
from fabric nearby. Then, she cleaned Merry’s back with water from the pool, scrubbing
and draining the boils. She crafted a splint for the cheetah’s broken tail with stray piece
of wood, looking up each time to see if Merry was still conscious. This final time, she saw
took note that the cheetah was only partly breathing, her air coming in shallow gasps.
Zunna felt as though she were on the verge of her own collapse. She racked
her brain for a solution. Even this place, as secure as it appeared, was not safe.
The slumbering beasts of Karashehr were somewhere. Whether or not they had
returned to their lotus induced slumber, or if they were still on the search for the
two of them, she could not guess. All that she could be certain of was that they
would eventually be discovered.
She rose to her feet and strode towards an alcove. Hoping to grab an urn to
pitch water into, her heart sank, and she froze. Partially concealed underneath
was the tangled mass of a furred arm. Zunna crossed the marble floor cautiously
and looked between the filmy veil which framed the doorway to see it was a
young female tigress. A bejeweled poniard and a chiseled goblet lay next to her
on a side table, and a sniff of the air told Zunna the tigress was dreaming.
Above the tigress’ head stood a jar bedecked in translucent turquoise. But
Zunna could scent that it contained the wine of the yellow lotus, with its peculiar
restorative flavors giving strength and vitality. How many times had she been
forced to fetch it for her masters from the sacred pools? The tigress, not one of the
privileged but a servant like Zunna, more than likely took the option to sleep
rather than be at her master’s call for his elixir of life.
Zunna stole quietly inside the alcove and leaned over the tigress’ supine
form. There was a brief snort then a turn as the tigress shifted herself. Zunna held
her breath for what felt like an eternity, hoping that the girl would not wake.
Satisfied at the resuming snores, the gerenuk grasped her quarry and then took
the poniard into her hoof, regarding the tigress with long hesitation.
In the back of her mind, something told her that it would be a safer course of
action to end the tigress before she could awaken. Putting her beyond the powers of
the living would give herself and Merry a chance at escaping, before any alarm could
be raised. All she would have to do is position that blade high over the tigress’ breast,
plunge and draw back the bloodied knife, and all would be well. Zunna had seen
Merry do it, and Merry did it with no compunction of guilt. Zunna could be a killer too.
But she wavered and she breathed, dropping the blade back onto the table
and, vessel in paw, scurried back towards Merry.
She knelt down, cradling Merry’s head and opened her jaws wide. The
cheetah’s eyes were closed, and Zunna assumed that the cheetah had no idea of
what was happening. The gerenuk brought the jug to Merry’s mouth and gently
poured the golden elixir down her throat.
Merry’s eyes fluttered at first, and she drank mechanically. Then, a glimmer
that grew into a light formed in her pupils and she began to lap at the drink with
great interest. To the amazement of Zunna, the cheetah sat upright and took the
jug from her hooves, taking another mighty drink. When the vessel came down
and came to rest beside them, the clouded mottle of death appeared to have faded
from Merry. Much of the worn, drawn out look she had had just moments before
disappeared, and her voice lacked the wild delirium that had coated her timbre.
“This is the wine you spoke of?”
Zunna nodded. “I found it, over there where a housemaid lay sleeping,
mistress. I… I couldn’t kill her. I just couldn’t.”
“Enough blood has been shed today,” replied Merry. “I feel new life and
vigor roaring through me like the call of Amra!”
“I am glad your health has returned, mistress. But we still have the matter of
your wounds and our escape to contend with.”
“It may be the liquor of this drink, but my injuries are negligible. I swear to
you, I feel no pain or discomfort! As for our escape…you mentioned you lifted
this from an alcove?”
Zunna nodded, then pointed a hoof in its general direction. Merry let out a laugh
and then dashed to her feet. The gerenuk watched on as Merry crossed to a window next
to the alcove, covered with beads of jade and scarlet. Undoing the veil that covered the
sleeping tigress, Merry wrapped it around her paw and smashed the glass, causing Zunna
to jump and look over at the maidservant, who continued to rest in blissful unawareness.
Merry inhaled the cool air of the night desert as it blew through the portal. Before,
when she had been wandering around in a daze without food or water, it was nearly
impossible to take pleasure in such a feel. Now, having had her fill of Karashehr, she
embraced the dark velveteen sky amid the salted cluster of stars with a renewed vigor.
“Chance has led us well,” Merry said. “Somehow we stumbled into the high
tower. Look here…see the sands below and the walls just out of distance? Our
freedom is just beyond this ledge!”
Zunna joined her at the broken window and looked on at the vague expanse
of sand that awaited them. Then Merry sped off again, making her way to the
large silk tapestry that hung behind the fountain. She ripped it down and rapidly
tied it together, creating a canopy. Grabbing several lengths of nylon, she tied the
corners of the canopy so that the cords went over their makeshift chute.
“The air is fairly calm,” the cheetah said as she approached the window.
“Hopefully chance and luck feast with us this hour. If not, we shall be dining in
hell for our failure.”
Zunna swayed at the doom laden words but regained her composure at the
cheetah’s instructions and wrapped her arms around Merry’s torso. Merry then
knotted one end of the cord around the gerenuk’s waist, and then another around
herself, and warned her companion to hold on as tight as she could with both paws.
 Then they jumped.
On instant, the tapestry billowed and flared out, and the pair accelerated upwards
as they became ensnared in the updraft. Merry straightened and swung her legs out until
they were clear over the wall. Zunna held her breath, but a squeal escaped her muzzle.
She closed her eyes, afraid of looking down at the gliding scenery below their feet.
Soon, the ground came rushing up at them. Merry cried for the gerenuk to
kick her feet outwards to skid on their heels and slow the descent. They left grooves
in the shale expanse, as their parachute collapsed and down they went, tumbling
over and over until they stopped at the bottom of a hill. The cheetah sprang to her
feet, breathless and gave a howl of triumph. As she assisted Zunna, the cheetah
glanced over the gerenuk’s head to steal a moment back at the Black City. To her
eyes, the ghostly metropolis had taken on an eerie phosphorous radiance that she
could not forge into words, seeming to pulsate with an unreal texture of life.
“Likely they will find the gore I left behind,” grunted Merry, as she tied the
tatters of their chute around Zunna’s nudity. “They are not things to be
overlooked quite so easily.”
“We are safe,” breathed the gerenuk, a smile creeping across her muzzle.
“There will be in a fuss and there will be grunts of displeasure, but they will not
pursue us. To them, it will be as though Lukhthyr determined the chaos and our
escape as part of his mysterious powers.”
“Bah!” Merry muttered. “To hell with Lukhthyr and this city! As much as I
would like to, I shan’t be forgetting either anytime soon. Here, catch!”
The cheetah threw her canteen in the way of Zunna.
“Drink up, we have a lot of miles to cover before we can put this city behind
our tails. There’s still Suleyman on my heels and the elements to contend with if
we are to make it to the oasis on foot. I’ve got wounds that still need time to heal,
and I think you could do with a view that do not involve the lust-mad awake nor
the devilish demons from the stars!”
 Alison “Cybera” Cybe is an award nominated fantasy and
horror author with multiple books and short story publications
under their belt. They work as a freelance writer for tabletop
RPG publishers, where credits include fiction for Green Ronin
and Paizo, and adventures created for Call of Cthulhu and
RuneQuest (by Chaosium) and the upcoming Stargate RPG
(by Wyvern). Their work has been featured in several horror
and sci-fi/fantasy publications including Dark Cities, Interzone
and Phantasmagoria.

Amylda’s Prize

Amylda levelled her pistol at the assailant and pulled the trigger. A plume of
gunpowder smoke erupted, obscuring her vision of the tropical jungle for a
moment, her arm jolted fiercely backwards at the wheellock’s recoil. Her victim
collapsed, his coat-tails flapping as he fell, the front of his finely tailored militia
uniform a ruptured mess of torn fabric and red splatter. 
Dropping the now-useless firearm to the ground, she dodged forward.
Another of the red-coated soldiers rushed at her, bringing his sword down at her
in a fierce vertical arc. Amylda caught the swing with her cutlass, a cocky smirk
crossing her features. With a chuckle she kicked out at the man’s leg and plunged
her blade into his stomach. Her feline graces were quick, as the puma coiled her
legs and glanced around the boundary of the clearing. 
Bursting from the undergrowth, three more of the assailants - hedgehogs,
each dressed in sharp and polished red coats — charged into the fray. From
behind them, a tall hedgehog barked a sharp order to his companions “Get the
red-haired woman! She’s got the death penalty on her, men — two hundred gold
to the one who brings me the head of that pirate bitch!”
To her side, a large black-furred bear gave a cry. “I think they mean to kill us,
captain!” he roared, his voice gravelly and thick with many years. The air filled with
the resounding cracks of rifle fire and the pungent smell of expelled gunpowder. 
“I had noticed!” Amylda called back. She clutched her sword tightly, swinging
it defensively to fend off one of her attackers. Their blades met in the air, cracking
with an echoing repertoire that pierced the otherwise still forest air. “Damn it all!
Since when did the Esclage care enough to actually guard their merchant caravans?”
To her right, a thin reptilian figure darted swiftly this way and that, doing his
best to keep his head down. “Si, senorita!” he exclaimed, ducking to his right with
enough finesse to barely dodge a musket blast from one of the red-coated
hedgehogs. “It almost seems as though they did not want to give us their money, eh?”
 Amylda pursed her lips, ignoring the comment from her boson. Glancing to
one side, she caught sight of the fourth member of their crew, the first mate, fighting
for his life. She cursed her luck and damned everything: from the blasted merchants
for hiring this many to watch their caravan’s gold on down to herself for thinking that
this leg of their journey would make for easy prey. “Fall back to the ship!” she called.
Reaching out to grab one of the red-coated hedgehogs in a strong paw, the
bear brought the man swiftly down to his knees. “You’re kidding, right?” he
replied. “We have them on the run — there’s only another twenty of them!”
Pursing her lips, Captain Amylda swept her cutlass to one side, pointing the
tip of the blade through the undergrowth. “Back to The Kraken’s Wake” she
called. “Forego the treasure!”
The words seemed to be a relief to the reptile. Fuego hurried back a few
steps, his natural speed and athletic vigor carrying him as he skipped out of range of
one of his assailant’s impotent sword-swings. Amylda took a quick look at her boson
— tall, skinny and clad in bright fabrics, all topped off with a colorful sash that served as
a makeshift belt, the reptile seemed almost a mirror’s opposite for the bear that stood at
the other side of the clearing. Bren lumbered back towards her, the bear’s heavy arms
swinging aside one of the hedgehogs. Always so protective over her, she thought. The
towering bear’s strength had barely seemed to diminish any in the captain’s nearly thirty
years of life, and she had known Bren for almost all of those years. Aboard the ship he
was certainly the most stern, the most disciplined, and the most grim of all her crew.
But here and now, she was certain that she once again saw a familial twinkle in his eye. 
“Where’s the first mate?” growled Bren. “Damn that kid.”
Amylda motioned for the bear to hurry up. Reaching down, she scooped up
her pistol, wondering when she might ever be able to afford enough gunpowder to
reload it. Stashing it carefully into her belt, she scrambled into the undergrowth,
the thundering footsteps of her gunner right behind her. 
She found the first mate lying against a tree, a small trail of blood trickling
down the youngster’s cheek, his thin chest rising and falling heavily. The fine silk
top hat, which never left his head, lay to one side, battered and dented. 
Reaching down, she grabbed onto the boy’s shoulder. “Come on!” she
barked, “Damn your scurvy soul.”
Stumbling, the youngster — a white-furred tiger — strained to catch his
breath. “Think one of them got me” he rasped in a thick Harrogate accent. “Go
on without me, captain — I’ll only slow you down.”
Amylda narrowed her eyes humorlessly. A resounding crack of rifle rife filled
the air behind her. “You’ve got a bayonet wound in your leg and a concussion,
probably from knocking your damn fool head on that tree,” she snapped,
grabbing his hat from the muddy ground. Shaking it, she planted it back on the
youngster’s head. “Get off your arse this minute or I’ll have you keelhauled.”
The first mate reached up, clutching his fingers around the front of the
captain’s thin vest. “Bury me facing my home city” he whimpered. 
With an annoyed sigh, Amylda rose to her feet, clutching her fingers around
the tiger’s scruff and starting to drag him step by step through the jungle. “You’ll
be bloody fine once we get back to Kortage and we can get some ale!”

Amylda finished a mouthful of ale and sat the mug back down on the moldy
tabletop with a thud and thought once more about how much she hated this damn town. 
Sat in an unfashionable and remote seaside bay in the southernmost regions
of Calabria, the town of Kortage didn’t appear on any map — at least, not any
that were officially accepted by traders, merchants and nobles. Nevertheless, a
wide array of buildings dwelled there, nestling flush against the lapping ocean
waves. The dusty little winding streets of Kortage were narrow, flanked on all sides
by haphazard and unsteady wooden buildings that hung precariously, often-times
held in place only by haphazard nails and yards of rope. From a distance, the
village seemed less of a habitable town and more of a hastily assembled den. This
was especially true for the tavern, The Rusty Coin, where at that very moment
Amylda and her crew were doing their best to drown their sorrows. 
“Eh, Captain” murmured Ed. Amylda glanced over at the first mate, whose
head rested flat on the tabletop, his folded catlike ears swimming in a pool of
spilled alcohol. “I don’ know about you, but I think I’ve had enough t’drink…”
The evening’s drinking had begun earnestly enough — determined to drink
until the four had put to rest the bitter taste of their last and painfully unsuccessful
raid. She looked at Fuego, who now sat slumped and snoring in his chair, the reptile’s
mouth hanging open with each inhaled breath. Amylda stifled a yawn, leaned back in
her chair and brought her bare feet up to rest on the top of the table. “S’ good” she
muttered, her speech a slur of half-formed letters. “B’cause I think we’re out o’ coins…”
To her left, her chief gunner gave a nod of his heavy head. “Yup” groaned
the bear’s voice. 
She looked at him, the man’s large square-jawed and deeply wrinkled face
and grinned. “We need another successful job, methinks” she murmured.
 The trio stared at one another. Amylda’s words felt like a dirge to them, a
final confession for their sinful souls. Another job would always mean more risk -
the threat of the open sea, where even a peaceful day could bring the risk of
waves or shoals or unknown beasts. Amylda drew her fingers through her short-
cropped crimson hair in quiet contemplation. 
“Could always try breakin’ some o’ the merchant vessels” grumbled Ed.
Cautiously, the white tiger reached up to adjust the balance of his pristine top hat
upon the crest of his ears. “Them’s easy enough pickin’s.”
Amylda looked at the youngster. As first mate, she knew that the white-furred tiger
had a keen eye for potential. But even so, she found herself hesitant to take up this plan.
“No” interjected the bear. He turned to look at his captain. “Your father
would never have approved —”
She slid further down into her chair. “It’s okay Bren” she said, her tone as
strong as she could muster through the haze of alcohol. “I wasn’t thinking of it.”
The bear slowly nodded. 
Amylda snorted. It was so like the old bear to ask such things. Bren was well into
his fiftieth year, an age almost unprecedented among those who made their livelihood
upon the ocean waves, and if the old bear had his way then she would doubtless live
to see such an advanced age as well. The thought of one day growing to be as old as
him, with aching joints and shaking hands, made her want to wretch. “I’m sure he
would be turning in his grave, if the old sot had been buried in one” she replied. 
A hint of sadness flickered across the bear’s heavy brow. Not for the first
time, Amylda felt a tinge of guilt. She knew how much Bren had cared for her
father - if anything, it was the old man’s loyalty to him that had ensured that the
bear would rarely leave her side. “Hey” she perked up, sidling over to the bear
reassuringly. “It’s okay. I know you miss him.”
Bren blinked his deep, somber eyes and looked at her. Amylda wished that
he wouldn’t, not with that expression on his face - that of a concerned mother hen. 
“I’m telling you,” she said, her voice as soft as she could make it, “we don’t
need to hit any o’ the merchants, not with their ships as heavily guarded as they
are this last season.” She flexed her feet which rested on the tabletop, absent-
mindedly knocking over a half-empty tankard of ale with her toe. “I ain’t riskin’
none of the crew’s lives fer a few measly coppers, and…”
“Hey!” barked a voice. “You be wantin’ a mat fer those feet?”
Amylda caught sight of the source of the voice. The bartender stood at the
opposite end of the room, his brawny elbows resting sternly on the bar. 
 The owner of The Rusty Coin, although very certainly a landlubber by any
definition of the word, was certainly not a man Amylda wanted to trifle with. She
thought on this for a moment: the grey-haired canine handled most of the sale
and distribution of liquor in the small port town, and that was a position that had
earned him many friends. “Sorry Seamus” she replied, sweeping her feet from the
table. On seeing this, the dog gave her a rough, approving nod. 
Unsteadily, Amylda rose upright, regretting the decision immediately.
Turning this way and that, she felt a swimming sensation rushing through her head
as her sense of balance fought the influence of alcohol. Carefully she walked over
to the window - a single large, long porthole without glass or shutter that stood
almost five foot wide on the furthest wall and inhaled the salty scent of the sea air. 
Her vision eddied for a moment, before Amylda noticed that from this
window she could see almost all of Kortage. She could see the thin main streets down
below, where a crowd of especially drunken sea-farers were getting eagerly stuck into an
earnest fistfight. Beyond them, she could see three bootleggers pulling a heavy wagon
down the ramshackle street, no doubt well on its way to a caravan that would lead to a
distant large city. And there, beyond all of them, she saw the ships. Many of the vessels
belonged to the inhabitants of the little shanty town, and it was for that very reason
that Kortage did not officially exist on any map and was not recognized by any law of
nation. Kortage was a pirate town; its inhabitants were brigands and looters one and all. 
“‘E’s a miserable old bugger” rumbled a voice. 
Breaking Amylda from her thoughts, she glanced over. Leaning on the
window beside her was an old man. His beard was almost fully flecked with white
and grey, appearing to conceal almost all of the lower part of his face and winding
down to the middle of his chest. This obscurity made it almost too difficult for the
puma to determine what species the man might descend from. 
“Excuse me?” she asked. Instantly, she regretted it. Caught off guard as she
was, she had completely forgotten to affect her dialect. In that second she feared
that her voice had betrayed her history, bringing back memories of summer estates and
elocution lessons. Quickly she tried to think of how to best respond to cover her tracks. 
“The barman” grumbled the man again, leaning down to prop himself
against the window. He swayed unsteadily, and for a moment Amylda thought he
might throw up. “Cut me off, ‘e did. No more ale fer me, ‘e said. Bastard.” 
The puma resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the drunk. Turning to look
through the window, she rested her head down on her palms and gave a sigh.
“Truly? What a marvelous story.”
 “‘E’s nothin’ but a scurrilous penny-pincher” snarled the dog, slapping his
hand against the wall. 
“Yes, yes” replied Amylda, impatiently.
Drunkenly, the old dog slouched against the window, his head reeling like a
ball held onto his shoulders by twine. For a moment, Amylda thought that he was
going to throw up. Instead, the dog snapped “As if the ol’ bastard doesn’t have
enough money anyways. Stashin’ it all away in that safe o’ his.”
Amylda stopped, her ears pricking up. A soft sparkle passed across her eyes.
“Safe, you say?”
“Wha’?” replied the dog.
“Safe” said the cat, struggling to keep her voice low. “You said that old
Seamus has a safe.”
The dog blinked a few times. Slowly he reached up and rubbed at his eyes.
“I don’ remember sayin’ that.”
“You did!” replied Amylda, placing a paw firmly on the drunk’s shoulder.
“Right now, a few seconds ago. The innkeeper has a safe full of money?”
Blinking his eyes heavily and squeezing his eyelids shut a few times, the dog
muttered “How did you know about th’ safe? Tha’ was supposed t’be a secret.”

“So” said the captain as she placed a small, hastily-drawn map onto a small
wooden table in the cabin of her ship, “this is the plan. Are all you sea dogs listening up?”
The room was small - Amylda’s ship, The Kraken’s Wake, was not a large
vessel. Its wood was sturdy, however, and the hull was strong. Even though there
were any number of ships that were faster, or whose broadside cannon fire was
stronger, Amylda would not trade this ship for any in the world. It was all that she
had left that reminded her of her father - all, that is, apart from a burning sense of
disappointment. 
Three pairs of eyes followed her direction. Ed’s eyes started to trail their way
across the thin hand-drawn ink lines that crisscrossed this way and that across the
parchment. “Have you drawn a map?” he asked. “Should we start digging at the X?”
“I wouldn’t” answered the captain, “not unless you want to get shouted at
by the innkeeper for ripping up his floorboards.”
Seated opposite Amylda, a slender figure moved. His green-hued scales
shimmered in the flickering candlelight, giving his reptilian coat an almost radiant hue.
“Ah, but are we not already robbing the poor old sot blind, m’lady?” hissed the boson. 
 “The point, Fuego” said the captain patiently “is to perform this little heist
quickly and silently, with as little unnecessary attention as possible. That is why I
called you into this meeting.”
Fuego’s large eyes blinked, his long tongue licking softly over his lips. “Well,
I cannot say that I am surprised. When a mission calls for subtlety and charm,
who else would you come to among this motley assortment?” 
Leaning his hulking figure over the table, Bren placed his meaty paw upon
the map. “You mean this to be a burglary?” he asked in his strongly accented voice. 
“Perhaps” interjected the first mate, “we can steal enough to pay off our bar tab?”
“That would be a considerable sum, senor” commented Fuego, leaning back
in his chair until its legs rocked in the air. “It may be cheaper to buy another boat
and simply sail away from the port under disguise, eh?”
Shaking her head, Amylda insisted, “No! We do not buy a new ship! The Kraken
is my home - our home. You know that as well as anyone here, Fuego, given that it’s
the only home that’ll greet you with anything other than a rope around your neck.”
Ed picked lightly at the parchment, tracing with the tip of his claw a light
outline of each room. “How accurate is this?”
The captain shrugged. “The bar area is pretty accurate; I know the layout of
it like the back of my hand. But for the rest of the layout, much of it is a guess.”
Reaching a meaty hand back to rub the back of his hair, Bren spoke. “The
Rusty Coin is built over three stories. The ground level is a storage area - that’s
where old Seamus stores his kegs and barrels. Everything from mugs to lanterns
are stashed there. Access to the bar area is via the set of wooden stairs outside the
building. This here-” he pointed, “-is where customers climb up to enter through
the building’s official front door. And, sometimes, fall down those same steps
when they’ve had too much ale. Ed, is that right?”
Earnestly, the white tiger nodded, his silk top hat bobbing. “I see those few
hours you spent casing the building served you well, old-timer.”
The bear snorted, indignantly. 
“So” hissed the reptile, leaning over the map, “access through the ground
floor storeroom?”
The captain shook her head, crimson hair bobbing as she did so. “No. There is a
door at the rear of the building, but it’s padlocked from the inside. The only way from the
storeroom into the rest of the building is through a staircase that leads up to the bar area
- opening through a trap-door right behind the bar. You’ll need to find another way in.”
Leaning back once more, Fuego gave a chuckle. “Upper floor, then?”
 Slowly, Bren sighed. “It wouldn’t have been done like this in the old days -
all this sneaking around.”
“Upper floor” replied Amylda, ignoring the bear’s comment. “Ed, do you
want to give the run-down?”
The young tiger smirked brightly. “Last night I was able to find a staff’s only door,
tucked at the northern side of the bar area, just beside the privy. My guess is that it leads
to a stairway that goes up to the floor above. Now, I’ve only been able to see through
the windows of that floor from ground level, but it looks as if there are two rooms.”
“And you think the safe is in one of those two rooms, eh?” replied Fuego. 
Steadily, the puma nodded. “Seamus rarely leaves the inn. Each night he
turfs out the last of the drunks and locks up the front door from the inside.
Sensible to guess that one of those two rooms is his bedchamber.”
Canting his head to one side, the reptile said, “So what makes you think he
keeps his safe there rather than, say, the storeroom or under the bar?”
“Because” explained Amylda, “if you had a safe full of money, wouldn’t you
want to keep it close to where you slept each night? My instincts tell me it’s in
there, and have those instincts ever proved us wrong?”
Without a pause, the first mate shook his head. 
“Then listen very carefully,” she said, “each of you, because you each have
a part to play in this heist. We pull this off, and we’re going to be rich. Now, this
is what we do…”

Staring at the door, the pirate captain reached into her coin purse. Without
taking her eyes from the entryway, she dropped the very last of the crew’s money
onto the bar. “Another pint” she murmured. 
With a grunt for a reply Seamus reached under the bar and found a tankard
that, by his exacting standards, was mostly clean and began to pull a pint. He
placed the mug unceremoniously in front of Amylda and scooped the coins.
Watching as the tender vanished from sight, Amylda breathed an anxious
sigh, hoping that she would see them again before too long. 
Taking a long sip of her ale, Amylda hoped that this heist would pay off.
She thought about her crew, about how much loyalty they had shown in her. No,
she corrected herself, not loyalty - trust. She shot another look at the front door
and hoped that Ed would arrive on cue. 
 With a creak, the door of the bar groaned open and her first mate entered, his
silken top hat brushing the upper section of the frame. The white tiger strode in, taking
only a few seconds to assess the room. Captain Amylda knew that the youngster’s
caution was unnecessary - from where she sat, she could already determine the
location of each person in the bar, from the old drunk that sat slouched in a corner
half-asleep in the evening sun to a newly-wed pair of brigands who chuckled to
each other noisily at the far end of the bar. Three surly, sour-faced pirates sat around
a table, chewed on the contents of a bowl of roasted nuts. In another hour, the bar
would be at its peak capacity, filled to the brim with the scurviest and most ill-reputed
pirates to have sailed the open seas - the perfect time for her plan to come to fruition.
Trust, she thought. It seemed like such a bitter word to her tongue, but that was
certainly what her crew felt in her. They trusted her to keep them safe, to keep the
food rolling in and their trigger fingers active. Amylda would certainly do anything
for them, and she knew that they would rush over themselves to do the same for her. 
But at the same time, she felt a small twinge of guilt chew away at the back
of her neck. Already several of the crew - Fuego perhaps being the most vocal - had
begun to suggest that their next goal should be to hit another merchant caravan. She
disliked that idea, and not simply because the Esclage had begun to hire in bodyguards
to protect their goods. When the reptile had suggested that their next target should be a
shipment of northern flax seeds being escorted by Avoirdupois knights, she had almost
had a fit. The very thought of one of her crew - her surrogate family, no less - winding
up on the receiving end of one of the stallion’s blades made her shudder in revulsion. 
Of course, she thought, the idea of family brought another idea to her mind
- one far less pleasant, but one that could certainly resolve her crew’s financial
woes. Not that she wanted to ask her mother, but…
The thought quickly died, half-formed, as the first mate paced past her,
deliberately and confidently, slumped down into the chair beside her, and tapped
his fingers three times against the bar. She stifled a gasp. The group had agreed on
their signal hours before, and that signal sent a shiver up her spine. Two taps and
everything was clear, the heist ready to go ahead. Three, and there was danger afoot. 
Leaning close, she eagerly whispered to him “What is it?”
“I caught sight of them outside,” he said, a tremulous shiver to his voice.
“They’re armed, about twelve of…”
His words were cut abruptly short as the door to the bar opened, bouncing
back against the wall with a resounding thud. Each eye turned as a tall, sour-faced
hedgehog marched into the room, twin crimson coat-tails wavering behind him. 
 A deathly hush descended, filling the area like a drowning man’s final gasp
for air. Quickly, Amylda reached up and tugged the brim of her cap down over
her face, obscuring as much of her features as she could. 
The tallest hedgehog strode into the bar slowly, letting his heavy booted
footfalls echoed behind each step. At his tail followed his companions, each with
dark scowls and carrying rifles slung loosely around their shoulders. With a
glance, Amylda noticed that the firearms were primed, ready to be fired with but
the pull of their triggers. She doubted that she was the only one to notice. 
Ed glanced around, looking this way and that. A bead of sweat ran down his
fuzzy brow. The three pirates seated at the table glanced over their shoulders,
fingers carefully flexing towards their pockets. 
The hedgehog in the lead finished his stride at the bar and narrowed his
gaze at the bartender. Seamus, his face grim and eyes unflinching, plucked up a
dirty old dish rag and started to polish a mug. “You want a pint?” he asked.
“My name is Commander Roque,” said the hedgehog, “and we are looking
for a pirate.”
The man’s voice was enough to make Amylda squirm. She clenched her
teeth. There was no doubting it, the man was the same hedgehog from earlier. 
A soft chortle echoed from the table in the corner. “Yeah?” rasped one gap-
toothed old feline sailor. “An’ we’re lookin’ fer ol’ Captain Bluepaw’s lost
doubloons - let us know if ya find any!” 
The comment caused an uproar of laughter throughout the bar. Roque, his face
firm and unapologetically grim, turned to focus his narrow eyes on the bartender. “You
wouldn’t be hosting such ne’er-do-wells in your establishment, would you, barkeep?”
“Well” Seamus replied, “You’re in the wrong bar for brigands, good sir.
We’re all good law-abiding folks around ‘ere.”
From the corner of her eye, Amylda watched as the red-coated hedgehogs
gradually started to fan out around the interior of the room. Leaned her head
down and sipped heavily from her mug. She tensed, feeling the nervous heaviness
in the air wrap around her body like a steel trap. 
Roque rested his palm down on the bar with a firm thud. “That the case?
So, I suppose you have all of your paperwork in order to run this establishment?”
“Well, y’know” said Seamus, reaching a paw up to rub his stubbled chin, “I
think them official deeds may have got waylaid in the post on the way back from
Triskellian. Y’know how dangerous it is this far out from the civilized areas, after all.”
 Another chuckle filled the room. Amylda winced. This was bad - the patrons
were too eager to embarrass the stiff-necked intruders. She had a horrible feeling
that all of this was going to end in bloodshed. 
Carefully, with a very deliberate waver to her stride, she stood from her bar
stool and cautiously wavered back and forth, as though searching for balance.
She clutched her hand to her mouth, hoping that the gamble would work. Two of
the hedgehogs turned to stare - one reaching for his rifle. 
“Oi!” snapped Seamus, shooting her a fierce grin. “Not over the bar, ya
filthy lubber. If you’re gonna vomit your ale up, do the decent and respectable
thing - the window’s over there.”
She could almost hear the hedgehog commander’s disdainful snort as she
rushed for the window and began to make the most disgustingly retching sounds
that she could muster. 
As she hung her head from the window, looking down at the street, the
puma quickly scanned the area. Several feet below, the day seemed to go on as if
everything were normal. Distant gulls squawked, and the rolling rush of sea air
scented the wind with salt. Down below, at the mouth of a slender alleyway, a
darkly-clad reptile glanced up at her. Fuego waited for her sign. 
They were all, she thought, waiting for her sign. A sign that she could make
things alright for them - make them rich, make them safe, make them into a family. She
snorted. The lizard down on the street had been waiting for her to ensure that he could
climb up the side of the bar and into the upper window unnoticed - that the bartender
would be distracted. Alright, she thought, she’d have to think of a distraction. But what?
“Perhaps, then” said the hedgehog, his voice drifting through the bar behind
her, “you will recognize this pirate. She’s a nasty one. Thirty-seven counts of
murder, fifty-four counts of robbery, thirty-nine counts of destruction of property…”
“She sounds like a lovely lass” replied the bartender. Another guffaw of
laughter from the patrons. 
Commander Roque slammed his fist down against the table. “You think I
don’t know what this town is?” he sneered. “You do realize that it would be
nothing at all for me to bring the entire force of the guilds down here and wipe
this wretched hive right off the map?”
“Unless we give you the girl, is that right?” perked up a voice. Ed turned, his eyes
boring angrily at the commander. The white tiger’s claws seemed to tense against the
table, as if barely containing his anger. “And your sort call us lot crooks and villains.”
Straightening his back, the commander’s eyes turned away from the bartender.
Inch by inch his gaze moved towards the young tiger. Slowly he stepped over, his
bristles seeming to arch threateningly with every step. Standing beside him, he
stared down at the youngster. “Don’t I recognize you from somewhere?” he asked.
Nervously, Ed gave his best attempt at a cocky shrug. “Not me, chief.”
With cool consideration, the commander reached up and tapped the brim of
the boy’s top hat with his sabre. “You know,” he said, his voice thin and barely
more than a whisper, “that she has a family who are very worried about her. They’ve
offered a sizeable reward for her safe return. You know who her family is, don’t you?”
Steadily, the young tiger’s eyes turned up to meet the commander’s gaze.
“Yeah” he said. “I know. And we’re not giving her up without a fight.” With that,
Ed reached down and, in one smooth motion, grabbed a hold of the bar stool
beside him, bringing it up into an overhead swing. 
The stool struck the side of the commander’s head with a satisfying crash,
splintering into a shower of cheap wood. Amylda turned, barely in time to see
several of the red-coated guards unsling their rifles. “Damn it” she snapped,
leaping at the nearest hedgehog who was taking up aim with his rifle, “this isn’t
the distraction I had in mind!” She grabbed ahold of the butt of the rifle, pulling it
upwards. The firearm discharged and with a thick plume of smoke. 
The first gunshot was followed almost immediately by others - and a feral
bellow as every pirate in the room leapt to their feet, their drunken unsteadiness
forgotten in the momentary thirst for a good old-fashioned brawl. 
Hurling a table over onto its side, Amylda dove down behind it, narrowly
avoiding the whistling impact of a series of leaden balls from the hedgehog’s
matchlock rifles. Sprinting across the bar, she drove her elbow into one of the red-
coat’s midsections, clutching the winded man’s cutlass in the same deft move.
Reaching the bar, she forcibly shoved the young white tiger out of the way.
Frantically, Ed clutched a hold of his silk top hat as he tumbled down behind the bar. 
“That was the sweetest thing” she said, her voice scolding, “but do you
think you could maybe save your displays of sentimental familiar loyalty for when
we’re not in mortal danger?”
“Yeah, yeah” barked the tiger, as a crash of splintering wood erupted
overhead. A scream echoed on the other side of the bar, followed by the echoing
sounds of a meaty pounding of fists and a jaunty war cry. “Where’s Fuego?”
Amylda gave a startled yelp as a large, clutching hand reached over the bar,
desperately searching for her. Thinking quickly, she scooped up a glass bottle
from old Seamus’ liquor display and smashed it against the red-coat’s probing
digits. With a yelp, the hand retracted out of sight. “I’ll check.”
 With a darting speed, she stuck her head out from behind the relative safety
of the bar. In the few seconds that had elapsed, the room had turned into a vicious
sortie. The commander lay bleeding, slumped over the crumbled remains of the
stool that Ed had clocked him with. In the far corner, the honeymooning couple
were proceeding to violently smash one of the hedgehog redcoat’s skulls against
the wall again and again. The unfortunate spiked rodent’s companion lay under
one of the upturned tables, trying in futile panic to reload his rifle. Hurled items -
bottles, chairs, even a peg leg whistled through the air with joyous abandon. 
Amylda was just able to catch sight of a reptilian foot as it scrambled out of sight
from the top of the bay window. Diving back under cover, she leaned over to her first
mate and said “He’s on the job. Here, try to keep old Seamus busy. I’ll be right back.”
“Back?” yelped the young tiger. “From where? Where are you going?”
Wrapping her fingers around her stolen cutlass, the pirate captain smirked.
“You want to get out of here alive, don’t you? I’m going to cut me way through!”
With a jaunty sprint, she leapt over the bar, her blade flashing. In a sharp
thrust she drove it home, bringing one of the hedgehogs crumbling to his knees.
The redcoat dropped his rifle, uttering a stifled cry and made no more sounds.
Amylda tried to yank her cutlass free from the man’s gut, but it did not yield.
Clenching her fist around the basket hilt, she pulled harder, the claws of her bare
feet scratching against the floor of the grimy tavern, and for the third time in the
evening she swore that she hated this damn town.
With most of the hedgehogs down and out of the battle, the bar fight began to
spill over; everybody who remained as pirates hurled themselves at one another in
eagerness for just a little bit more of an earnest scuffle. A hefty bottle swung through the
air, catching the side of Amylda’s face. She stumbled back, clutching her bleeding temple
with a surprised yelp, her cutlass tumbling from her grip and clattered to the ground. 
Before the puma could react, a large beefy-fisted rhinoceros was upon her,
his drunken eyes bleary. He mumbled something about the money that she had
taken from his friends some weeks before - a minor misunderstanding, Amylda was
sure - and charged at her. The next thing she knew, his chunky hands were around
her thin neck, pinning her against the open window. The salty sea air assailed her
nose, which was a pleasant change from the man’s pungent body odor. 
With a snarl, Amylda brought her knee up with all of her considerable
strength into the rhino’s crotch. The man gave a high-pitched whine, and his grip
on her tensed once before going limp. Shoving his trembling body to one side, the
puma sprung over him and leapt to recover her blade. 
 The bar fight was not an unusual event in The Rusty Coin. Amylda felt something
close to a warm nostalgia at this, as she reached down to grab her sword only to watch as
it was kicked out of her clasping fingers by two scuffling drunkards. Grabbing a nearby
wooden stool, she brought it down onto the back of one of the brawlers, sending him
collapsing in a shower of splinters. “Damn it all” she sighed, “I’m getting too old for this.”
“You’re kidding, right?” shouted a voice to her left. Peeking over, she caught
sight of a skinny white tiger crouching behind the bar. Glancing around nervously,
the first mate of Amylda’s crew ducked out of the way as a single bottle of cheap
moonshine hurtled past his pointed ears and crashing into the wall behind him.
Shards of glass rained down over the tiger’s pride and joy - a fine silk top hat.
With a panicked cry, he reached up and clutched onto the rim of his headwear. 
Amylda gave the tiger a playful smile. “You aiming for a haircut there, Ed?”
she replied.
Humorlessly, the young tiger frowned. “And lose these luscious locks?” he
grumbled, motioning to his hefty braided hair. “How would the ladies ever respect
me again if I lost these, Captain?”
Leaping atop a nearby table, the puma aimed a kick at an especially scurvy-
looking pirate. Scooping up a mug full of frothy ale, Amylda took a hefty swig
before loudly announcing “How about we get out of here and find somewhere
where the company is a little more hospitable?”
Diving from tabletop to tabletop in a series of long, shaky leaps, the puma
leapt to the front door with Ed in eager pursuit. The pair burst from the bar,
hurling the front door open as they spilled out into the streets on the crest of a
wave of drunken noise and boisterous crashes. Amylda raced at her full speed,
her heart pounding in excitement, giddy with the thrill of the moment. She barely
noticed a reaching hand, not until the long fingers wrapped around her ankle and
pulled, sending her toppling. She tumbled, hurtling down the wooden stairway
that lead down from the tavern’s entrance and into the mud-wracked streets below. 
Picking herself up, the puma gave a bruised groan. She felt a heavy burning
ache in her side, her ribs agonizing to the touch. Momentarily she turned, barely
able to see through her bleary eyes the tall figure of Commander Roque as he
stepped, stair by stair, down towards her. The hedgehog’s face was a matt of
blood and fur, his left eye swollen, and his teeth clenched in barely restrained fury.
“It didn’t have to be this difficult” he rasped through gritted fangs. Slowly he
raised his sabre, fingers squeezing viciously on its pommel. “This could have been
a simple, straightforward job if you had just played easy.”
 He brought the sabre down, evening sunlight flashing against its arcing
blade. Amylda reached out her hand, managing to grasp the hilt of her own sword
and bring it up with only a fraction of a second to spare, frantically knocking the
commander’s swing aside. She rolled; her bruises a sea of agony as she scrambled
against the dirt and forced the hostile muscles of her legs to stand. She rose,
barely able to balance, her shoulders heaving as she caught her breath. 
“If you had just surrendered” snarled Roque, “I would have been able to go home
and get paid for this - and paid well, I might add. That’s all I wanted. But no!” He lashed
out, thrusting with his blade, forcing the puma to struggle to push her aching body out of
the way of each stab. “You bloody pirates just never play the game by the damn rules!”
Her back slammed against a wall, and Amylda pulled her sword up to deflect
another angry blow. catching the hedgehog’s blade with her own, she pushed
against it with all of her might. Grunting angrily, Roque took a step back. Blood
pooled at the corner of his eye, as crimson as the dusk sunset that painted the sky.
The pair rushed at one another, their sword-swings clashing through the peace
of the evening. Grunting with exertion, Amylda swung her blade as fast as she could,
in parry and thrust, each swing met with barely a second’s delay by the red-coated
commander. She lashed out like a wounded animal, desperation marking her every
movement, all the while Roque’s indignation fueled every heavy swing of his sabre. 
Amylda threw herself at every opening and frantic over-reach, pushing
forward with every step. Rushing in, she drove her shoulder against the hedgehog’s
chest, forcing him back a few more inches. With the last of her strength, she drove
her foot against his stomach in an inelegant kick, desperate to just push the man
back even further. Roque stumbled, staggered, and now it was his time to gasp for
air. “Why are you doing this?” she spat, tears welling in her eyes.
Righting himself once more, the commander exhaled “For the money, of
course. I presume that’s why you’re doing this too, aren’t you?” Roque fixed her
with a steely, bitter glare. “Running around playing pirate, following that bastard
of a father’s example, leaving your poor mother-” 
“Shut up” snapped the puma, feeling the bile rise in her throat. “We’re
nothing alike.”
Puffing out his chest, Roque rose up to stand at his full height. Wiping the
drying blood from his eye, he growled “In that, at least, you are correct. You’re
nothing but criminal scum, and-”
He glanced down. Staring at his chest, he reached up to touch his crimson
shirt. He ran his touch down to where the sabre entered his chest. The hedgehog’s
fingers wrapped around the edge of Amylda’s blade, feeling at it. A thin pool of
blood blossomed across the front of his tunic. His mouth gaped, trying to form words. 
“And” added Amylda, “we cheat.”
With a yank, she pulled her sword free. The hedgehog clutched his hand
once at the wound and exhaled a dry moan from his lips before his body slid
down to the ground. Half-dazed, Ed wandered over to Amylda’s side. Placing his
hand on her shoulder, he felt the thin layer of sweat beneath her fur, her entire
form seeming to shake with anxious exhaustion. “Come on!” he urged.
Hurrying down the street at full speed, running as fast as their legs could
carry them; Amylda did not stop until she turned into a narrow alleyway and ran
head-first into a broad-shouldered figure.
Stumbling back a step, she stared up into the eyes of Bren. The burly dark-
furred bear reached out to pat her on the shoulder. “Careful there” he said, just as
Ed scurried around the corner and paused to catch his breath. 
“Don’t y’all speak too soon now or nothing” interjected Ed, glancing behind
along the alleyway, “but looks like our luck’s coming in.” He pointed, jabbing a
quick claw’s tip along the street. 
Following the tiger’s gaze, Amylda watched, narrowing her gaze to peer
across the street and up to an open window in the upper floor of the tavern. Sliding
from the open portal came a sinewy figure, creeping its way along the outer wall
in loping eel-like slides. Winding his way down to the ground, the thin form rose,
dusted off his doublet of dark leathers, and walked as casually as he could muster
down the street towards the alleyway. Drawing closer, it became clear that the figure
was a raspy, rail-thin reptile, his dark green scales murky in the dying afternoon sun. 
“Glad you could join us, Fuego” smirked the tiger.
The newt folded his arms, a surly expression encroaching across his eyes. “I
suppose I should be thankful that you even waited for me” he retorted. “While
you were having fun, I was doing all the hard work.”
“Right” snorted Ed, nursing his bruised arm, “yours was the hard work, I’m sure.”
Amylda stepped forward, giving the young tiger a shush. “Did you find it?”
Fuego gave a knowing grin. The reptile’s weight shifted from one foot to the
other, and he waved an open hand. “You were fortunate, captain,” he said with a
playful hiss. “Whichever drunkard told you about the safe was dead wrong.
Search as best I could, there was naught to be found anywhere in the innkeeper’s
bedchambers. But, with my skills - as amazing as they are, I’m sure you’ll agree - I
was able to persevere, and lo I was able to discover…”
“Did you find it?” she asked again.
 The reptile gave a long, dramatic sigh and unfastened a small leather pouch
from his belt. “Yes, yes” he replied. “Not that it will convince you to appreciate
the talents that were required to procure it. And even when I did locate the
innkeeper’s safe - not in the bedchambers as your contact mentioned to you, no,
but in the privy - to actually crack my way into it required…”
“I’m sure” she said, scooping up the pouch. Holding it delicately in her hands, she
turned it one way and another. “It feels very light. You sure this is all that there was?”
“Could be gems?” offered Ed, his eyes shimmering eagerly. 
“Bloody hope so, after the trouble we went to” she said, plucking open the
strings of the pouch. Tipping it upside down over her open paw, Amylda watched
eagerly as the innkeeper’s treasure fell into her waiting hand. 
A small oblong object fell into the puma’s waiting paw. Cautiously she held it up,
letting the setting sunlight play across its slender surface. It was a small cameo brooch.
Holding it up carefully between her thumb and forefinger, Amylda stared at it with
an expression of bewildered confusion. Etched upon the brooch’s surface, in minute
and delicate brush-strokes, was a painting of the Seamus as a much younger man, his
tailored hand resting on the shoulder of a young girl no more than twelve years of age. 
Amylda pursed her lips. 
“Ah” stated Ed, leaning closer to peer at it. “That’s the old bartender’s
daughter, isn’t it?”
The captain blinked a few times, her jaw hanging open. “That…” she
muttered, “isn’t gold.”
Reaching up to rub at the back of his head, Bren gave a slight chuckle. “I
guess that must be his most prized treasure” he said. “After all, family is the
greatest treasure in all the-”
“Gold!” whined Amylda, clenching her fist. “That’s not fair! I wanted gold!”
“I think” said the bear, as sagely as he could muster, “that what you found
was the love that we all share, as a fam-”
“Gold!” snapped Amylda, stamping her foot. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”
She threw the brooch to the ground and gave the wall of the alleyway a sturdy kick. 
Leaning down to scoop up the brooch, Bren wrapped his brawny fingers
around it and passed it back to Fuego. “Perhaps” he suggested, “you may want to
slip back into the tavern and return this to the old man?”
“Si” replied the lizard, taking the small object and sliding it into his pocket.
He gave the captain a pitiful look. “Are, eh, you going to be alright?”
She kicked the wall again.
 “Senor” continued the lizard, speaking to Bren, “I do not think that the
captain is taking this well.”
Placing a hand on Fuego’s shoulder, the white tiger stepped over to him.
“Do you think, perhaps” he whispered, “that we should mention to her that the
commander of those hedgehogs had a rather hefty coin purse, positively brimming
with the initial payment for his mission?”
Amylda’s ears perked up and she paused, mid-kick.
Ed held up a fairly large leather bag, dangling it playfully from his fingers.
The captain’s eyes lit up, her mouth gaping. “How much?”
“At a rough glance” said the first mate, “about a hundred. Drinks are on
you, captain?”
Grinning brightly, Amylda held her arms up triumphantly. “Drinks are,
indeed,” she announced, “on me!”
 SignificantOtter, also known as John Kulp, currently resides by the
Schuylkill River in Philadelphia, where he’s evaded several attempts
by the coast guard to remove him. He enjoys playing board games,
running by the riverside, and imbibing impossible quantities of tea.
His weekends are spent writing, hiking, and tabletop role-playing.

Hearts and Minds

As I approached the edge of the forest, the Bisclavret mansion loomed in the
distance. Lizard-drawn carriages slowly moved along the slim roadway that cut
through an open field of grass.
A deep breath in and out stilled me. I opened myself to the natural world
and allowed a connection with the myriad of woodland spirits that danced and
sang hidden from mortal sight. Back when I was an apprentice, it had seemed a
great feat to accomplish just this. Now it was as simple as swishing my tail.
“Fæth Fiada,” I whispered. The words danced in the air like storybook
fairies. There was a power in them that, despite my years mastering druidism in
secret in the Bisclavret lands, I had yet to fully grasp.
A connection tugged at me. It was something quiet that didn’t want to be
seen. My mind wrapped around it and it soon thought it was me. When my eyes
opened and I moved a paw in front of my face, I saw nothing, not my trimmed
digging claws nor my hazelnut brown fur.
Invisible, I strode forward across the field with confidence. Holding the frills
of my lavish dress raised to keep them from tearing along the brambles and rocks
in the forest, I made my careful way towards the mansion. Though no one could
see me now, they would be able to when I dispelled the magic surrounding me.
Despite my care for my dress, I still hurried forward. The mission was vitally
important. My circle of druids had received word that The wolf’s Skull were
planning an attack on this party.
The wolf’s Skull were dedicated in their cause of toppling the Bisclavret
government to restore the rule of druidism. In practice, none of their acts
contributed to anything near a toppling of the government. Most frequently, they
murdered nobility who had little to do with anti-druidic policy and caused the
deaths of innocents as collateral.
The trip inside was uneventful, despite my heart beating faster as it did
when I walked into an operation. The adrenaline did me as much good as bad
though, so I forced a calm, regal demeanor even with my magical invisibility, so
that it would be second nature by the time that I dropped the spell.
 I zig zagged around carriages and nobility who were taking their good sweet
time to chat outside before entering. They wished to be seen, not to be lost in the
crowd inside. However, my duty was inside.
I approached the large, ornately carved wooden doorway, and waited for
another person — a haughty Rhino dressed in a button down — to enter. I
slipped in behind his thundering hoof stomps, and then hurried towards the
sounds of mirth and merriment.
The ballroom was fantastically ornate. Every aspect of the room screamed
luxury, clearly showing off to the various dignitaries and rival nobility. Glass
blown into small uneven shapes somehow fit together into chandeliers that hung
from the ceiling in a way that only a master could have designed. Great frescos
plastered smooth, stone brick walls. I didn’t have a background in art, but several
were of a distinct style I had once seen on a mission that took me to the
Triskellian cathedrale De Temoin.
Milling about these luxuries, stepping dirty paw pads on rugs that were
worth all my worldly possessions many times over, were haughty nobility that
likely took pleasure in the slow ruination of the threaded art underneath them. To
them, it was only a mark of status. I’m sure many would have gladly torn the
frescos from the wall to burn if given the chance. The only thing better than
wealth to one of their kind was to wrench it away from another.
I had other dealings, however. After ducking into the bathroom, I dismissed
the enchantment that kept me invisible, then brushed down my dress, checked it
for stains or rips — which I had managed to avoid despite my trip through the
forest — and then walked back out into the ballroom with my head held high.
My heart beat like a hammer. This wasn’t where I belonged. I was on this
mission because my magics were powerful, and we knew that the wolf’s Skull had
a major plan in place for this event. I had the skills to draw them out and subdue
them quietly.
I didn’t have the skills to small talk with assholes.
So, I did what I did best. I listened. After walked up to the first pompous,
overbearing wolf who caught my eye, I asked, “Excuse me sir, I—I apologize
because I know you’re of great importance. I saw you at my father’s gala a month
or so back! You looked quite impressive. I am unfortunately quite terrible with
names, though. Would you be so kind as to remind me of yours?”
The wolf, decked from head to toe in finery, a thick golden amulet around
his neck that bulged with an obscenely gaudy topaz, held out a paw to me. “Why,
I suppose I can forgive it if you’ll grant me a dance, ma’am. For I, the baron
Eamon of the West Muire am of longstanding, noble and chivalrous stock.”
I complied, allowing him to lead me into the center of the ballroom. There,
couples swung back and forth, twirling and tapping to the slow rhythm of the
grand piano played by a deft shrew in the corner. The baron Eamon certainly
wasn’t the chivalrous stock he claimed, considering how often I had to roughly
move his hand back up to my shoulder, but his behavior did help blend me into
the crowd.
I watched the other couples carefully as they danced, looking for anyone as
out of place as I was, or really anyone watching the crowd like I was. There was
one lanky wolf in far less finery who had been nervously scanning the room, but
when his eyes lit up at the approach of another lesser noble, a mouse, and the
two shyly took each other’s hands, I knew that neither was the druid I was seeking
out.
However, when I was spun away again and reoriented to look around
Eamon into the kitchen, the blood rushed from my face. My dance stumbled, but
that didn’t matter, because he had already met my eyes.
My brother Críostóir struggled to hold his serving tray upright, though a loaf
of bread still toppled over the side. I knew that after we had been tutored under
our mentor Nollaig, he had gone to join a different druidic circle, one more
proactive than ours. I didn’t expect that he would have ended up with the
terroristic wolf’s Skull. How had gentle Críostóir gotten himself wrapped up in
this?
“Excuse me, my servant just ran off into the kitchen, and I must retrieve that
gluttonous hedgehog,” I lied, twisting out of Eamon arms. He protested briefly,
but I was already gone. I walked fast, but hopefully not fast enough to draw
suspicion.
The kitchen doors bustled with servants entering and leaving with trays of
hors d’oeuvres into the swirling mass of nobility. Others carted heartier foods
towards the banquet hall. Críostóir had been carting bread. He must have been
going towards the banquet hall.
“Ma’am,” I said, trying to command as much authority as I could manage
towards a pantheress who seemed to be directing the flow of wait staff in and out
of the kitchen. “My servant wandered back here towards the banquet hall, but he
certainly lost himself on the way. What is the servant’s route, so that I might fetch
him back to the party?” I rolled my eyes and exhaled a showy sigh.
 The pantheress wasted no time in saying, “Certainly.” She fiddled with her
fingers, but still gave me quick, concise directions about the back halls and
corridors that would lead over to the dining room.
I thanked her, then hurried off to find my brother. First, however, I needed a
disguise. I eyed a white-furred mouse servant who was about my build. She was
wholly focused on kneading a large vat of dough with a hefty wooden implement.
Her teeth clenched in a grimace, and I could see the shakes of exhaustion in her
joints.
While racing past her, I intentionally stumbled, my paws naturally flying out
to correct myself, and in doing so hooked into the mouse woman’s arms. Even
trimmed, my digging claws were potent. With a subtle twist of my wrist, I drew a
gash in the inside of her forearm. It was shallow, but enough to offer the blood I
needed.
“Oh, divine! I’m so sorry,” I said even as she herself cried out, stumbling off
balance along with me and falling to her knees. “Golly, I’m in such a rush,” I said,
letting a soft wail enter my voice. It was hard switching my speaking style from the
stiff, upper class authority I had used just a minute before, but I focused and
hoped that my words were convincing. “My lord will have my hide if I’m not fast,
he will! Here, let me help you up.”
I offered her a paw and she let me lift her up. She was about to say
something when I cried out in alarm. “Oh dear! You’ve been cut on your arm. Did
I do that? I—oh divine I’m sorry!” I pulled the small red handkerchief from my
pocket that I kept for this purpose and pressed it up against the wound.
“I—are you okay yourself?” asked the mouse woman, shaking as she let me
hold the handkerchief to her arm.”
“I’m alright. Your arm looks fine, but I don’t know that you’ll be able to
knead that dough there anymore without making the wound worse. I just feel so
bad about this!” I winced, as if feeling the pain internally as I contemplated the
trouble I had gotten her in. I hated taking blood from those who didn’t deserve
the pain, but I at least made sure to compensate them. I fished two denari out of
my coin-purse. It was a large quantity of money for a servant, but not enough to
cast suspicion that I was anything but a minor lord’s least important child myself.
“Here, take these for the trouble. I’m so very sorry if I bring down the panthress’s
wrath on you.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” the mouse said with a long sigh. “She’s all bark and no bite
anyway. Are you sure about this? That’s a lot of money. And this cut really isn’t
very bad.”
 I closed her fingers around the coins, and then took the blood-stained cloth
from her arm. “Of course. It’s the least I could do. But I must be off now, I’m so
sorry, I’ve important business here.”
The mouse girl waved shyly as I hurried back down the hall past her. As I
turned out of the kitchen into one of the back servant’s hallways, I stuffed the
middle section of the cloth into my muzzle. The bitter, coppery taste of the blood
was horrid to stomach, but I steeled myself to the taste. This was important.
After looking around to ensure that no one else was in the hallway at that
moment, I spat the cloth into my paw, then breathed in, out. The blood brought a
connection between the essences of myself and the mouse woman. All I had to do
was strengthen it.
The words “Fith Fath” fell from my mouth like an exhale. When I rounded
the next corner, my fur was white, my ears furless. As a rodent already, the
change wasn’t as jarring as it had been when I’d mimicked a tiger or a wolf, but I
still felt myself looking at my own paw as if it were another’s. My mind had a hard
time connecting these foreign limbs to the feeling of my body itself. Of course, I
hadn’t really changed. The spell was an illusion that coated me like a very fine silk
veil over top of my own vole form.
When I emerged from the short servant’s corridor, around one bend and
then another, I saw my brother standing on the opposite end of a large, ornate
banquet hall, nervously glancing around the room. I gritted my teeth. Whatever
was going on here with the wolf’s Skull, he was clearly involved. My mind raced. I
came in here to clean up the rogue terrorist sect, and I had no qualms with killing
if it would prevent the countless deaths I knew the wolf’s Skull would bring about
if left unchecked. But there had to be a way to get through to my brother. He was
a good person. Overly zealous and idealistic, but good.
I walked under the grand chandeliers that hung high above the balconies of
the second floor, twinkling like stars under an orange setting sky refracted through
beautiful stained glass. Then around the great mahogany tables that were steadily
filling up with plates, silverware, and delicious arrays of ratatouille, salads, and
spiced and seared lizard meat.
I weaved my way in and out of the bustling servants. I was good at losing
myself in the crowd, so despite my brother’s paranoid gazing around the room, he
was surprised when I approached him, my eyes to the ground, hands together in
front of me, and a nervous twinge to my voice. “Um sir. I was told to get an extra
few of the fancy wood chairs, but they’re a little heavy for me. I—well it didn’t
look like you were doing anything, and I was hoping you could help me with
them.”
He paused, and for a moment I was afraid that he would say no. Then he
nodded, and I held in a sigh of relief. “Sure,” he said. “Lead the way.”
My brother said nothing as we walked. He had always been the silent type,
whereas I, although abhorring small talk, enjoyed the sound of my own voice just
as our father did. I suppressed my impulses for now, though. I didn’t want to
make a scene around so many who did not know of our presence, and preventing
him from recognizing me again was essential to not making a scene.
We weaved through the bustling crowds with less finesse than I had on my
own. Críostóir kept bumping into sides or stepping on toes, yanking his feet back,
and then hurriedly apologizing. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only clumsy servant
around, so his lack of grace didn’t cause us to look too out of place.
I brought him through the servants’ corridor, and then around another
corner that I knew didn’t lead back into the ballroom. We walked that path for a
half dozen sways of my illusory mouse tail until we came to the first of many
storage rooms that peppered the servants’ corridor. I let him enter ahead, and
then struck flint on steel to light the lamps next to the door and cast light into the
dusty room.
It wasn’t chairs. I had figured it wouldn’t be. This room held crates stacked
on crates of every spice imaginable. I had smelled the strange tingle before I
walked in, but when I entered, my nose was flooded with a cacophony of scents.
Sharp cinnamon blended with mild nutmeg and strong pepper. I sneezed, and
then looked up at my brother as he stared back at me.
“Why are you here, Críostóir? Why are you working with them?”
“Eloise?” he asked, shock creeping into his voice.
However, I was already muttering words. “Ag Fulaingt,” I whispered,
looking into his eyes. I saw shock wash over him, and then pain as my curse took
hold, an icy, magical pain deep in his bones.
“This is the only way, Eloise. This is the only way to show Calabria, teach
them that we are powerful, in control. We need to take our revenge, show our
strength, or no one will respect us. If we do not, we will live in shadows forever
until captured, tortured, and burned in the town square.
“Oh, Críostóir. Violence begets violence,” I said, ironically as I split my
focus to gather more magic for another attack. I suddenly felt extremely
vulnerable there in front of him. The hateful curse, although simple, had always
been effective against Críostóir when he was caught off his guard. Of course,
neither of us were children anymore, and both of us had clearly grown
substantially in power.
I continued, “The more we terrorize them, the more they hunt us down. The
way to make change is from the inside, quietly. We have druids among them, in
positions of increasing power. It’s only a matter of time.”
“If violence begets violence… you should walk out of this party right now.
Go home, let us do what we will do and take this nation back for our people.”
My eyes watered for what I knew I had to do, and tears began to dribble
down into the fur underneath my eyes. “You know I can’t do that. I won’t let you
hurt the innocent people here.”
At that, I launched a second curse towards him, like a magical noose trying
to wrap around his neck. However, he was ready. I felt his own magical energy
repelling my attack, meeting it and negating it. He stepped forward. I stepped
back.
“Innocent?” he demanded. “They’re all complicit! All guilty! Every one of
them. There is no innocent person under this roof. … Eloise, take down your
guise, let me look you in the eyes.”
There was no point in keeping my illusory form up anymore anyway. He
needed to see the Eloise he knew. I dropped the illusion, white fur faded back into
brown, fur re-appeared on my ears, my features sharpened into my own.
“I’m sorry Eloise,” Críostóir said, looking into my eyes. I felt a warmth, a
sharp burning sensation, and then a throbbing ache. When I looked down, there
was the handle of a dagger sticking out of my gut. Then Críostóir yanked it out,
and I watched my own blood flow after it. The expensive white fabric of my dress
stained muddy red. I stumbled as my balance left me and the world grew fuzzy.
My ears rang. How could this be happening?
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. His voice choked. He sounded even more
uncertain than he had a moment ago. He walked out of the storage room as I fell
to the ground.
There were healing magics in Druidism, but unlike those in the church of
s’Allumer, within Druidism they were far more difficult and rare. However, that
was my single way out. I felt my strength leaving me, and though I had never
performed healing magics before, I had to try.
I knew the theory, how I was meant to steal energy for the land around me
from elsewhere, to tell it to connect to other worlds, the worlds of the goblins, of
the elements, of the dead, and to leach pure vitality from them to here. As the
land healed, I would heal. I tried to relax, to quiet the voice that screamed panic
into my brain. Even as everything was out of focus around me and I knew that my
body was going into shock, my mind sunk tendrils into the stone bricks, the wood
beams, and the soil underneath. Then, I expanded it. I told it that it was part of a
greater whole. Many places that were really one, and that the energy of all
belonged to it.
After a long moment where I wondered if this failure would be the last thing
I knew before I died, the ground around me began to knit cracks. Steady groans
and creaks echoed through the room as the wear and tear of decades of use
began to mend. My own stomach began to knit.
I heaved blood and vomit onto the floor next to me, even as cracks sealed in
that spot before my eyes. I staggered to my feet. There wasn’t a moment to spare,
but I was in a hell of a bad shape. Even though the burning pain inside told me
that my feat of magic was mending the internal damage as well, it likely wouldn’t
get all of it. I’d still need serious medical attention and recovery when I made it
out.
Or really, if I made it out. Sweet song of the wolves, Críostóir had been
willing to kill me right there. Fresh tears sprung to my eyes as I remembered the
hardening of his face, his own tears, his regretful yet resolute determination. I
knew right then that I truly wouldn’t be able to spare him, and that drove a sharp
pain in my gut worse than his dagger.
I hobbled out of the room, clutching my side with one hand. It hurt like hell,
but I had a mission. I needed to see it through. My brother had always been
exceptional at magic when we trained together as children. Unleashing the power
I’d just seen from him unopposed onto the feast would be a slaughter.
I had a feeling where he’d gone. The wolf’s Skull liked dramatic attacks,
ones that loudly announced their presence and their destructive capabilities. What
better place than the balconies over the feast hall? I could have been wrong, but I
had only instinct to go on.
My side hurt too much to walk on my own, so I supported myself with one
paw on the cold and musty stone wall. I followed it until it wound its way back to
the main servant’s corridor that connected the ballroom to the dining room. My
robes were stained dark with my blood from waist down, so I stayed in the
shadows by the corner. I was lucky the lord of the mansion didn’t pay to keep the
servant’s areas well lit.
When a young vixen maid hurried purposefully along past me, I stopped her
with an out of breath, “Excuse me, miss!”
 She jumped a bit, turning to look at me. She must not have noticed me at
all at first. Then, her eyes moved down, widened, and she clapped a paw over her
muzzle to suppress a shriek.
“It’s alright!” I said quickly, “It was a really bad nosebleed, and it got all
over my dress. Oh, my lord is going to kill me, he is! He liked this dress. And he
only let me wear it because of this ball, he wants us to look richer, you see, have
even his servants wear his finery, but I — but I —” I sniffled and willed tears to
my eyes. It wasn’t difficult when I had Críostóir to think of, his betrayal, the end I
had to bring to him.
The vixen stayed tense, as if she was about to bolt, but then she said, “You
poor dear!” and visibly relaxed. She walked over and wrapped me in a hug. I did
my best not to wince. “You need this washed?”
“Yes, and I need a dress for the meanwhile, something inconspicuous, so I
can keep working and not let my lord see me until my dress is good as new. I
know it’s a lot to ask! Could you help me?”
“Of course! I just finished setting the places for the banquet. I have some
time before I’m needed again.”
Panic flashed through my mind, but I didn’t let that emotion onto my face. I
needed to hurry. If I was right, Críostóir would attack soon. Did I have the time to
change?
“Additionally, how do I reach the balconies over the dining hall from here?
My lord wishes to look out from them after he eats, and I would like to scout the
path out so I can lead him there. Maybe you could meet me there with the dress?”
The vixen nodded. “Sure. There’s no direct servant’s entrance, but if you
take a left right when you walk into the dining hall, the next left is a set of stairs
that lead up to them. I’ll be right back with something to wear in place of your
dress!”
I nodded and said, “Thanks!”
Then, I hurried towards the ballroom as fast as my injured stomach would
allow me. I tried to walk as normally as I could. It was painful, but I couldn’t have
any well-meaning servants thinking I truly needed medical attention.
“Wait!”
I turned back to see the vixen hurrying over with a heavy grey cloak. “Put
this on in the meantime. I fear anyone who passes by would have a heart attack
to see those ghastly stains! That is… quite the nosebleed.”
I hugged her in thanks and donned the cloak, wrapping it tight around my
front. The dining room was bustling with activity. Nobles were shuffling around,
chatting at the long tables and finding their seats among the fantastic displays of
food. More than one less-classy or more-arrogant noble had already begun to tear
into the feast.
Looking up, I didn’t see Críostóir anywhere. I fought back the fear that I was
wrong about his plan of attack. This was still my best chance. If I was wrong, I was
wrong, but I needed to try.
I rounded the staircase, which felt to me my biggest challenge since arriving
at the mansion. I took it step by step, the pain in my gut starting to burn by
halfway, and then billowing into a raging bonfire by the top. As soon as I took the
last step, I had to lean against the wall and gasp for breath while the pain settled
back to a manageable level. Then, I walked over towards the balcony. Across the
hall, on the opposite balcony, Críostóir looked down over the crowd.
He hadn’t noticed me yet. I clutched my stomach and focused on my magic.
I needed to make this fast and silent. If I took him out right now, no one below
would have to be any the wiser that a battle between masters of druidism had
occurred right above their heads. However, I cared about being seen, and he
didn’t. The more destructive, powerful magics of druidism were very visible.
I connected to the magic around me and made my third attempt at cursing
my brother. This was the one attack I could do invisibly and reliably harm him.
The only signs of what happened were my own muttering and concentration and
Críostóir’s sudden doubling over in pain as I pierced his very essence with magic.
He looked up and saw me. He wrested himself back to his feet.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced even though I was sure my magic
had struck hard into his core. I had to have hurt him terribly. Still, he stumbled up
to the balcony’s edge. Heads turned, the conversation below dulled into a flurry
of mummers as people whispered to each other wondering whether he was part of
the Lord of the Mansion’s presentation.
Intensifying my curse to redouble the attack didn’t interrupt Críostóir. This
time he was ready. I could feel his own magics being drawn from around him to
rebut my curse. I growled. He continued.
“Your days of persecuting the druids has come to an end! Every one of you
has participated in establishing or enforcing cruel, hateful laws upon my people.
An eye for an eye. I find all of you guilty.”
As he began to work his own magic, I huffed and focused on reconnecting
myself with the world around me. I was going to head off his attack just as he had
mine, but I could tell I was too late. So instead, I worked it into another attack.
The faster I could take him out, the better.
 Then I realized what he was doing. He wasn’t attacking me. A crack opened
in the air over top of the feast. It slowly expanded, like a claw steadily rending
through a curtain. And behind that curtain was horror, a blighted landscape,
dancing creatures, cackling. Goblins.
I grit my teeth and continued my attack. Críostóir’s constitution was already
weakened by my two earlier curses. And knowing what he was doing, I threw my
secrecy to the wind.
Just as when I healed the land to heal myself, I instead furiously drove the
vitality out of the land around Críostóir. Wood warped, rotted, and cracked apart.
His skin wrinkled and sagged. Horrific blisters and scabs grew onto his body.
Just as the weakened balcony cracked and sputtered and finally broke from
where its rapidly rotting supports, Críostóir shouted, “Make them pay! Kill them!
Kill them all!” before he struck the ground with a sickening crunch of breaking
bone.
And the goblins took their orders.
Four of them crawled their way out of the rift. Each of the three smaller
creatures appeared to be a mutated crow beast with the feathers and shape of a
bird, but hunched over and stalked like a bethrach, a predator raptor lizard, ready
to strike. Despite their feral appearance, they still wore shields down long arms,
their fingers ending in long talons. They wielded javelins ready to be whipped at
their victims.
The large goblin, the Morrígna, was a fearsome creature, a real-world
rendition of what I had only heard stories of. It stood taller the stoutest bull I had
ever seen by half again. Its composition was a horrifying blend of crow and wolf,
but even more savage and feral-looking than either of its constituent parts. Its
feathers were as black as could be, like looking into the night itself. It snapped its
beak, sharp and deadly. Then it began to cackle.
Without wasting a beat, I focused my magics. I was starting to feel the effects
of my constant spellcasting, a weariness deep in my bones. However, this wasn’t
the time to let it get to me, so I ignored the exhaustion and found the currents of
energy I needed to tap into.
The sky spoke to me, and I spoke back to it, “Stoirm Tellach.” It listened.
The energy I commanded drove the clouds overhead to reinvent themselves, to
loom over the stained-glass roof of the dining room, then to expel a rain of pure
fire that crashed through stained-glass and hurled down into the dining hall.
 I had complete control over my magic, however. Whereas the shattered
glass ceiling fell and struck wantonly, whether monster or servant, my plummeting
flames only struck the ground or twisted goblin hides.
The goblins screamed and hollered as their bodies burst alight with flame.
Two of the smaller ones writhed around on the ground as the fire spread over
their bodies. The Morrígna brushed the flames off itself as if they were a minor
inconvenience.
Nobility and servants alike screamed, both at the fire and glass plummeting
down around them and the horrifying creatures that had just torn free from
another reality. They clambered over each other for the exits, though a half dozen
brave men and women stayed behind to fight. A burly wolf rallied and gathered
anyone he could convince to stay.
“Ma’am, I have your dress,” said someone behind me. I turned to see the
vixen from earlier, and my stomach flipped over with anxiety.
“You can’t be here!” I hissed. “Get down the steps and run for the exits. Did
you not see the goblins?” I forced myself to break my attention from her and
looked back down to the ballroom. Already, dozens lay dead or mortally injured,
strewn around the dining hall. The half-dozen warriors who stayed behind had
managed to corner two injured goblins, while one of their number, the burly wolf,
had fought ferociously with just claws and teeth to fend off the Morrígna from his
compatriots. I had a confused respect looking at him. Was he truly a craven noble
the same as the rest of them?
I had no time to lend that thought any more of my attention. One of the
smaller creatures that hadn’t suffered much at my rain of fire, caught my eyes as I
looked down. It offered me a hideous grin from its beak-muzzle. A talon
unnaturally twisted behind its back to free a javelin. It aimed and then threw the
deadly missile with startling speed towards the balcony. I managed to duck out of
the way, but it continued its arc to embed in the wall a half foot from the vixen’s
head. She shrieked.
I focused my magic. I knew I’d need it. The goblin had me in its sight.
However, the vixen still stood there like a statue. “What are you doing? Run!”
I broke into a chant in the ancient language of the druids. I needed more
strength. I had spent too much of my power earlier on the threat that Críostóir
presented. Now I had a much greater threat to take care of.
“What’s that? Oh sweet heaven, what’s that?” the vixen asked. At first, she
was talking about me. The chant tabhairt ar ais had a nasty habit of making me
glow. But then, by the end she was surely talking about the goblin hurtling
towards us like a second, much larger missile after having taken to the air.
I turned to look at the thing straight on. Talons angled towards me, sharp
claws on the end ready to tear into my flesh and rip me apart. I grabbed the
vixen’s paw, whispered, “Tuigen,” and threw myself from the balcony.
Magic cushioned the air around me, lessening our fall as we tumbled off of
the balcony. A split second later, with a loud crash, the goblin slammed into the
wooden structure, causing it to creak and groan. A pained, furious cry escaped the
creature just as the vixen and myself set our feet down on top of one of the dining
tables. She still clutched the spare dress to her chest like it was a great treasure.
“Out of the way!” I heard a booming male voice holler. I immediately
hooked my arm around the vixen’s waist and threw us to the side, down off the
table and onto the cold stone floor with a thwack. The impact lit an agonizing fire
in my side as it rattled my injured stomach. However, it was better than the fate I
would have had staying on top of the table, where the Morrígna’s teeth snapped
and claws swiped into the air where the vixen and I had just been. The burly wolf
came running after it. He leapt mightily into the air and jabbed his claws like ice
picks into the Morrígna’s feathered back. The creature screeched.
I wanted to catch my breath, but there was no time for that. Instead, I did
the first thing that came to my head. I whispered, “Dichetal do Chennaib,” and
plied invisible strands of magic into the wolf, giving him a supernatural energy
that would imbue him with fortune. We needed all the luck we could manage in a
fight like this.
“Are you a witch?” asked the vixen, awestruck.
I took a deep breath. The Morrígna was suitably distracted by the wolf,
though talon gashes and gouges from the bird-like creature’s beak crisscrossed his
body. He had to be feeling those injuries.
“Something like that,” I said. “I’m one of the good guys, though.” Then,
with another draw of magic I ignited a false fire over the Morrígna’s feathers.
Though the flames of my faerie fire were invisible, the creature shone like a lamp,
no longer blending into the shadows of the room with its midnight feathers.
It flinched as the bright light appeared, talons wiping over its fur as if to put
out the magical flames. The wolf took advantage of this, scoring a brutal strike
across its beak, cracking the keratin and leaving a bloody claw gauge that
extended across its cheek.
As it recovered, I built up magic around me, readying two spells. The
Morrígna rammed its head into the wolf’s chest, and he went stumbling back,
winded. It then turned towards me as the wolf clutched his paw to his chest, trying
to breathe.
“Get behind me,” I said as I prepared my magic. The vixen complied.
The Morrígna screeched and charged me, beak gnashing rabidly and claws
extended.
“Ban-aileadh Suilt,” I said, digging deep into my essence. I found the
unimaginable pain belonging to all women, one that I had not experienced, but
which was still a part of me. That experience poured into the essence of the
Morrígna.
It screamed, buckling over just as its claws were about to tear into me. It
curled onto the ground, flailing, gnashing. Its talons tore a deep gash down my leg
as I scrambled away. Pain exploded in my already magic-weary, aching head. I
focused and let loose the second piece of magic I had prepared.
I called to the clouds again, re-gathering what had dissipated when I called
the fire storm, but this time I told it a different story, one of cold and fury.
Lightning sounded in the distance. Then, shards of sharp, rigid ice began to
plummet down through the broken glass ceiling. They struck the Morrígna, still
writhing on the ground, embedding deep into its hide.
The wolf saw the opportunity and threw himself at the creature, digging fang
and claw into its pelt as the magical shards of ice struck around him, always
avoiding him, even if sometimes by fractions of an inch.
As I poured my energy into the magic of the storm and the wolf dug into the
wounds opened by wickedly sharp shards of ice, the Morrígna slowed its
squirming and clawing and shaking until it stopped moving altogether.
Both of us continued for almost a minute after it was over. One could not
risk the chance that such a horrific creature would rise again. Then, the wolf
stumbled to his feet. The vixen rose shakily behind me, and she offered a hand to
help me up.
I felt the burning pain of my open wounds mix with the sharp throb of still-
unhealed internal injuries. Bile rose to my muzzle, and I spat a mix of it and blood
onto the bench beside me.
“Are you alright?” The vixen asked. She propped me up as the wolf hurried
over to steady my other side.
I nodded shakily. It was a lie though. I knew I certainly wasn’t alright. “Is
there a priest of s’Allumer at this party? One with the power to heal?”
“I’m afraid that, uh…” the vixen said, clearly uncomfortable, “the good
bishop ran with the rest of the nobility.”
 “Then drag all the injured to me. My healing isn’t as strong, but it’s
something. It will keep them alive until they can get more help. The smaller
goblins have all been taken care of, yes?”
“Yes,” the wolf said. He turned and walked towards the opposite end of the
dining room, where tables were upturned and the floor was coated with greasy
foods, shattered ceramic, and silver utensils. Now that I had the time to relax, I
observed the two goblin corpses near the far wall, where they had been pinned
when I first attacked the Morrígna alongside the wolf. I glanced behind me to see
three injured nobles propping up a fourth who had a terrible talon gash down the
front of his chest to his stomach which had to be held shut.
Bile rose to my throat again. I winced and turned away before hacking up
another helping along with more blood. I was no stranger to injuries, but these
were all the direct result of my failure. The wolf’s Skull got what they wanted,
chaos and death that would be blamed on the druids. I was just happy I managed
to limit the casualties as much as I did.
Even so, looking around there were bodies slumped over tables or splayed
on the floor around scattered food and silverware. So many dead. I shut my eyes
and cradled my head in my arms.
I felt a hesitant paw on my shoulder, then a warm fuzzy cheek press against
mine. “You saved my life,” said the vixen.
Somehow, despite all the dead that surrounded us, even though I still didn’t
even know her name, those small words helped.
I couldn’t hold the exhaustion off much longer, as I felt the adrenaline
leeching steadily out of my body. My limbs were as heavy as bricks. So, I
expanded my mind to feel the area around me. It was confused, excited, and
warped by the intrusion of the goblins. It desired to continue the cycle of life, but
so many bodies were on stone where they would not join into soil and fuse with
the natural essences. I massaged these energies, telling them that they could help,
that these bodies would rest out in the soil where they would be retaken by the
earth and used to feed trees and flowers and plants. But that we didn’t belong
with them. There had been enough death here for today.
It agreed with me. The natural power channeled through my body when I
said, “leighis,” for the second time that day. Ceramic rumbled as it struggled to
reconnect to its whole. The air lightened, wiping the unnatural earthy scent of the
goblins away, replaced with a fresh springtime scent. My wounds stitched
together. I opened my eyes, the magic still funneling through my body to see the
injuries fading from the bodies of the combatants who had been shuffling towards
me. The long gash that they had to be held to keep the injured man’s guts in
fused on its own. Though he still stumbled and limped, his eyes shone with a new
hope for life when moments ago they had reflected fear and grim certainty of
death.
I slumped down onto the long wooden bench that ran along the side of one
dining table. I just wanted to sleep. But I knew I wasn’t safe. So many had seen
me work my druidism. They would say I was complicit in this attack, whether or
not they had seen my spells strike Críostóir or the goblins.
Oh Críostóir. Tears jumped to my eyes. Even as the blighting spell struck the
balcony, I hadn’t known whether I had the conviction to see it through. That I did
surprised even me.
“Ma’am, please, let me help.”
“She needs rest!” the vixen said.
“It’s not safe here. Others saw less of what she did, enough to fear her, but
they did not stay to watch her save their lives.” It was the wolf who spoke. My
eyelids were too heavy. Darkness never looked so good.
This time, it was one of the other fighters who spoke. He had a high,
chirping voice, but not quite avian. Perhaps a ferret or a mouse. Yes, there had
been a ferret among them, that must have been it. “My manor is nearby, at
Pinedown Hollow. She can recover there. Let’s find a carriage. If the blasted fat,
lazy wastes of space haven’t run off with my carriages in the chaos.”
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes still shut. I was going to be okay. I was safe.
Despite the damage Críostóir had wrought towards our cause, I felt lighter
knowing that I had at least turned these hearts.
 Faora Meridian is an enthusiastic gamer and with
numerous TPKs under his GMing belt.

Tails

If Mara didn’t know any better, she would have suspected the deputies
outside the magistrate’s office to have been asleep standing up. The jackal’s
muzzle twisted with a moment’s derision as she watched one helmed head turn
lazily toward her, but her expression neutralized before it betrayed her.
“Gentlemen,” she said, and nodded to them.
That turned the other deputy’s head toward her, and derision struggled to
fight to the surface again as Mara felt their eyes rake over her. “Well, now! Deputy
Mara herself come to grace us with her presence!” the further figure crowed with a
wheezy chuckle. “Slummin’ it with the common folk today, y’majesty? To what do
Sal and I owe this pleasure?”
She bit her tongue hard enough that Mara thought she might taste blood. She
let her eyes speak for her, and her glare struck the deputy with such force that he
immediately averted his gaze. Still she held that stare, even as footsteps fell behind her
and a firm, gauntleted paw came to rest on her shoulder. “Do we have a problem here?”
Both deputies stiffened slightly as they stood to attention. “N-no, sir,”
replied the further of the two deputies. The nearer simply stood stock still.
“Good.” The paw on Mara’s shoulder slid off as the figure at her back moved
around to stand beside her. A glance up showed the grizzled face of a large older
dog, focused but amused as he looked over the deputies. “You are both relieved.”
The deputies nodded and shared a quick glance before they turned back to
the dog and saluted. “Captain Lanzo,” the one called Sal said, before the two
deputies silently slipped past them. The other deputy’s elbow jutted out far
enough to swipe at Mara, but the jackal caught it in one paw and squeezed tight.
She only held it long enough to lock eyes with the deputy — some smug
gutter-cat by the look of the eyes behind his helm — before she let him go. Her
icy stare followed him as he hurried off just a little faster than before. “They just
let anyone into the Constabulary these days,” she muttered.
“We’re not all blessed with your bearing and diligence, deputy,” the dog
replied. He smiled as he took up the cat’s position by the magistrate’s door and
folded his arms. “They serve a purpose, as do we all.”
 “They serve the denarii they’re paid, not the city,” Mara countered as she
took up her position on the other side of the magistrate’s door. Her arms
remained at her side as she stood straight and rigid, and her eyes scoured the
halls. “It doesn’t take a Dunwasser graduate to swing a sword, but surely we can
do better than these… these thugs in uniform.”
A lion drifted past the door, head high and swathed in robes of a deep,
verdant green. Mara’s paw drifted to her sheathed sword as he lingered by the
door a moment, but she relaxed as he moved on. “Better here than thugs on
Triskellian’s streets, Mara,” Lanzo replied, and out of the corner of her gaze Mara
could see his eyes on her. “Here they earn an honest day’s pay. Learn the value
of loyalty. Better themselves. Surely that’s better than the alternative.”
Mara snorted, but she didn’t offer any further challenge. Opinions were fine,
but arguments with a captain were frowned on. Instead she turned her gaze this way and
that. The halls were more crowded than she would have liked. People bustled all down
the hall as they made their way toward appointments with this magistrate or that official,
on this or that bit of guild business, ushering this or that coin into grubby paws for favors.
It almost made her sick.
Her gaze froze on a weasel in the distance. He walked with an easy gait at first
glance, but a moment’s inspection revealed a slight hobble to his step. Mara frowned
but kept her head tilted away from him, the weasel only kept in the periphery of
her vision as he headed their way. Once more her paw drifted to her sword.
He didn’t seem to spare her or Lanzo anything more than a passing glance,
but Mara caught a glimpse of a burned patch of fur by the back of his neck as he
regarded her. The burn was hidden away from Mara’s sight as the weasel hitched
up his coat a little higher, and then he was past them. The jackal continued to eye
him even as Lanzo began to chuckle. “Jumpy today, deputy?”
Before Mara could reply, the door between them opened. A stocky rat in
passable finery waddled out into the hall, followed by a much taller panther with a
soft smile on his face. “Your concerns were well-justified, my friend,” the panther
said, though his eyes briefly flicked to Mara and Lanzo as he stepped into the hall.
“Speak with your people. Tell them that they must tread carefully in their
endeavors in the future. Such leniency will not be afforded to them again.”
“Oh, I will, noble magistrate,” the rat cooed back as he bowed deeply.
“Your fair paw is ever appreciated, and our guild will know of it. You are a true
friend to the people of this wondrous city, and it shall not be forgotten.”
Mara barely had time to roll her eyes before she heard it. Two quiet, familiar
clicks. Hammers cocked. She turned her head as fingers closed around her sword’s hilt-
 Blam! Blam!
There was no time to react as the deafening roar of gunshot erupted in the
hallway. Mara turned toward the sound as her muzzle twisted into a snarl, and her
sword swung free. The weasel, barely ten paces away, stood with his coat open. A pistol
with smoking barrel was clutched in each paw. On his face was a cold, satisfied smile.
For a moment Mara wondered what he had to be satisfied about. Then she
heard the cries at her back as the weasel holstered both pistols and swept his coat
closed again. A glance behind showed the rat and the panther. The merchant and
the magistrate. The former’s head was split open by the weasel’s shot; a fanned
splatter of red and gray painted the walls and floor behind what was left of the rat.
The latter gasped for breath, slumped against Lanzo. Crimson ran between the
dog’s fingers as his paw pressed tight to the magistrate’s chest.
Tight, but ineffective. The magistrate was soon to follow the rat into the
beyond, and as she turned forward again, she could see the weasel hurry toward
the door at the end of the hall. Fingers tightened on her weapon as Mara broke
into a sprint. “Mara, wait!” came the call from Lanzo behind her, but there wasn’t
time. The weasel would get away if she waited.
Ahead of her, another deputy stood in the weasel’s way. The figure drew a
sword identical to Mara’s, but the weasel feinted left before he slipped to the
deputy’s right. The swing of the sword went wide, and a flash of metal glinted in
the weasel’s hand as he swept past the deputy. A line of red stitched its way
across the deputy’s throat, and his sword clattered to the ground as he brought up
both paws to try and staunch the flow of blood.
He failed. His body fell limp as Mara darted past, the deputy’s blood left to
pool across the floor. Ahead of her, the weasel thrust both paws forward to shove
open the doors, and the jackal blinked as the bright sunlight outside streamed in. A
deer, startled and horrified by what had happened, drifted into Mara’s path. The
jackal barely had time to twist her sword away before she slammed into the deer. The
hapless female tumbled to the floor, but Mara righted herself and made for the door.
The jackal burst onto the streets of Triskellian with her sword at the ready,
but with no sign of the weasel. The commoners around her seemed confused and
surprised as they all looked this way and that. Mara cursed under her breath as
she scanned them desperately for some sign of the weasel.
Through the crowd Mara thought she saw the whip of the weasel’s coat. She
hesitated a moment; if she chose wrong, he’d escape. She cast her gaze around
one last time, not for the weasel himself but for the people all about. She scanned
their faces; tracked their confused glances. Several looked bewilderedly at her.
Others all over. Some wondered to each other what had happened.
But most seemed to look the direction she had expected. “Move!” she
shouted at the confused people as she leaped back into motion. They scrambled
to part before this angry jackal and her sword, and Mara even had to shove one
aside with her free paw as she charged after the weasel.
Once more she caught sight of the flap of the weasel’s coat as he darted
further along the street and through the throngs of the Triskellian citizenry. Mara
felt the Market Plaza itself part before her as she charged after her quarry, bodies
thrown left and right to avoid her mad dash after the assassin.
She paid them no mind. Mara’s vision tunneled even as her legs and lungs
burned for air. The sights and sounds and smells of the market faded from her
awareness as her ears pinned back. She caught sight of the weasel again as he
darted between a pair of startled rhinos. He glanced back at her, no longer smug
but… was that admiration on his face? Then one of the rhinos backed across
Mara’s line of sight, and she was left once more with the whip of the weasel’s coat.
Again, she cursed as she dashed after him. The rhinos slid aside as they saw
the jackal’s approach, and one of them cried out and tumbled over in his effort to
make way for Mara. The jackal leaped up and used the rhino’s shoulders as a
springboard, and she leaped high over the marketplace as she scanned for the weasel.
He was fast to be sure, but the crowds slowed him down more than they did
Mara. Even as he darted past one of the nearby bathhouses, Mara bit back
another curse and hit the ground running. Old Town. She had to pin him down
before he got there, or she’d lose him for sure.
As if to prove her point, the weasel juked left and around a blue-robed wolf
before he spun back and dove toward the right side of the road. The jackal hissed
in annoyance as she fell for the bait and crashed right into the wolf. The two
tumbled to the ground together, and Mara was forced to drop her sword before she
ran the poor bystander through. The weapon clattered across the cobblestones as
she and the wolf rolled away. They fell still at last, the wolf’s weight firmly atop her.
“Ugh, watch where you’re going, you…” began the wolf, before he opened
his eyes and froze. “I, uh… beg pardon, good watchman. I mean no-”
“None taken; now get off me.” Mara shoved up hard at the wolf and rolled
him off her quickly enough that he gave a yip of surprise. She frowned as she rose
to a crouch and glanced around, but there was no use. The weasel was well out of
sight; he’d probably scurried off down one of the innumerable back alleys nearby.
“Dammit,” she hissed. He could be anywhere.
 The sound of rushed footsteps drew her attention back the way they’d come,
and she came face to face once more with Lanzo. The dog’s gauntlet was still
covered in the magistrate’s blood, but it held a sword far longer and broader than
Mara’s own in a sure grip. “Deputy,” he said, his voice flat.
Mara fought back her frown but couldn’t help the pinning of her ears as she
stood to attention. “Captain. He got away. I…” A snarl rose in her throat, but she
squashed it down. “I have failed you.”
Lanzo continued to eye the jackal for a moment before he crouched down to
pick up her sword. Mara stiffened for a moment as he stepped forward, and she
only relaxed when he reversed the blade and handed the hilt back to her. “You
haven’t failed anyone,” he reassured her as a thin smile snaked its way across his
muzzle. “We’re right where we need to be.”
Confusion touched Mara’s face as she perked an ear. “I don’t understand.”
“Run along,” he said as his eyes shifted to the wolf Mara had bowled over.
She watched the wolf brush himself down and nod before he hurried back the
way he’d originally come. Both she and Lanzo kept watch of him for a few more
seconds before the captain spoke again, his voice much lower. “Come now,
deputy. You don’t just assassinate a magistrate,” he said at last. “You make it
tidy. Neat. Do you want a drink? I could use a drink.”
“I- what?” Mara blinked as the captain started toward one of the nearby
buildings. “Shouldn’t we go looking for this assassin? What if he strikes again?”
“I’m counting on it, deputy.” The dog paused a moment and waved Mara
forward as he began to smile again. “Where are we? Right now?”
She frowned even as she followed him. “Edge of a nest of vipers, I’d say,”
she muttered.
Lanzo chuckled at that. “Close enough,” he replied. “There’s a lot of nasty
people in this part of town. And somewhere in here is our assassin.”
Mara glanced up at the sign that hung from the building. “And you think
he’s hiding in this tavern?” It took supreme effort to keep the sarcasm out of her
voice, and even then, it was only a partial success.
“I think we will be in the tavern,” Lanzo said with a chuckle. “And I think he
will soon learn that.”
Finally, it made sense to her, and the jackal felt her blood run cold. “We’re
using ourselves as bait, aren’t we?”
The captain’s smile broadened. “The only two true witnesses. With us out of
the picture, who will pin the murder on him? It’s too tempting an opportunity to
pass up. He will come to us, and then we arrest him.” The smile still on his face,
Lanzo pushed open the door and held it there for her. “So, deputy? You never
answered. Would you like a drink?”
Mara hesitated, but he had a point. This could be their best chance to catch
the weasel who’d eluded her. Or it could be their best chance to have their own heads
blown open like that merchant’s had been. “Sure,” she muttered at last, but she paused
in the doorway and gave the captain a thin smile of her own. “But you are buying.”

Lanzo, she learned, was far chattier in a relaxed setting than on the job.
Which was not to say that Mara and her captain found themselves in a
relaxed setting, or off the job. She was all too happy to glower into a mug of what
she was sure had been ale at one point before much of the alcohol had been
replaced with water. Lanzo, by contrast, had been just as happy to down what
she’d been certain had to have been half his body weight’s worth of the stuff.
But it wasn’t until three hours into their little pub crawl that the questions
Lanzo directed her way turned to the personal. “Why do you do it?”
The jackal squeezed the half-full mug before her in both paws. “Fair coin,”
she replied. Surely, he meant their work.
But the shake of the dog’s head caught her by surprise. She glanced up as
he chuckled. “Not that, but I guessed that’s where your mind went. No. No, I
wonder why you endure the looks. The sharp tongues.”
For a long moment, Mara debated the prospect of silence. The interest that
sparkled in Lanzo’s eyes was fiercely focused however, and he was her captain
besides. Silence might not go over well. “Give me an alternative,” she settled on
as she turned her eyes to the tavern. Their quarry could be there, and they’d
never know if they were too busy… fraternizing.
“Snap back?” Lanzo offered. The smile remained on his muzzle, but he
seemed to follow his deputy’s lead as his eyes began to rake the tavern over
again. “I’ve seen you fight. One good crack across the muzzle with those fists and
a lot of the muttering might stop.”
“Followed by disciplinary action, if not outright dismissal.” Mara frowned as
she pulled her eyes from the portly skunk behind the bar to Lanzo. “All respect,
but what is this? What are you trying to say? Do? Is this a test? An evaluation?”
The dog sniffed as he eyed her mug. “You don’t really loosen up, do you?”
“Not when I have a job to do,” she countered. His eyes lifted to hers again,
and the jackal sighed. “Again. All respect. What do you want?”
 “Just to understand you.” Lanzo nodded toward the door. “You stand out.
We’re lucky to have you, but you’re an oddity.”
Mara’s eyes narrowed as she flattened her ears. This again. “You could just
say you don’t trust me.”
He shrugged as he turned to watch a trio of wolves rise from their table and
make for the door. That left them next to alone; everyone else seemed to have
filtered out over the last hour. “Then I’d be lying. I trust you with my life, Mara. I
just want to understand. People like you come to the Constabulary for a reason.
They push themselves hard. Get things done. No nonsense, just work. There’s a
pattern, so it begs the question. Who’d you lose?”
Claws raked across Mara’s mug. She fought the urge to meet the dog’s gaze,
and instead settled for an angry stare into her glass. “No.”
Lanzo blinked. “No?”
“No,” she said again as she forced herself to let go of her mug. She didn’t
want glass shards in her paw. “You don’t get to ask me that. You’re my captain,
not my friend. You don’t have the right.”
“No, I don’t,” he replied. The captain leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“But take heed, deputy. You’ll have to deal with that pain at some point. We all
do, or it consumes us.”
Mara felt her muzzle curl, but before she could open it to spit some retort or
other, she watched the expression on Lanzo’s face change. The dog’s ears perked
as his eyes focused up behind her, and the jackal began to turn in her chair.
She’d barely made it halfway through the turn when the captain’s arm swept
across the table and knocked her clear from her seat.
He tumbled with her away from the table as those familiar clicks sounded
behind Mara. Once more the twin blams of pistol fire sounded, and they echoed
through the tavern as shot gouged a hole in their table. Ears pinned back and
ringing, Mara rolled out of Lanzo’s grip and into a crouch.
It was the weasel for sure, but this time there wasn’t a hint of smug superiority.
Mara drew her sword as Lanzo rose behind her, and she pointed the weapon at the
weasel as he holstered his pistols. “You missed,” she growled. Lanzo had saved her life. If
he hadn’t spotted the assassin, the jackal would have wound up with a hole in her head.
“Just half,” the weasel replied, and he nodded behind her. Mara frowned as
she took a step to the side, her sword still raised. Wary, every muscle coiled and
ready to spring, she glanced back at Lanzo.
The dog was up, but his sword was still sheathed. Both of his paws were
clutched to his side as he stared down the weasel. He’d saved Mara’s life, but had
still been struck in the process. “By the authority of the Guild Council,” he said,
his voice surprisingly even despite the wound, “you are under arrest for the
murder of Magistrate Bruno Tarantola, Guildsman Alrigo Furlan… and the
attempted murder of Captain Lanzo of the Constabulary.”
“Disarm yourself at once and surrender,” Mara added as she turned her
gaze back on their prey. Damn it all. With Lanzo injured, it would be a fair fight.
She hated a fair fight.
The weasel, it seemed, preferred it. His muzzle twitched in a brief smile as he
dipped his paws back into his coat. When they emerged again, it was with a pair of
small hatchets in their grip. He twirled the weapons and settled into a combat stance.
She didn’t have to wait long for the weasel to press the attack. He stepped
forward and feinted to the side, but Mara had had plenty of time to think about
his motions earlier that day. This time when he twitched back the other way and
swung in with one of his hatchets, her blade was already raised to block. The
clang of blade on blade rang through the tavern.
Mara pushed the weasel back before he could bring his other hatchet around.
She danced aside as she thrust forward with her sword, and the tip of her blade nicked
the weasel’s coat. He scowled as he began to circle around the jackal. She smirked back
at him as she waggled her sword in warning. “Surrender is still an option,” she said.
His response was a hurl of the hatchet in his left paw. The axe whirled
through the air as Mara ducked for cover, but the attack wasn’t meant for her. A
cry went up behind the jackal and she whirled around to see the skunk at the bar.
The hatchet was buried in his chest and he gasped for breath as the mace he’d lifted
from behind the bar dropped from his paws. His body followed it to the ground.
The kill had distracted Mara for a second too long though, and the weasel
used that time to move in on her. By the time she swung her blade toward him,
he’d already ducked low. He lashed out with a kick to the that swept Mara’s legs
from under her, and she cried out as she fell. She saw stars for a moment as the
jackal hit the ground, and when they cleared the weasel was above her with hatchet
raised. “Still want me to surrender, love?” he asked as he began to smile again.
And as a flicker of motion caught the edge of Mara’s vision, she grinned
back at him. “It’s on the table.” He stared back at her in confusion for a moment.
Then confusion turned to pain. One of Lanzo’s paws closed with crushing
tightness around the weasel’s wrist, and the assassin yowled as the hatchet fell
from his grip. Mara rolled to the side as the weapon clattered to the tavern floor,
and she watched as the weasel swung around to try and kick back at the captain.
The much larger dog took the blow without so much of a flinch, and there was a
moment’s real fear on their would-be killer’s face.
Lanzo growled and heaved as he arched his back. The weasel came with
him, his whole body pulled through the air in an arc before he slammed back-first
down on the table he’d shot up earlier. Glass shattered on impact, and stale,
watered-down ale mixed with blood as the weasel groaned in pain.
Mara pushed herself up onto her foot-paws again and brushed herself down.
“And now, so are you,” she added as she scooped up the weasel’s hatchet.
“Captain? Are you well?”
“Well enough to see him marched to a cell,” the dog replied as he rolled the
weasel onto his front. Shards of glass stuck through the assassin’s coat, slick with
red. For his part, the weasel didn’t offer any more fight. He was probably still
winded. “Though I think I might need a moment before we drag him off.”
The jackal nodded even as she frowned at the weasel. His coat might have
been all cut up, but she could still see the singed fur near the back of his neck.
Suspicion wormed its way through her mind, and she sighed even as she dreaded
what she was about to ask. “Show me your tail.”
Both the captain and the weasel looked up at her, the former with confusion and
the latter with surprise. The weasel blinked for a second before he began to wag his tail.
Mara rolled her eyes and punched him clear across the muzzle. Fresh blood
splattered the ground by the table, and it drooled from the weasel’s lips as he glared
back up at her. “No,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Show me your tail.”
Understanding unfortunately dawned on the weasel’s face, and he slowly,
nonthreateningly, lifted his uncrushed paw to his neck. He drew his coat back
ever so slightly to expose just a little more of that burned fur. His fingers parted as
he went slack on the table as he showed Mara what she’d hoped not to see. There
just below the burn in his fur lay a brand. A coiled fox tail, styled as if dripping.
The black mark was seared into his flesh.
The jackal closed her eyes. Everything changed the moment she saw that
mark. “Damn it all,” she growled, and turned.
And then she buried the weasel’s hatchet in Captain Lanzo’s throat with all
her strength.
He hadn’t seen the blow coming, and shock was written all across his face as
he stumbled back. The dog made no attempt to pry the weapon free as Mara’s cold
stare remained fixed on him. His muzzle worked weakly as it tried to form words,
but the blood that bubbled up in his throat robbed him of the chance to speak.
Lanzo sank down to his knees as Mara watched, sadness and pain etched across
his features. Why, his muzzle seemed to mouth at her. She gave him no answer.
Mara waited until he slumped forward and fell still before she turned to the
weasel and hauled him back over onto his back. “A brand?” she snarled, her
voice low and laced with raw fury. “The Bloodtail’s branding you lot now? Does
he have any sense of subtlety? At all?”
“Only the best of us, love,” the weasel replied, his voice a little hoarse as he spat
blood across the table. “Your turn. I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
Ears flat and hackles bristled, Mara turned to the side to expose her sword’s
scabbard. A paw tugged it up and, hidden by the sheath until then, exposed the
mark embroidered there. A coiled fox tail, etched in silver. “Satisfied?”
“You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” the assassin wheezed. He groaned as
he began to sit up, his injured wrist cradled against his chest. “And since when’s
the Silvertail got people in the watch, eh? He’s a cheeky one.”
The jackal’s eyes roamed the tavern again. This weasel! If anyone heard
them- “You’re far too chatty for a damned assassin,” she snapped back at him.
“Mind your tongue.”
“Yeah, yeah. You think I didn’t pick the right time? Ain’t no one here but
us, love.” He relaxed back against the table. “So, what happens now we’ve
wagged our tails? Clap me in irons? Drag me out of here?”
Mara grit her teeth as she looked down over the smug weasel. “No,” she muttered.
That was the worst possible plan. Too much had happened. She glanced at Lanzo’s
body and the pool of blood under it. “A Bloodtail assassin in irons? If the Silvertail didn’t
deal with you, the Bonetail would. No, you can’t leave here in chains. And you won’t.”
The weasel began to smile, though she caught his shiver at the mention of
the Bonetail. At least he had sense enough in his skull to fear her. “The
Triumvirate must be protected?”
It turned her stomach, but Mara nodded as she felt her body tense. “The
Triumvirate must be protected,” she agreed.
“Ain’t that just the sweetest thing to hear,” he replied with a chuckle. “Might
pop by New Town tonight, eh? Spend some of the coin this job’ll earn me. Maybe you
should join me!” His chuckle turned into a quiet laugh. “Oh, but I bet you clean up
nice, don’t you? Slip out of that uniform, into something with a bit more slink, and-”
The stroke came from above as the weasel reclined on the table. It only took
the one for Mara’s sword to cleave through the assassin’s bared throat. His head
dropped right off and thudded to the floor, and his body jerked as if surprised by the
removal. “I think not,” she growled at his lifeless, headless form. A glance across the
table saw her eyes settle on the shards of broken glass scattered about, and she gave
a mirthless smile as she gripped the weasel by the coat and lifted his neck slightly.
Her other paw swept up a fistful of glass and deposited it near the edge of the table.
Then she slammed him down again and again. Flesh tore open with each
slam as the glass bit deep down into what was left of the weasel. Her face was
emotionless as she pushed the assassin’s body down one more time and ground
the glass right into the back of what was left of his neck. At last she wrenched him
back and lifted him up to inspect her work.
The brand was still there, of course, but any trace of what it had been was
marred by blood and dozens of ragged cuts. Satisfied, Mara gave her handiwork a
nod and shoved the weasel’s body clear from the table. The Triumvirate was protected.
But not without cost. She turned slowly back to the remains of her captain
and bit back a sigh. “Damn it all,” she whispered again.
Mara crouched beside him and placed a gentle paw on the back of his head,
and there she waited.

It didn’t take much longer for word to spread of what had happened in the
tavern. When a couple minutes later a pair of deputies had barged in, they’d been
greeted with a grisly sight. The captain, the assassin and the barkeep all dead.
Mara alive, knelt over Lanzo. She’d seemed in shock, unable to speak. Unwilling to
move. It had taken them a few minutes more to coax her up and escort her outside.
The questions had come thick and fast, and Mara had answered as few of
them as possible. It wasn’t until she was marched back to the barracks — mercifully
not in irons herself — that she had begun to snap out of her stupor. Or at least that
was how the other members of the Constabulary had seemed to view her, at least.
It had been all too easy to play the role of the stunned, wounded victim. It had
been more recollection than act for Mara, and as she found herself sat down in a quiet,
private room with some other captain, she finally explained the events of the day to him.
She’d taken great pains to keep her details simple. Truth where there could
be any witnesses. Truth where there had been none. Lies only where they
protected her secret, and always sprinkled with enough truth to make an
interrogator second-guess their doubts. A scribe took down every detail. Her
testimony was flawless. A young cleric came by to tend her wounds. The mouse
was waved off, though it took a snarl before she scurried away.
 There she was left for a while longer. The sun set. The aroma of varied
meals wafted through from the commissary. Twice she was offered food. Twice
Mara simply stared vacantly at the wall. Shock and grief. That was her part, and
she played it to perfection. It wasn’t difficult. Not all of it was fake.
Finally, the door to the room opened to reveal a fox. Russet fur clashed
horribly with the emerald green of his outfit, but he closed the door behind him
and marched right over to sit opposite the jackal. Mara didn’t avert her gaze even
as he shifted right into the middle of it. She stared through him. Past him.
“You are to be commended, Deputy Mara,” he said. His voice was smooth
as glass as he clasped his paws on the table between them. “This assassin slew
your captain, not to mention my fellow magistrate. Innocent bystanders. You put
an end to him very efficiently.”
“It was an execution,” she whispered back, as memories of that final stroke
flowed unbidden behind her eyes. “My captain is dead… because of him. A good
man is dead because of him. He needed to die. He had to die.”
The fox squirmed in his chair. “Yes, quite. I, uh… I am Magistrate Arturo. I
read your testimony. Very thorough. You are not being blamed for what
happened to Captain Lanzo, deputy. In fact, we are very pleased with your
performance given the circumstances.”
Mara said nothing. There was nothing to say.
It seemed that the fox wasn’t satisfied with that though, and she caught his
frown as he leaned ever so slightly forward. “I need to ask you a question, deputy,
though I know that this must be a very trying time for you. I would appreciate it
very much if you could answer honestly. Would that be alright?”
Again, the jackal remained silent. A dozen retorts flicked through her mind,
but all of them died in her throat. Instead she focused her eyes at last on the fox
before her. Held his gaze. Stared.
The fox coughed, clearly unsettled as he sat back in his chair. Arturo
glanced away for a moment as he composed himself. “Deputy, there has been… a
fair volume of chatter regarding your presence within the Constabulary. Not all of
it is particularly friendly.”
“Lanzo always spoke fairly with me,” she said as she let her eyes drift again.
Truth. “I don’t care what the others say.” Also truth.
“And as I said, no one is blaming you for what happened to the good
captain,” the magistrate reassured her with a raised paw. “But given there are a
lot of people who seem… let us say uneasy about you, to put it mildly… have you
any loyalties beyond this organization?”
 Mara allowed genuine anger to seep into her glare as it sharpened once
more on the fox. “I have nothing else,” she coldly replied. “No one else. My
loyalty is absolute.” Partial truth. Her loyalty was certainly absolute.
Arturo nodded back, unnerved again by the intensity of her stare. “Then I
don’t think we have anything further to discuss this evening,” he said, and stood up
from the table. “You should take some rest, deputy. And, ah…” The magistrate paused
and glanced down. “The captain’s family has been notified. Funerary services are being
planned even as we speak. They had hoped that they could count on your attendance.”
Brow furrowed, Mara closed her eyes and hung her head low. “I don’t know
if I could do that.” Truth, unfortunately.
“No one would force you, deputy,” the magistrate reassured her. “I just
know that his wife would like to speak with you. She has questions about his final
moments that… well, only you would be qualified to answer.”
“Like what?” she asked, and the bitterness in her tone was completely unplanned.
“How he died gasping for breath but only caught a blade? How brave and noble
he’d been before… before some cowardly killer cut him down?” Her eyes lifted with
a flash of anger. “Does she want to know how long it took him to die? Should I offer
the merciful lie? Or should I tell her how he looked as he drowned in his own blood?”
Arturo sighed. “Of course not, deputy,” he said with a shake of his head.
“You misunderstand-”
“No, you misunderstand,” she snapped back at him as she turned away
once more. “She doesn’t need to hear what happened. It would hurt. It will not
bring him back and it will not bring her closure. If anything good came of today, it
came for whoever wanted that merchant and that magistrate dead. They won.
Everyone else lost.” Her eyes narrowed. “I will take rest. And then you will tell me
who is working to discover the name of the one who brought this on my captain.”
The fox perked an ear and folded his arms. “And you want to go after them
yourself?”
“I do.” She turned to glare at Arturo. “I will hunt them to the far corners of
Calabria if I must. And you will make this happen, because it is owed to Lanzo. Isn’t it?”
For as nervous as he had seemed earlier, Mara’s conviction seemed to have
steeled him as well. “I can think of nothing more fitting,” he replied after a
moment. “Take your time for now. Heal up. Rest. Pay your respects. Then, when
you are ready, yes. I will make it happen.”
Jaw set, Mara gave the fox a nod. “Thank you, magistrate.”
 Arturo nodded back to her and bowed his head low. “You may leave when
you wish to, deputy.” With that he turned and left the room. The door closed
quietly behind him, and Mara was alone.
She did not smile. Smiles were for joyous times. The jackal simply continued
to stare ahead. The days to come would have few smiles to go around. There was
little solace to be found in the wake of what had happened that day.
Little, save for one particular piece. Her loyalty remained resolute. She
remained resolute. Lanzo had been a good person. A fine captain who cared for
his city, just as she did. Mara’s teeth ground together so hard she thought she
might taste blood. He’d been too good for what she’d visited upon him.
But sacrifices had to be made. Now, she was well-positioned. Now, her
loyalty to the Constabulary was beyond reproach. No more sideways looks. No
more snide remarks. And perhaps most importantly of all, a chance to see how
close they were to the truth. The Triumvirate had to be protected, and if the loss
of a good captain ensured that… so be it.
Triskellian was too good to deserve the weakness and strife that plagued it.
Calabria was too good to deserve the weakness and strife that plagued it. Mara
stood to leave, and her claws gouged new marks in the table as she did so. Lanzo
had died in service to the city, and Mara would see that city made strong and
proud once more. His sacrifice would not be in vain. With it, she would protect
the Triumvirate. The Triumvirate would protect her.
And once it was in their grasp, the Triumvirate would protect all of Triskellian.
 Jessica Paddock likes to explore mythology, to eat way too
many jellybeans, and to search for monsters in the shadows of
Washington forests. She has been published in The Rabbit
Dies First, SPECIES: Otters, and Beneath the Ceaseless Sky.

The Lucky Doe

Carelessness killed Percy’s daughter.

She remembered the cabin they’d shared as if she had just stepped outside.
The image was clear: the carved wooden door she had made with her own hands,
the ragged dolls her daughter crafted with serious eyes, the three mugs tucked into
the kitchen cabinet — one for Percy, one for Juniper, and one for the old skunk
who took care of her daughter when she was away on a job. In her mind, Juniper
was always there, eyes big and brown and sparking with mischief, fur still softened
by fawn spots. Percy had always kept that image in her mind when she was away,
determined not to forget what waited for her as she hunted down criminals and
followed the tracks of monsters. It was a talisman she was lucky to have.
Now, late at night, the image would not let her sleep.
Carelessness. Maybe a bit of greed, too. In wanting both the end to a long
hunt and the feeling of her daughter’s small hands around hers, she had been lax.
Not giving chase to her target’s accomplice, not taking time to disguise her track
home, not being quick enough.
The result: her house in flames, heat warping the air around it. Her daughter
buried, the burnt husk of their cabin throwing dark shadows over her grave.
All because of a job unfinished. All because of her.
“A tragedy,” people had told her, but the sympathy in their eyes burned as
harshly as the smoke still weighing down her lungs, so she picked up her bow and
left. Job to job, she kept moving, the echo of flames chasing her down like a
steady hunter never more than a few steps behind.
And then, years later, Triskellian, where the head of a dying offshoot of the
Rinaldi line lay dying, not far from cutting off his entire thread of fox pseudo-
nobility forever. Where his panther steward handed her instructions and a letter
for the mayor of a little town not too far away. Where they waited for her now,
impatient for her to return with an heir.
For her meeting with the mayor on the day of her arrival, she made sure to
come with her crown of antlers sharpened and polished. She knew in her line of work
that good first impressions unsealed tight lips, especially for a deer in a town of mostly
predators, though it hardly seemed to matter — backing of nobility opened many doors.
He took her to the schoolhouse, where a few dozen children of varying ages
and species listened to a wolf talk about the history of Triskellian. Three red foxes
sat among them. One of them, Percy knew, had the blood of the greys inside. She
just had to find out which one.
According to the steward, the nobleman Étienne had snuck off to this town
years ago to escape some kind of scandal and, apparently not content with just
one scandal, had a tryst with one of the local vixens. With the fox’s memory now
deteriorating as fast as his body, he had little to tell her, and the most she had to
go on was the steward confirming that Étienne had said years ago that he was
certain the woman’s belly had grown by the time he left. No name, no description.
Not even an exact date. A red fox heir was not preferred, but it was better than
nothing, and it could give the house what little leverage they needed to get back
into the public consciousness and stop themselves from dying out.
It was not the most invigorating job Percy had ever taken, but it paid well.
She would have to finish quickly and get back to hunting down bandits and
slaying monsters — even now she felt restless, a bloodstained hunter vastly out of
place in a quiet little schoolhouse. The children looked so fragile and lively and
pure, and, for a moment, she found her eyes tracking mindlessly across them,
searching for the soft spotted brown of a fawn.
She jerked herself to the present, turning abruptly from the schoolhouse.
“Tell me about the foxes,” she muttered.
The cover story was that she was working with a theater in Triskellian who
needed a fox kit for a play, no acting experience required, and they wished to
reach out to the surrounding towns to promote a sort of unity within the area.
Percy thought the excuse was rather thin, but apparently is was enough.
“Cynthia’s parents are farmers,” the mayor told her, smoothing down his fur
nervously. “Tomlin is the son of a seamstress — he’s a bit sensitive, so be careful
what you say around him. Erinn is an orphan, but she lives with the priest who
runs the s’Allumer church. Good Percy, are you quite sure this is all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” she said with a well-polished smile, trying to ignore how she
struggled to produce it.
The schoolteacher, an amateur aficionado of theater, was more than happy
to let her have lunch with the fox kits. They settled on the grass in the schoolyard.
“Your lunch is silly,” the farmers’ kit declared, wrinkling her nose at Percy’s
dried beet jerky.
 “I travel a lot, so I need foods that last for a while.” She shrugged. Talking
to adults was not always easy, but the boldness of children was refreshing. When
they weren’t spooked by her, they tended to talk about things adults did not.
The little orphan kit was more open. “Does it taste good?”
“Would you like to try?”
He put a sliver into his mouth and immediately wrinkled his snout. “Yuck!”
The two laughed. But not Tomlin, the seamstress’s son, who just looked at
her with solemn eyes, as if the mere thought of a joke was preposterous. Percy
turned her attention to him, and after a long moment of silence between them,
her patience was rewarded when he asked, “Why do you have antlers?”
The others quieted and looked at him, obviously surprised to hear him
speak. Then they turned to Percy.
“Tomlin!” the schoolteacher scolded, obviously listening in. “Don’t be a pest!”
Tomlin scowled at his lunch, shoulders hunched.
Percy raised her hand to the schoolteacher. “No, it’s okay. He has every
right to ask if he doesn’t know.” She turned back to him. “Sometimes, Tomlin,
lionesses have manes. Sometimes does have antlers. That’s just how people are.”
Tomlin nodded slowly, as if she had just imparted wisdom from some
ancient text, and the others fell back into excited conversation.
Percy was not sure she had furthered her search by the time lunch was over,
but she could not deny that she felt lighter. Talking to kids was like a glimpse into
another world. A world she had forgotten.
A world she could never touch again.
That thought brought her back to reality. She had not come here to make
friends with a bunch of kits. She had a job to do.
The farmers lived far enough away to get her out of town proper for a while,
so she got directions from the mayor and trekked out, leaving the forest behind
for sweeping fields of crops.
“You’re Percy the Lucky!” the mother said when Percy arrived, pausing her
preparations for lunch. “Oh, I simply adore hearing about adventurers. Please, come in.”
Percy tried not to flinch at the name. The father gave her a seat a bit too close to
the fire for her liking, then they sat as well, eager for some excitement in an otherwise
normal day, and all the while words echoed painfully in Percy’s head: the Lucky.
A lot of deer were considered lucky due to their graceful hooves and sharp
attention to the world around them, which gave the impression that they were
always in the right place at the right time. These relatively normal traits morphed into
legend after countless generations, and for a while Percy had embraced that perception.
She took difficult shots with her bow and trusted the wind to bring her the sounds of
her prey. She let people witness her feats and whisper about a special helping of luck on
the night of her birth. But she didn’t feel lucky anymore. And the fire was much too hot.
She wondered if one could use up all their luck. Maybe everyone had a certain
amount at birth, and she had arrogantly used hers up until there was nothing left.
“I’m afraid I’m here on business,” she said brusquely, trying to push those
thoughts away, and asked them about their daughter.
An easy elimination. Cynthia was too young to be the heir.
While they talked, the fire crackled hot and bright, licking at the black pot
hung over it like hunters nipping at the heels of their prey. Percy could feel it
burning her fur, pouring smoke into her lungs, smothering her with a heavy weight.
“Good Percy?”
She jerked back to the present, sucking in air that still seemed to burn.
The mother said, “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
A lovely fox family with a simple little meal, sitting around a cozy little table
in their cozy little kitchen. A couple and their kit. Another world.
She stood abruptly, finding that she could not breathe. “No, thank you,” she
said, and did everything in her power not to run as she left.
The Lucky, the Lucky, the Lucky.
The words echoed around her like the call of a beast, their claws sinking so deep
into her skin that she thought they might draw blood. She found herself practically
sprinting back to town. But the lightness she usually felt at a run, the freedom of thinking
of nothing but the tense and spring of her own muscles, was nowhere to be found.

She awoke sweaty in her little inn room, guilt choking her like the smoke her
lungs could never escape. Dreams of fire still whispered in the back of her head.
Pathetic. She could not fall into despair now. Not when she had a job to do. Not
when jobs were the only things she had left.
She spent the morning practicing with her bow and working her muscles,
needing to reorient herself in the present. By the time she made her way to the
seamstress’s house, she was sore but calm, and she easily followed a neighbor’s
instructions to the little stream nearby, where the fox seemed to be finishing
laundry. Tomlin’s mother was so focused on her task that she did not seem to notice
Percy’s approach, so the deer purposefully let her hoof fall on a brittle branch.
 “Oh!” The seamstress spun around as if she had been shot at, feet slipping on the
rocks. Percy jolted forward and grabbed her before she could tumble into the stream.
“Are you alright?” Percy asked, alarmed.
“Oh, my!” the fox said as leaned into Percy’s steading grasp. “I just about
had a heart attack. Still feel one coming on, actually. I’m sorry —”
“No, it’s my fault. Do you need to sit down?”
“Oh, oh yes. I think my home would be best — could you grab the laundry?”
Percy helped the fox to her house. In her line of work, knowing how to
handle people with frayed nerves was vital, and so she easily started some tea and
let the fox ramble about how she had not been expecting anyone, how it was such
a shock, how it was fine, really, she would be better in just a moment.
“It’s Madelin, yes?” Percy asked when she started to quiet down.
“Oh! Yes, that’s me. But please call me Maddie.”
“Persephone. Percy.”
“Percy the Lucky! I thought it might be you.”
She held back a sigh. “That’s me.”
“I’m lucky too, you know.” Madelin gave her a strangely brittle smile. “A twin.”
Before Percy could even begin to think of a reply, the front door creaked open.
“Tomlin!” Madelin shot to her feet. “Why aren’t you at school?”
He shrugged. “I left.”
His nonchalance made Percy cough to hide her smile.
“Oh, Tomlin — you promised you’d try harder. I know you don’t like
school, but —”
Percy took this as a chance to leave. She stepped towards the door, but instead
of moving aside, the little fox kit simply looked at her with his big, serious eyes.
“You’ve got a bow,” he said.
She reached back to touch it, realizing she had not put it down when she
entered their home. “I do a lot of hunting.”
“People?”
“Tomlin!” his mother snapped.
“Sometimes.”
He nodded and stepped aside, eyes drilling into her until the door shut behind her.
She took to the woods, needing to put her thoughts in order. She had not
gotten any real information from Madelin, but the last thing she wanted was to be
in the house during such a private moment. She would return later. Not that she was
complaining — Madelin seemed friendly enough, if a bit easily-spooked. And Tomlin…
 Well, he had soft feet for a kit, she’d give him that. She ducked into a thick
grove, climbed up a tree, and waited. Tomlin appeared a moment later, his eyes
scanning the trees. Only when she landed behind him and scooped him up did his
stoicism shatter with a shriek.
“Not bad,” she told him, holding him out in front of her. “But a hunter
knows when she is being hunted.”
Most of the time.
He pouted. It was so different from his usual expression that she could not
help but smile. “Does your mother know you’re here?” When he did not answer,
she sighed. “She’s been nice to me. I don’t want to —”
“I wanna see you shoot.”
She hesitated. Tomlin stared at her with his stoic eyes, but there was a spark
of excitement in them, his ears perked towards her. She should not make an
enemy of Madelin. The seamstress was one of the only people who could give her
the information she needed. But the way he looked at her, his eyes so big on his
little face, brought something strange rising in her heart, and before she knew it,
she was setting him down and pulling out her bow.
“Just a few.”
By the time Madelin found them, arrows dotted the surrounding tree trunks
like markers set to lay out a path in a blizzard. Tomlin sat beside Percy on a low
branch as she pulled back another arrow and fired, adding to a cluster that had
been forming on a trunk many paces away. Tomlin let out a tiny yip of excitement.
Madelin cleared her throat.
“Uh oh,” Tomlin whispered as Percy hurriedly scooped him up and jumped
down next to Madelin. This time, she did not even flinch, frowning at them with
crossed arms and flattened ears.
“M-Madelin, I —”
She held up a hand. “Tomlin. Home. Now.”
He trudged off. Percy watched him go for as long as she could before taking
in a deep breath and turning to Madelin, spine as straight as if she were facing a
judge. “Madelin, please believe me when I say I didn’t mean to —”
“I really should be furious with you. Wandering into town, startling the
breath out of me, encouraging my son to run off and play in the woods while I
think he’s been snatched up and taken away.”
Percy’s heart pulsed in her throat. She would rather be facing a bandit than
an enraged mother.
 Madelin sighed, and in that moment, she deflated, sternness fading like
water being wrung from a cloth. “But I haven’t seen him like that in a while.”
Percy opened her mouth, but all it had been prepared for was apologies.
“He’s been having such a hard time these past few years, and he hasn’t
always had the easiest time with other people. Especially adults. We have each
other, but I don’t want him to only feel comfortable around me. That’s not good
for a kit. Then this! It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen him take such an
interest in someone. Even chasing after you! It’s hard not to see it as a good sign.”
Percy finally found her voice. When she spoke, she was surprised by what
came out. “Should you really be encouraging this?”
Madelin fluttered her eyelids innocently. “It’s not childhood without a bit of
mischief, right?”
“Mama!” came Tomlin’s impatient call.
“Coming!” Madelin looked towards his voice with such love that Percy felt a
heavy fist clamp her throat shut.
She turned to leave, but Madelin grabbed her hand. She tensed.
“Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight, Percy? I’m sure Tomlin would
love to see you.”
Her hands were warm. Percy pulled herself free, mumbled, “I’m sorry,” and
hurried away as fast as her hooves could take her.

Halfway through her interview with the town’s priest about his ward Erinn,
Percy realized that her mind had drifted towards bow tricks she could show
Tomlin. She snapped herself to the present. She had to focus. The last time she
had been lax, someone else had paid the price. There was no time to think fondly
of a child she might have to take from this place.
This was a job. Nothing more.
Her interview ended inconclusive — Erinn’s mother had been a bit of a
hermit, so no one was sure of the kit’s father — but when she returned to the inn,
there was a letter waiting for her. The steward informed her that Étienne’s health
had taken a turn for the worse and that the steward himself would be arriving in a
few days to retrieve the kit. She had a deadline.
“Keep your ears perked,” the letter read. “People will surely lie to keep you
out. This should be no different than hunting a bandit.”
 Was there any way for her to learn about Erinn’s parents? Were the farmers
lying about their daughter’s age? Had Percy accomplished anything at all?
Feeling muddled by her own thoughts, she took the rest of the day to carefully
compose a letter back, detailing her meager findings and trying not to let her uncertainty
seep into her words. She remembered writing to Juniper. She remembered showing
her daughter how to form the letters, easing her small hand into the right shapes.
She remembered coming home to a scrawled pantomime of the letters she sent, Juniper
looking as proud as if she had written a play to be performed in the highest theaters.
Her eyes blurred, and she decided she was done with writing.
The next day, she went back to the schoolhouse. She watched the children
learn. Watched their restless tails, the way their ears occasionally swiveled back to
her or the windows, the way they leaned over to whisper to each other when they
thought the teacher wasn’t listening. She tried to push aside the weight in her
chest. Tried to ignore the guilt burning her heart to pieces.
Something tugged at her hand, and Percy realized it was lunch time. Tomlin
looked up at her with his solemn eyes.
“You shouldn’t be around me,” she told him faintly. Something burned in
her throat.
He shrugged and tugged her to the corner of the schoolyard. She had not
brought lunch, so Tomlin handed her part of his bread.
“Mama says lunch is important,” he told her. “She says when your head’s
all full, you gotta get a full stomach too.”
“Your mother is very smart.”
He nodded solemnly. “The smartest.”
She looked over the schoolyard. The children played and ate and laughed.
“Tomlin,” she said, feeling like the words were a cart careening down a hill,
momentum built up until it was as unstoppable as the sun across the sky. “A long
time ago, a rich fox came to this village. He met another fox and had a kit. An
heir. Do you know who that kit is?”
He just stared at her. For a moment, she wondered if he understood at all.
Then she recognized the look — it was like a butcher examining an animal and
wondering whether or not to buy it. A considering look.
Finally, he said, “Yes.”
Her heart dropped. “Where?”
“I’ll show you. After school.” He got to his feet as if they had simply been
discussing what to have for dinner and went back to the schoolhouse.
 The heir would be well cared for. She told herself that again and again.
Dying though it was, the family had more money than anyone here in town. The
kit would not go hungry. They would be cured of sickness if possible. They would
be well protected by those whose jobs depended on the continuation of the line.
They would be fine. She would be fine.
And yet, as Tomlin led her into the woods a few painfully long hours later,
she felt sick. She followed quietly, her hand in his, heart so loud she was sure
every creature from here to Triskellian could hear it.
“You’re sure?” she whispered.
His only answer was to dig his claws into her palm. Percy had always felt at home
in the forest, her quick hooves taking to branches and dirt as easily as a raven took to
the air, but now it felt alien. She was not a hunter, and she was not being hunted. It
was just a place. A set piece. A thing from dreams, branches twisted and air pungent
with fresh greenery. The trees did not provide cover or clues — they just watched.
Finally, Tomlin stopped. He pointed at a carved stone set into the middle of
a clearing.
“There,” he said. “My brother.”
A grave.
She knelt in the soft dirt, a distant roar in her ears. She had come all this
way, searched the whole town over, and the heir was dead. She had failed. It was
just a job, but for some reason she couldn’t breathe. Jobs were all she had, the
only thing that kept her hooves stepping each new step. It was ridiculous to kneel
before the grave of a stranger and feel like the world was collapsing beneath her,
but here she was, unable to do something as simple as pull herself together.
“I’m lucky, too,” Madelin had said.
The trees were wrong, and the season was wrong, but here she was again, a failed
wretch of a doe kneeling before a child’s grave. Percy wondered how deep she would
have to dig to reach the child beneath her, or if there was nothing there at all, all threads
of life sunk back into the earth. She wondered, not for the first time, if Juniper was lonely.
A hand appeared before her, slender and red with neatly trimmed claws.
“Come,” Madelin said gently.
Her hands were so warm they burned. Percy focused on that warmth. She
could not remember the last time someone had held her hand, not before coming
to this town. She was an adventurer, a ruffian — looked up to as a slayer of
beasts and hunter of bandits, but not someone with hands meant for holding.
They were scarred by failure and heavy with blood. But Madelin and Tomlin
touched her palms as if she was a simple farmer. As if she was worthy of kindness.
 She realized they had reached Madelin’s home when she was sat in the
kitchen, as if the points between the grave and here had been cut out.
“I’m sorry my son dragged you out there.”
Percy shook her head, lungs too full of smoke to answer.
“They were close, you know,” Madelin said. Tomlin crawled onto her lap
and tucked his head under her jaw. “Little Tomlin and little Roslin. I…” She
swallowed. One tear rolled down her cheek and landed on Tomlin’s shoulder.
“Oh, Percy. I couldn’t save him.”
Someone hiccupped. She realized, after a moment, that it was her. She realized
the fur on her cheeks was wet. She realized her throat hurt and her shoulders ached,
and her fingers were pressing so hard into her arms that she was sure they would
leave dents. The smoldering in her lungs was catching fire and burning her to ash, the
flames eating her just as they had eaten her daughter. It was as if they were finishing
the job that they had started years ago, when she should have been swallowed
up. She should have plunged into that flaming house and let the fire take her.
A hand covered hers and squeezed, claws wedging between her palm and her
arm until she let go and allowed the hand to take hers. Madelin had moved closer,
eyes overflowing with tears. Neither of them said anyway. Madelin gripped her hand
so hard it hurt, and she grounded herself on that, forcing herself to suck in a deep
breath. Madelin’s eyes were full of something she could not understand, something
that caught hold of Percy as fiercely as her own grief, a warmth originating not from
joy, but a sadness so deep that it was more like the heat of the sun than a lurching tide.
Madelin’s other hand grabbed the back of her shirt and pulled her close, and
Percy found her own hand pressing into Tomlin’s shoulder, feeling the line of his
muzzle against her shirt. She closed her eyes.
For the first time in many years, Percy let herself be held.

Maybe this was for the best.

With no heir, the steward had no one to take away. No child to steal. The
thought of her failure made her nauseous, but as Tomlin laid his head on her lap
and looked up at him with his solemn eyes, she could not help thinking that
maybe she could leave this place unstained.
“Étienne was handsome,” Madelin said. They sat in front of her fire — a bit
too close for Percy’s tastes — with Tomlin sprawled out on their laps. Madelin’s
voice was still heavy with freshly-fallen tears. “Smooth, too. Had that noble grace. A
city fox with a silver tongue — as dangerous as any warrior, my mother always said.”
Percy tried to imagine the noble as smooth and suave, but all she could see
was him dying in bed.
“After he left me as a single mother, I didn’t dare call to Triskellian for support.
I was afraid they would come looking for an heir. That thought terrified me for years,
actually. My greatest fear. I didn’t want to be alone again — anything but that.”
Once again, Percy found herself struggling to breathe. She wanted to tell
Madelin her secret, but she couldn’t bear to push her away. Not right now. Not
yet. Not when her head felt so full that she could not even trust herself to open
her mouth lest all her sins spill out.
“I tried not to let it affect how I raised my boys, but children are smart. They
notice these things. That’s why I was so glad you showed up. Tomlin always loved
adventure stories and meeting an adventurer who took him seriously — well, I
can’t thank you enough.”
“You shouldn’t,” Percy managed to say.
Madelin just smiled. “You adventurers are always like that. Carrying so
much inside. It’s easy to tell just from the stories, if you listen close enough.” She
ran her fingers through the fur on Tomlin’s tail, watching it twitch.
Percy forced herself to take a deep breath, letting it out through her nose.
Despite the guilt that still clenched her throat, she felt strangely light. It was as if
the tears had been weights in her chest. She tried to remember the last time she
had cried. Once, right after Juniper died — that had lasted for a week. Then she
had let no more fall. She had felt like the tears were her burden to bear. Penitence.
“I’m still nervous, I guess,” Madelin said. “I lived so long worrying that
someone would take them.”
All the whispers of relief drained from her chest. “Them?”
No.
“Well, yes. Roslin was older, but —”
No. No.
“Only a little,” Tomlin insisted, and Percy wanted to clamp her hands
around his muzzle before he could break her heart again. “Only a few minutes.”
“I’m lucky, too. A twin.”
“Percy?”
They were both looking at her, Madelin’s ears swiveled towards her with concern.
Percy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had found the heir. She had a
confession from his mother. So why did it feel like she had failed even worse than before?
 She got to her feet. It seems she could not stop making mistakes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and before Madelin could even stand, she was gone.

When the steward arrived, he brought the clouds with him. They lurked
silently above, as if ready to crack open at his call and wash the little town away.
Percy met him in front of the mayor’s building. She tried to focus, but her head
kept echoing with that terrible chant: the Lucky, the Lucky, the Lucky.
“Well?” he snapped. Despite the obviously hurried travel, his red coat was
neatly pressed, and his black fur had been groomed. The only harried part of the
panther was his bloodshot, somewhat frantic eyes.
Percy’s mouth felt dry. She had rehearsed what she would say over and
over again, but each time her words came out different, and now that she stood
before her judge, she was still not sure what to say.
“The heir, Persephone. Surely you haven’t wasted my time sitting around?
How hard could it be to find a single fox kit? My palfrey and guard are waiting.
And so, I must remind you, is that empty house! Where is the heir?”
A job. She had a job. One word and she would be done, never having to
step foot in this town again, never having to deal with a grieving vixen. She had
not failed a job since she had failed her daughter.
The steward’s fur bristled, his ears going flat. He bared his sharp, bone-white
teeth, and for just a moment, even though she had spent years with a bow on her
back and a dagger in hand, Percy felt the ancient shiver of prey facing a predator. She
was bigger than him and stronger than him, but something inside responded to those
sharp teeth. She wanted to run into the forest, disappear into the trees and never
come out. But she had been running so long she no longer had a direction to go.
He took a step forward. Despite herself, she took a step back.
“No!”
Something slammed into the steward’s legs, and he went down with a yelp.
“Tomlin!” Percy snapped from her stupor in time to snatch the kit up before
the steward could recover.
Tomlin wiggled in her grasp, lashing out his little claws at the steward.
“Leave her alone! Bully! Meanie!”
She had never seen him so impassioned. She stumbled back as the steward
got to his feet, staring at them narrowly. He seemed to be in a state of shock.
Considering he had just traveled through the night and was then assaulted by a
very small fox, she could not entirely blame him.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t —”
“Fine!” he snarled, recovering with a shake of his fur. “Fine! I will return to
Triskellian. I expect you back in one week, and you had better come with an heir
or an answer.”
She nodded rapidly, and, not giving herself a chance to think, hurried off with
Tomlin in her arms. His eyes burned her back. She managed to get a few streets over
before she had to set Tomlin down or risk her trembling arms throwing him into the dirt.
“Go home,” she croaked. “Hurry. Go.”
He studied her. “Is he going to take me away?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Even now, she could not lie to him. “I don’t know.”
After a few long moments of silence, his little footsteps pattered away. She
slouched against the nearest building. You barely know him, she forced herself to
remember. He was not a kit she had a duty to protect. He was a stranger. Just a
random kit in a random village. Just part of a job.
“Percy!”
Madelin hurried towards her, eyes worried. Percy shakily straightened
herself, not sure how long she had been lost in her own thoughts. She was afraid
the fox would be able to read the struggle written on her face, but before she could
even stumble over her own tongue, Madelin asked, “Have you seen Tomlin?”
Somehow, Percy’s stomach managed to drop further. “I sent him home.”
“He didn’t come this way. I would have seen him. Do you know where…”
Her voice faded out as blood roared into Percy’s ears, howling in time with
her heartbeat. The steward’s shocked face. It had not just been surprise at a
sudden assault. Percy had glimpsed the dying noble, but the steward had lived
with him for years, memorizing the sweep of his muzzle and the dark of his eyes.
Not just shock — recognition.
If they just saw each other on the street, it might not have been enough. But
with Percy’s hesitation — 
Hands grabbed her arm tight, the steel strength of a seamstress. “Percy. You
know where he is?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Tell me —”
She yanked her arm free, eyes anywhere but Madelin. “I had a job to do.”
Madelin was silent for a long moment. Percy could hear her long, shallow breaths,
smell her rising fear. When the fox spoke, her voice was rough. “Tomlin looks up to you.”
 “I’m sorry.”
“Damn your sorry! We cried together, Percy. And now you just —”
“I’m not the person either of you want me to be.”
Arms shoved her, and Percy let herself be pushed back.
“Damn you!” Madelin snarled, not bothering to scrub away her tears as she
railed fists against Percy’s chest. “My son is gone! My other son might be gone too, all
because of you! We believed in you. Both of us! You think you can just say sorry and
make it all go away? You think you can just run off after this and leave it all behind?”
Percy remembered the last time she had seen Juniper alive. The last time
she had seen the cabin whole. Those moments were seared into her mind, her
constant companions. It was hard to move past the last time she had truly been
happy. Even though she never wanted to forget her old life, in some ways she
knew these moments held her back. They haunted her at every step, those
moments that, by simple carelessness, ended up being lasts.
She wondered what Madelin’s last would be. Had she told Tomlin she loved him?
Had they gotten into a fight? Had it been anything special, or had it been, like Percy’s,
a morning like any other? Was it the last link in a routine that should have lasted longer?
Could she be responsible for another child’s end?
Her hooves moved before she had a chance to answer, and that was answer
enough. She ran. The world snapped into focus, every nerve and muscle in her
body as clear and sharp as Juniper’s old sketches, and for the first time since she
came to this town, her blood sang with the hunt. She couldn’t feel the smoke in her
lungs or hear the chant of the Lucky. All that mattered was her hooves and her prey.
She leapt atop a fence and vaulted onto the roof of the church, scanning
over the low buildings. There, a flash of black fur and rich red fabric near the edge
of town, heading towards the road to Triskellian. Someone shouted below, but
she ignored them, leaping to the next roof and then down to the road. She soared
through the streets like a bird through the air, heart beating a steady thrum.
By the time Percy got to him, the steward was almost to his reptilian mount,
holding a struggling Tomlin tight against him with a hand wrapped over his
muzzle. The badger guard by the palfreys was already looking surprised, but when
Percy flew around the corner, her hand went to her sword.
Percy was faster, slinging her bow out and notching an arrow at the
steward’s back. “Stop!”
Everyone froze.
After a moment, the steward growled, “I don’t know what’s gotten into your
head, but I know there’s an heir in this town, and I refuse to leave without them.”
 “Let him go.”
“You’re only getting yourself —”
“He’s not the heir.”
The steward slowly cocked his head towards Percy, presenting her a
narrowed eye. “Then who is?”
She did not want to say it, but the words dragged themselves from her
throat. “I’ll show you.”

She led them through the woods, the guard’s sword at her back. It felt like a
funeral march. Initially, Percy had not been sure she would be able to find the
spot without Tomlin’s help, but the path seemed to have been seared into her
mind. Tomlin had gone quiet when he realized where they were going.
Much too soon, they broke into the sunlit clearing.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t accept it,” Percy said quietly.
The steward stood in front of the grave, his face hard to read. After a
moment, Percy thought she saw a sliver of something she did not expect: grief.
“They were brothers,” Percy said. Speaking before the grave was one of the
hardest things she had ever done. Her antlers felt as heavy as lead. “You could
take Tomlin, but the heir is dead. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
For a long moment, no one moved. Percy felt her muscles tense one by one,
ready to knock the sword aside, grab Tomlin, and run. She was afraid he would smell
her half-truths. Then the steward raised a hand, and the guard lowered her sword.
“Understand this means you’ve failed,” the steward said, his voice stripped
of all pomp and pretense.
“Yes.”
He looked down at Tomlin, who stared back with his solemn eyes.
Something between them seemed to connect. The steward gently put him down,
and the little fox scrambled over to Percy, grabbing hold of her waist.
“Fine,” the steward croaked. He cleared his throat and repeated in a
stronger tone, “Fine. The heir is dead. This place holds nothing else for us.” He
stared Percy in the eye. “Our relationship is hereby over.”
Percy bowed. The steward looked over her and Tomlin and opened his mouth to
say more, but nothing came. At last, he jerked his head towards his guard, turned, and
disappeared into the forest. Percy finally let out a breath. He had scarcely been gone for a
moment before Madelin hurried from the trees opposite and swept Tomlin into her arms.
 “Oh, Tomlin! I was so worried!”
Percy’s throat clenched. “Madelin —”
“Maddie.”
“What?”
She smiled gently, her eyes full of emotion Percy could hardly begin to
comprehend. Grief, anger, worry, relief. Understanding. “I told you to call me
Maddie, didn’t I?”
“I…” Percy’s eyes blurred. She sucked in a deep breath. “Yes. Of course. Maddie.”
“Good. What are you going to do now, Percy the Lucky?”
“Now? I — I’m not sure. I don’t think Triskellian would be a good
destination for the next few months.”
“Well, I — oh!”
Tomlin leapt from her arms, and Percy instinctively snatched him from the
air. His eyes were as serious as ever when he said, “Dinner.”
“What?”
“That’s what’s next.”
Percy stared at him.
“An excellent plan, Tomlin,” Madelin said. She turned her smile to Percy.
“What do you say, Percy? Join these two foxes for a meal?”
Percy’s eyes swiveled between the two of them. When she breathed in, the
smoke in her lungs seemed a little bit lighter.
“Dinner. I like that.”
With the grave at their backs, they headed home.
 MikasiWolf has been writing about animal people for years,
and is published in many furry publications. He enjoys
reading, and video games with rich premise.

The Enemy Within

They say that the river is the lifeblood of every city. It is through it that
people and supplies come in, along with their hopes, dreams and aspirations. And
in the case of Triskellian, its lifeblood comes from its port and the Bay of Auvrich,
through which it owes its very existence, with the Granvert River to accompany its
goals. It is through this that trade from all over gave the Rinaldi their power, and
the Guild Council its influence over the city.
It’s through the docks that lives are made, lost and found. It is where dreams
are made and dashed, with every unloading and loading of indentured, contracted
and slave labor. It is where people from all over come, for countless reasons of
their own. And they all add to the dynamics of the city, for better or worse. With
all my time in this post, I can tell you everything there is about a newcomer who’s
come ashore, and whether he or she would survive what Calabria has to throw at
them. I can even tell you where they’re from, pelt and mannerisms aside.
See that panda with the staff and gourds? Straight off a Thierry ship that
made the trip to Zhongguo. Species familiarity would have plenty to do with it; most
anyone would be ill at ease in the company of bears. Who wouldn’t be, when the
guy before you is capable of squashing your skull with just one paw, accompanied
by a permanent scowl that doesn’t say otherwise? The Thierry bears used to be a
house of their own. Then they were driven off their cliff settlements at the Walls of
Calabria by the Doloreaux boars and became a small persistent faction of their
own. They rely a lot on trade outside of Triskellian to survive now; it’s hard to find
other jobs when your people and species aren’t looked up upon for some
historical fact or other. I’ve no doubt however that if push comes to shove, the
entire Thierry clan will fight to the bitter end. When you have nothing else to lose;
the strength of your belief lends strength to your paws. And who knows; maybe
that panda they just shipped here is here to help with some resistance movement
of theirs. He may not look much like a fighter; but all you need is a skilled chemist
to cook up some potent black powder to blow down the walls of your enemy.
None in Calabria would admit it, but explosives have their origin in Zhongguo, only
to have it brought over here by some chemist who didn’t do more than copy the
work of others.
See that group of grey foxes alighting all shifty-like from that barge? What’s
so strange about them, I hear you ask? Whoever heard of a grey fox that isn’t part
of the Rinaldi house in some way, what more riding a rickety barge like any
common peasant? They couldn’t have timed it better, judging by the fact it’s now
the 11th watch of the night, where even the constabulary in charge of customs
aren’t all too inclined to look twice. With all the infighting the Rinaldi have going
on, I’m guessing it’s one of the many splinter groups that’s just returned from the
other lands. Yep, there’s a couple of goats following them out, their hoods barely
hiding their beards and curved horns. Chevernaise, no doubt. It’s a bad idea
involving foreigners in your own affairs, but overthrowing your own patriarch isn’t
exactly the easiest of feats. When you look at it, it’s better to share your newly-
gained wealth with someone than have no wealth at all. Only time will tell whether
this little game of theirs would bear fruit. Or cause them a famine beyond measure.
The High-born have their own section of Dock Town, just off Helloise Way.
Can’t possibly alight to the filth and decadence of the low-born, can’t you? But
the fact is that when the docks were first built, only one gateway to New Town
was built, which is where Market Street is today. That means that high and low-born
brush shoulders through that point alone, including that group of Doloreaux lords
who’ve just disembarked one of their leisure cruises, filled with debauchery and
orgies, no doubt. Brushing shoulders with one of the foreign sailors however proved
too much for either sailor or lord, and so we now have a good old-fashioned brawl
breaking out, with the other Doloreaux and sailors adding to the mix. Most blue-
bloods would be above the use of their paws and claws, but never the Doloreaux.
boars are as strong as they come, and getting dirty rarely bothers them, perhaps on
account of their frequent mud baths. And here come our constables now, ever ready for
trouble. There’s never a dull moment in Dock Town, and it’s even more entertaining
with well-trained fighters in the mix.
And while the patrol is busy sorting out the score between Highborn and
Lowborn, Slick Jim’s gone and brought another cart of who knows what through
the unguarded gate. Knowing him, it’s probably a new batch of untaxed whisky
and weapons coming through, both valuable commodities in this city. Maybe even
some of that heady-smelling stuff from Zhongguo which is called Yapian or something.
Just like tobacco, you’re supposed to smoke it, but it’s said to be far more
relaxing than that. Then the Court of Commoners went and banned it for the
common folk, all because of pressure from the Guilds complaining many of their
people didn’t turn up to work on account of smoking that stuff. Naturally, the High
Court who presides over the laws of the Highborn didn’t accord the same rules to
them, which had the consequence of making this pastime something Yapian den
owners could boast of the drug of nobles being fit for commoners too. Slick Jim has
the honor of being the main supplier for the underground dens in both Old and New
Town, and even some of those floating taverns in Dock Town. The constables have
always kept their eye on him, but like any good weasel, Jim always avoid getting
caught red-handed, in part of having the right bribes and right friends. His
specialization is getting customers whatever they want, and what could people want
more than a means to forget the dreariness and unfairness of life, and a means to
appease their anger? And so, Jim also smuggles in alcoholic beverages from abroad,
avoiding the steep taxes that normally comes with it. He smuggles in an assortment
of swords that’ll put even a fully-equipped constable to shame. Once he even had
a ship smuggle in kegs of Zhongguo black powder, but a tip brought it to the
attention of the district captains. Just as the constables boarded the ship that held
it for inspection, it went mysteriously up in flames. No one knows why the fire
happened, and it’s since been written off as an accident. And Slick Jim’s still as
free as you or I; as free as so many commoners; who’ve had their anger build up
over the years as their leaders plot and plan against one another, blind to the poverty
and crime on the streets; the anger that’s made plain in every boo and jeer that greets
a nobleman out on a walk, the stones flung at constables out on patrol in the outer
districts. And for every potential trouble and rebel that is quelled, many more
commoners get outraged at the callousness that greets the common man trying to
make ends meet.
For you see; the Port of Triskellian may be the lifeblood of the city. But just
like any vein, it can be its undoing. In the streets, the downtrodden get even more
downtrodden by the thugs that make it their home. All kinds of people come through
the port each day, for many reasons of their own. And the anger that swells in the
commoners increases till it flows over. And that’s when they’ll start to act. No army can
even hope to take Triskellian, but all it needs is for its own people to turn on one another.
The ruling houses had brought it onto themselves, and so only have themselves to blame.
Power corrupts, but it also makes you dead when the one’s you’re ruling get sick of you.
And who am I, you ask? Ask around here, and I’m stevedore; ask elsewhere
and I’m a barkeep or a member of the Guild council. The truth is, we are who
others think us to be, and in my job, this suits me just fine. I’ve been watching this
city for years, and what I’ve seen merely reflects the way of things. Empires rise
and fall, no doubt about it. Where else do you think the first buildings in
Triskellian come from? From another empire that fell. And after Triskellian’s
people had finished turning on one another and gotten rid of any that would lend
us opposition, I would send the signal for my people to come and take over.
We could do a better job, at least until my leaders get corrupted by the same
ideals. Call me disloyal, call me cynical; It’s merely the way of things.
 Knowing that no world is impossible, H.J. Pang has wrote
stories set in fantasy and science fiction worlds. Although his first
novel features humans, he enjoys writing about anthropomorphic
characters due to the possibilities they carry. He resides in
Singapore where he hopes to write even more stories to come!

You Can’t Choose Family

The first time I met my grandfather was at his funeral. In fact, I only knew he’s
my grandfather because Father told me so, along with the fact that the deceased
was a gray fox just like us, only far older. Old people smell strange, especially when
they’re dead, but please don’t tell Father I said that. He’s always all about titles
and showing respect to people, especially when they’re older and wiser than you
are. I never understood the logic of that, because my cousin Marcus doesn’t know
his sums and history any more than I do, even though he’s four years older. But I
guess a lot about respect is assuming that our elders are right in everything they do.
Oh, I’m getting out of point. Father always says I should always focus to the
topic at paw. At hand, I mean; we must be all-inclusive in our use of language,
especially when there’s other species like horses around, right? But Father always
says that gray foxes are better than all the other species, though he never told me why.
But he did tell me I should be honored to see my grandfather, Don Jon in person,
because he led our people and dynasty to greatness. It doesn’t matter that he’s now
dead; a person’s deeds last far longer than they can, as said by the clerics of s’Allumer.
Father and Mother said Grandfather built the whole of Triskellian around the ruins of
whoever came before, rest their souls, and grew our clan here after coming from the
Old World. Father doesn’t like talking about the Old World, saying I’m too young to
understand, but I think our people were driven away from it. Why else would we leave
if things were all well and great? But our history books never talked about it, at least
for those kept in the family library. Once, when I asked my tutor about it, he had me
spanked for asking about it. I’m lucky Father didn’t hear about that, or I wouldn’t
have been able to sit forever.
I used to see my cousins more often years ago, but recently Father said they
and my uncles were a bad influence. Which was strange, because whenever any of
my relatives came to visit late at night, Father would make sure were all sound asleep.
Don’t tell Father, but through a crack in the floor, I knew they always spoke in
loud voices all the way till the third watch in the morning, such that I wish I was old
enough to take part in these late night meetings like the elders did. But I could never
hear a thing they were talking about, on account of their hushed whispers. My uncles
would always leave before sunrise in those muzzle-obscuring hoods, and Father would
always be angry after that. I understand he’s the eldest in his family, and it must be
really tiring having people call on you with questions in the dead of night all because
you were born first. I should know; I’m the eldest cub and my brothers and sisters
are always asking me to show them how to tie their shoes and leggings, and how
exactly people know the earth is round. I mean, how exactly should I know? I’m
neither an academic nor astronomer! And when I get annoyed about this, Father
always went on about how as the eldest I have to be a role model about it. Which
was kind of strange, because even though Father’s the oldest among his brothers,
they talked down to him like a common peasant, despite him being next in line to be
Don. This must be something to do with the saying “do as I say, not as I do.” A phrase
Father had the habit of repeating.
The last visit from my uncles was a month ago, and that ended with my
father yelling to them that he’d “had enough”. Mother had to come up to our rooms
to stop us from going down to see what’s going on, but I alone knew who our visitors
were. And today, they were all seated in the pews of the cathedrale de Temoin. Get-
togethers with my relatives were hardly quiet affairs, but today not a person spoke to
one another. I’ve attended other funerals before, and people always had their ears
and tails down, many with faint sniffs of their noses, but not today. Some of them
seemed happy for some reason, while a few others had scowls on their muzzles. And
when I’ve seen my grandfather dressed in all his finery, looking as peaceful as
anyone can be, I went back to sit with my brothers and sisters, who were more
curious than sad. And when my uncles came over and told my Father they have
something of importance to discuss outside, he whispered to me that as the eldest,
it’s my duty to protect our family when he’s gone. And with that, he left with my
uncles close behind him
I didn’t understand what Father meant then, assuming he meant I should
stop my brothers and sisters climbing the pews and getting in mischief. But from
then on, I never saw my father again. Uncle Marco, the eldest uncle after my
father told Mother that Father had left quickly with urgent business to attend to.
And with Father’s disappearance, the position of the Don fell to Uncle Marco.
I knew then what Father meant by the eldest taking responsibility. In a world
of lies and distrust, with secret meetings no one knew what of, everyone needs
someone to turn to. One day when I’m big and strong, I will be the Don. Uncle
Marco and his brothers will pay.
 Alison Cybe has written for Soteira Press, HellBound Books and
NBH Publishing. Recent work include the coming-of-age young
adult novel “I Was A Gay Teenage Zombie” by Deep Hearts
Publication, with contributions to other works including the multi-
award winning NoSleep Podcast, and “Black Rainbow” – a
horror anthology with LGBTQIA themes written by LGBTQIA
authors and allies. Their interests include celtic mythology,
transhumanism, garage kits and pet rats.

Milton’s Big Day

Milton quickly scurried forwards, his wide eyes glancing around the large
wooden doorway and down into the dimly lit hallway that lay beyond. The young
mouse peered back and forth, his jaw hanging open. “What’s down here?” he
asked, staring into the distance beyond.
It seemed so entirely unlike the hallway that he and the old woman beside
him stood in. The wood paneling that lined the walls was polished to such an
extent that they seemed to shine, and the floor was home to the finest crimson
carpet that the young mouse had ever laid his wide eyes upon. It seemed to the
boy that the doorway opened into almost a different world, one free from the
dusty floorboards that stood beneath his bare paws.
With a soft hush, Ma placed a paw on the youngster’s shoulder. “Come
now,” she said, ushering him away from the doorway. “That’s just the lord and
lady’s part of the house. There’s nothing for us down there.”
Milton gave the doorway one last glance before scurrying back to fall in line
behind the aging old badger woman. “I want to see” he said, insistently, his eyes
darting back towards the mysterious portal behind him. For all of the young mouse’s
eight years, he had lived within the grounds of the manor. He knew the gardens
intimately, he knew the kitchens and the cellars and the washing rooms with all
the accuracy and keenness of a boy that had spent so many summers scrambling
through them in an attempt to keep out from underfoot of the adults as they busied
themselves this way and that with the daily tasks and duties that were required to
maintain the smooth operation of a large manor. But yet, there were parts of the
vast building that a young mouse like him was simply not permitted to go.
“That’s not our place, little one” said old Ma, motioning him along swiftly with
a light push. “The upstairs lot keep to the upstairs, and we downstairs folk keep to the
downstairs. That’s our place.” She hurried him on, her steps growing slow and labored
as she moved along behind him, adjusting her apron around her broad frame as she did.
 Hanging his head slightly, Milton obeyed and scurried along beside her. Old
badger’s steps had grown slower in her advancing years, arthritis gradually settling
into her joints, but she still nevertheless maintained her soft motherliness that had
earned her the nickname from all of the kitchen staff.
Taking the lead, Ma guided the young mouse through the dimly lit corridor
until they arrived at the old wooden door to the kitchen. As soon as he stepped into
the room, Milton’s acute senses were assailed by the strong aroma of readying food.
The churning bubble of hot soup curled steam-like through the air, carrying with it
the hefty spicy smell. Within the stone-walled chamber the temperature was warm,
lifted by the sizzling of the ovens. Ma reached up to dab at her black-furred brow,
while Milton eagerly eyed the many assistant cooks that darted this way and that.
At the head of the grand preparation table stood a tall ferret, dressed in a
smooth black suit. He turned and gave Ma a quick nod. “Pleased you could join
us” he said, with a smile that seemed to radiate a no-nonsense attitude.
Milton resisted the urge to pout at the man’s quip. Samuel was the head butler
of the estate, a position that granted him dominion over all the goings-on that transpired
within the kitchen and dining rooms. In the mouse’s earliest memories, he had assumed
that Samuel was in fact the lord of the manor. He had been wrong, of course, but so
confident in his presence was the butler and so strong was his grip over the kitchen
and cleaning staff that a small part of the boy still feared the commanding ferret’s stern
glare and barking voice. Milton had never met the actual lord of the manor — he only
hoped that, whoever he was, he was not quite as terrifying as the head butler could be.
Pulling herself up to her full considerable height, Ma stepped over to the butler.
“Don’t you worry a jot about me” she replied, “There ain’t nothing that’s going to keep
me from my work.” With that, she brushed past Samuel, her stumpy old legs carrying her
quickly to the large wooden preparation table that occupied most of the kitchen. “Now”
she declared, landing a meaty palm against the table’s sturdy surface, “are you going to
hand me some flour so that I can get the bread cooking, or shall I ask my helper to do it?”
The young mouse’s ears bristled and perked up. “I can help, Ma” he
chirped. He scrambled around the table, carefully dodging past a pair of large
burly cooks, grabbing a hefty bag of flour from a pile in the corner.
Eyeing the young mouse impatiently, the butler gave a sigh. “I suppose the
scruffy little lad can help you…if he can avoid making a mess out of it this time.”
Milton felt a bite of anger rise within him at the man’s words but pushed it
down as he hefted the bag of flour up with both of his little paws. Balancing it
carefully, he lifted it up onto the table. Scruffy, he thought, that’s hardly my fault, is
it? The young mouse was not exactly wealthy, and certainly couldn’t afford anything
even close to the likes of the suit that the butler wore. Most of Milton’s clothes were
simple ones, handed down from one of the household staff’s children to the next.
“The boy is quite skillful with a rolling pin” said Ma, her tone sharp and with
each edge pointed squarely at the butler as she reached out to accept the bag of
flour. “He seems to inherit that from his mother, Gods rest her soul.”
A light flicker passed across the butler’s lower lip, causing it to tense. Milton
reached for a small wooden bucket and decided that now would be the perfect time
to go to get some water from the pump in the far corner of the room. Grabbing
one from the table, he hurried along before the two adults began to, once again,
discuss Milton’s mother. He did not care for the way that they spoke about her, which
was rare, but when it was done it was always with angrily hushed words that seemed to
carry with them a sense of bitterness. Milton had never known her mother, could not
remember her face. The words that passed half-hidden between Ma and Samuel about
her formed the boy’s only memory of the woman that had brought him into the world.
Keeping his back to the raised voices that crossed between Ma and Samuel,
Milton clutched the wooden bucket and started to weave his way to the pump,
swerving carefully to avoid the kitchen hands who carried pots of steaming soups,
finely chopped meats and bubbling vegetable broths. Dropping the bucket down
in place, he began to work the grimy old pump, heaving its ancient handle up and
down with all of the strength in his meagre muscles.
The young mouse was quite at home here in the kitchens – it was here that
he had been raised by Ma, and here where he knew all the ways of the manor. He
knew most of the kitchen staff by face, as several of them had aided him in his
schooling at Ma’s insistence. He had also learned about the tunnels around the manor,
a secondary network of hallways and passageways that worked their way under and
around the old house, allowing the waiting and cleaning staff to quickly move from one
part of the building to another. In older days, these constructs were intended to subtly
enforce the division of those who dwelled within the manor: the lords and ladies would
remain upstairs in the decorated and resplendent luxuries of the upper floors, whilst the
lower-class servants would move around unseen and ignored. Milton, however, saw the
tunnels as a great maze, a thrilling labyrinth that was his plaything. The young mouse
had spent entire summers hurrying and scrambling from one small passageway, byway
and alcove to the next, mapping out every nook and cranny, challenging himself to see
how quickly he could cross the length of the manor or where he could discover next.
But as time had worn on, he had grown less satisfied with the confines of the grimy
tunnels, servants’ quarters, kitchens and stables, and had started to yearn to see more
of what the manor had to offer. His mind wandered more and more to the upstairs
areas, so often unseen, offering a sense of forbidden luxury and unexplored mystery.
It was these thoughts that filled his mind as he stepped backwards away
from the pump, bucket of water in hand, without a glance as to where he was
going, and collided into a large kitchen hand.
A reverberating crash filled the air as the kitchen hand’s armful of pots, plates
and bottles came smashing down around the stone floor. Stumbling over the small
mouse, the large man stumbled, falling over, his brawly legs catching around Milton
as he fell and knocking the youngster off-balance. The boy’s pot of water quickly met
the other cooking apparatus that rained down. The butler’s head shot up, his ears as
sharp as his angry glare at the echoing sound. “What in the heavens?” he barked.
Struggling to pick himself up, Milton rubbed his bruised side. The stone floor
around him was wet with spilled water and sharp with broken pieces of shattered
bottles and plates. The kitchen hand, a tall and muscular tiger, stood up and began to
rub a bruise that was already forming on his leg. “Stupid boy” he grumbled, his amber
eyes shining with an anger that was as sharp as the broken cups that littered the floor.
Sitting upright with a slight splashing sound, Milton rubbed a small
throbbing sensation on his arm. He started to pull himself to his feet just as the
dark shadow of the head butler fell over him. “Boy” snarled Samuel, his gaze
filled with boiling infuriation. “Just look at the mess that you’ve caused this time!”
Before Milton could even bring himself to muster a thought for his reply, Ma
came storming across the kitchen, pointing her rolling pin staunchly at the butler.
“Now don’t you go taking it out on the boy just because your staff can’t be minding
where they’re walking” she snapped. “I’ll be having none of that, mind you!”
The butler turned, his eyes growing ever so slightly fearful at the old
badger’s tirade. Even Milton’s ears slid back timidly against his head. There were
none, he knew, who could truly stand up to Ma when she was caught in such a
temper. “Now, Miss Pedale” began the ferret.
“And don’t you ‘Now, Miss Pedale’ me!” she retorted, puffing her ample
bosom out with a snort. “It weren’t none of the little lad’s fault, so why don’t you
go back to polishing your candlesticks and leave me to get the cleaning sorted!”
The butler’s lower lip trembled with annoyance. He shot one look to Ma, before
turning to look at the youngster, and then gave a most infuriated sigh. “Fine, fine!” he
snapped. “But I expect this dinner to go off without any further hitch, you hear me?”
Milton finished scrambling to his feet, noticing just how damp his bare paws
were from the spilled water. He dusted down his shirt and wiped at the damp patches
on his leggings. It was not all that common for Ma to take full control of the kitchen
like this. It annoyed the butler to no end, Milton knew, and he secretly rather enjoyed
watching the stuffed-shirted old ferret being put out of sorts by the pudgy badger.
With a gruff sigh the butler turned on his heel and stormed off.
Ma leaned down, gently resting her large paw on Milton’s shoulder, helping him
wipe some smeared mess from his clothes. “I’m sorry, Ma” mumbled Milton, timidly.
“Now hush” she said, rubbing his shoulder softly. “It was an accident that
was all – and certainly no fault of yours.”
“No” he said, “he was right, I wasn’t lookin’ where I was going.” The boy
glanced this way and that, looking for the muscular tiger that had crashed into him,
but found him to be nowhere in sight. This was unsurprising, given how busy and
pushed for time the kitchen staff were. Milton had only the faintest understanding
of the cause for this afternoon’s bustle: from what he had gathered, the lord of the
manor was anticipating dinner with a visiting dignitary. No doubt, thought the
boy, some other lord or noble, or perhaps the head of a merchant’s consortium or
scholarly group, that tended to be the usual cause for such a commotion.
“Well” smiled Ma, reassuringly, “everybody makes mistakes some time or
other. But I’ll tell you what, little one.” She motioned with her paw at the broken
rubble. “If you want to be a real help, you could do me a huge favor in tiding this
all up for me. Can you do that?”
Quickly, the youngster nodded. Leaning down, he began to gather up the
broken pieces of ceramics and glass, carefully scooping them one at a time into the
bucket that he had used to collect the water. At he did so, Milton was well aware that
it simply wouldn’t do to have the kitchen littered with broken shards of damaged items,
and that was something that every kitchen hand would know full well. He wondered
at just where the tiger had hurried off to, and why he had left the potentially quite
dangerous mess lying around without making any effort to clear it up. Even with the
business of the afternoon, thought the little mouse, it wouldn’t do to cause an injury.
As he finished gathering the last of the breakages into the bucket, Milton slipped
quickly from the kitchen, leaving Ma to finish mopping up the spilled water. He hurried
out through the doorway into the sunlit garden, sprinting eagerly up a set of stone steps
that lead up out of the servant’s entrance to the manor. Here, at the back of the house,
the garden spread out as far as his eyes could see, with tall hedges to one side that
divided the front of the house from the back. To the left sat the stables, and to the right
was the gardener’s shack. He hurried that way, a light spring in his step, past the servant’s
gardens and down to the far end of the grounds, until he arrived at the midden heap.
Tipping the bucket onto the garbage heap, the young mouse shook it until
every piece of broken glass and ceramic was emptied. He began to turn on his
heel to head back to the manor, when a small glimmer of light caught his eye. He
looked down, glancing into the broken detritus that he had just emptied out.
Among the broken pieces of glass, Milton saw a shattered section of a small
dark bottle. Its shape seemed unusual to him; it didn’t look like a bottle for storing
herbs or oils from the kitchen. He leaned closer, peering at it. And then he saw it:
sitting right on the bottle’s cracked surface was an etched image of a skull. Even
for a youngster his age, he recognized the symbol for what it was.
Poison.
A shudder passed up along the young boy’s spine. He stood upright, almost
dropping the bucket that he clasped in his shaking paws. Nervously he reached down,
gently plucking the broken bottle up with two delicate fingers. Lightly he sniffed at it
and caught a strong bitter scent on the inside of the glass. Fearfully he threw it down.
Turning, he began to run. His paws slammed against the ground as he
charged at full speed back to the house. His mind was reeling with each frantic
step that he took, while the terrifying excitement hammered in his ears. It was no
wonder that he hadn’t recognized the kitchen hand! The boy had assumed him to
be a new member of the constantly changing retinue of staff, but no, there was
something altogether more sinister. He heaved breaths of air as he sprinted,
hurrying past the gardener’s shed and almost stumbling as he leapt two steps at a
time down the stairway down to the servant’s entrance to the manor.
He had to tell somebody — the only thought that rushed wildly through his
head was that he had to let one of the grown-ups know that part of the dinner had
been poisoned. Pulling the doorway open, he came to a stop. Milton looked up
and found himself staring into the cold and no-nonsense eyes of the head butler.
Folding his arms, the ferret gave the boy a disapproving frown. “I thought,
after that display earlier, we had agreed on your behavior, young man.”
Inhaling sharply, Milton stepped back a half-step. Motioning quickly into the
kitchen, he waved his hands insistently. “You have to let me past!”
“Excuse me?” said the butler. “I don’t have to let you do anything, boy. I’m
starting to think that the old maid has been very lax in teaching you some manners.”
The mouse shook his head. “This is important!” he yelped. “It’s the kitchen
hand – the tiger. We have to find him!”
With a sternly wagging finger, the butler leaned down to point scolding at
the young lad. “The staff here is far too busy for your games, do you hear me?”
he hissed. “We have a kitchen to manage, we’re not a bloody nursery. And I have
had just about enough of you scrambling around getting in everybody’s way.”
 Giving an annoyed sigh, Milton tried to push his way past, clutching at the
butler’s trouser leg. “This is important!” he yelled. “They’re trying to —”
The butler gave a firm, angry snort, grabbing the youngster by his round
ear. Milton let out a sharp, high-pitched yelp, wincing and scrambling against the
rush of pain. “That’s it” replied the butler. “I’ve had just about all I’m going to
take from you, boy.” With a series of quick steps, he tugged the young mouse
back out of the hallway, pulling the resisting little rodent along with each stride.
Once past the servant’s entrance door, Samuel released the youngster into
the garden. As Milton rubbed his throbbing ear, the ferret reached into his pocket
and recovered a set of sturdy keys. “You are going to stay out here until after the
dinner is finished” replied the butler with an air of finality.
“But…” insisted the mouse, eagerly.
“Not one more word” replied the butler. “You’re fortunate you’re not my son
or I’d have tanned your backside long ago. Now, I don’t want to see one whisker of
yours until the sun is down.” With that, he pulled the door open and stepped through.
Milton rushed for the door, hoping frantically to be able to clamber through
before the portal back into the manor was closed, but he was too slow. The
wooden door slammed shut, and as the boy’s paws came to rest on the wooden
surface, he heard the keys rattle in the lock, sealing the doorway shut. He gave
the door a sturdy slap, yelling out in frustration. He was locked out of the manor,
with no way to alert anybody about the poisoning.
He slumped down by the doorway, giving a weak sigh. “If only I had found Ma
first” he muttered, “she would understand.” The mouse could barely think of what all of
this meant and could barely think of any reason as to why somebody would ever want
to poison the food at the dinner. He didn’t know any of the nobles who would be there,
but even so he felt a sense of horrible dread when he tried to imagine what kind of
impact this would have on him and all of the kitchen staff. Surely it would be them that
would be blamed if something terrible were to happen. He thumped his little fist against
the door, tears stinging his eyes, and wished that the sour old butler had believed him.
With his legs shaking, Milton stood up. He breathed in and tried to clear his
bustling thoughts. Exhaling, he thought to himself that it was all up to him.
Taking a step back, Milton looked up. His gaze ran up along the side of the
manor’s back wall, around the windows and surrounds, past the large stone
valleys and gables. This was his home as much as it was the lords and ladies; he
had grown up here, knew the ways around the hidden servant’s passageways and
through the crawl spaces. He let his eyes follow their route from where the kitchen
would be, through the door and down towards the right, and let his memory guide
him towards where the dining room would reside.
Reaching up, he grasped unsteadily against several old flagstones. They felt brittle
and uncertain to him, but Milton tested their weight until he was confident with them.
Slowly he pulled himself upwards, scrambling a little as his toes worked their way around
the cracks and fissures. With a tense determination, the young mouse began to climb.
Milton scrambled up, the claws of his toes scratching against the masonry as
he worked his way precariously up onto the lintel of the window. From there,
balancing as carefully as he could on the tips of his toes, he reached up and
grabbed onto the old cast iron downpipe. Clutching it carefully between his fingers,
he pulled himself upwards. The young boy’s heart was slamming in his chest, and
he found himself needing to remember to breath with each unsteady movement
that he made. Before long he reached the next window. Pausing for a moment, he
rested to catch quick gulps of air. The brickwork up here was old and crumbling,
and small scraps of debris came loose under his claws. Still, using the guttering for
stability, the young boy pushed upwards until he reached the roof valley.
Pulling himself up over the eaves, Milton took a moment to balance. Even the air
around him felt as if it were swaying back and forth. Turning, he looked to his right and
caught sight of a row of several large wolf-like gargoyles that lined the edge of the roof,
their grim faces stirring within the mouse an earnest sense of resolve. Lowering himself
down to a crouching position, he looked back and was amazed at how high up he had
climbed. The grounds of the manor stretched on before him; and beyond that, he saw
the lush green countryside that seemed to stretch on as far as his eyes could see. In the
distance he could make out a dark green hue of forests, and he wondered how much
of the land the noble family owned. Then he looked down and felt a rushing sense of
nausea as he saw the ground seemingly infinitely far away from where he now stood.
Lowering himself down, he began to move in a crawling scurry along the
roof of the house. The roof itself was a mass of valleys and crevices through which
Milton hurried along – he felt comfortable with this, thinking how similar these
little pathways were to the hallways and tunnels that he was so used to playing in
within the manor itself. As he hurried along on all four paws, he found that he
could navigate his way around this new environment quite easily. Turning swiftly
to the right, he knew that he would soon come to the dining hall.
Carefully, Milton slid his way down to the far side of the manor’s roof, coming
to rest with his back pressed against an especially dramatic gargoyle. From here, he
could see a long cobbled road that lead from the front entrance of the house to a pair
of large distant iron gates. Along the road trundled a fine wooden carriage drawn
by several steeds. Milton crouched down behind the statue to watch as the vehicle
wound down the road and eventually came to a halt near the doorway to the manor.
The mouse could barely make out the sight of a man in a dark suit who
approached the carriage: Samuel, the boy realized. The butler motioned to the
carriage driver, and soon the door of the vehicle was opened to reveal a short,
portly gentleman in a finely tailored and bright suit. Milton blinked a few times,
never having seen such fabrics in quite so vibrant a hue of crimson and azure.
The butler met the visitor with a gracious bow and a polite motion of his hands,
and the two figures made their way to the main door of the manor.
Realizing that time was quickly ebbing away from him, the mouse inhaled
and began to scurry his way once again. Leaning carefully over the edge of the
roof, he looked down over the front of the manor. He knew that the dining room
would be to his right, but it was still several floors down. He smiled as he noticed
the balcony of one of the upper floor bedrooms not far from where he was
crouching. Taking a careful grip on the guttering, he swung his way down – only
for the old pipework to give a sharp screech and come loose.
Swinging wildly to one side along with the loose guttering, Milton felt a rush
of panic fill him. His legs kicked wildly for a split second, and he released his grip.
He tumbled once, landing on the balcony with a resonant thud. He winced, feeling the
impact knock the breath out of him. “Ow,” he muttered, standing up and rubbing his
bruised flank. Glancing around, he realized just how fortunate he had been – had he let
go of the guttering only a few seconds later he would have missed the balcony entirely.
That was quite enough climbing around on the top of the roof for today, he
decided. Pressing himself up against the glass balcony doors, he hoped that they
had been left unlocked. He sighed, finding them quite sturdily locked. He stepped
back, thinking for a moment. The guest that had just arrived, Milton realized, was
clearly the same one that had been invited to the dinner. This meant that he
didn’t have any time to waste.
Reaching up onto the tips of his toes, Milton grabbed onto the loose gutter
and gave it a sturdy yank. At first it resisted, but after another two tugs it finally
came loose. Clutching it, the young boy looked at the glass of the balcony door
and felt a rush of guilt. He hated the idea of doing anything that could damage
the manor – it was, after all, his home. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he
pushed the fears aside. “They need me” he whispered to himself. “I’m the only
one that knows the danger they’re in. I have to do this.”
Praying that the sound of the breaking glass wouldn’t carry throughout the
halls, Milton brought the loose piece of guttering against the balcony door with a
sturdy crash. The impact felt painful, shuddering up the boy’s arms and sending a
cascade of broken shards across the inside of the bedroom. Carefully, he pushed
out the remaining edges with the corner of the guttering and, with cautious steps
so as not to cut himself, slid through the opening.
Standing up, Milton looked around the inside of one of the most splendid
bedrooms that he had ever seen. A fine linen-covered bed stood in the corner,
looking temptingly soft and inviting. He moved on tiptoes around the broken glass
that littered the carpet, weaving his way across the floor. Again, he felt the surge
of excitement stirring inside him. Cautiously he approached the bookcase and
began to feel around lightly with his fingers against the books. In his years of
navigating the network of servants’ tunnels that crossed through the manor, Milton
had developed all but a sixth sense as to where the entrances and doorways were
located. Sliding one book out with a soft click, the bookcase came free.
The young mouse tugged on the corner of the shelf, pulling the bookcase
back. It slid out into the room on an old, groaning hinge, leaving access to the
network of servants’ tunnels. In days long gone by, Milton knew, it was expected
that servants were expected to be invisible, unseen and unacknowledged. Ma had
told him that in the days of her grandmother, cleaning was expected to be
performed in the early morning hours while the nobles slumbered. In those days
the servants had slept in their own basement quarters, sharing space with the wine
cellars, kitchen and laundry. Even the gardens had been divided in those days,
with the old gardener’s cottage and carriage house separated from the rest of the
manor by high bushes. As he stepped into the tunnel, pulling the bookcase closed
behind him, Milton wondered if that had simply been the way of things back then.
The tunnel itself was old and dusty, full of etched cobwebs and pitch dark.
The youngster’s eyes took a while to adjust to the dimness, touching his fingers
against the internal wall to keep himself right. It had been a while since he had
explored this particular tunnel, but he was certain that he remembered his way.
Hurrying as quickly as he could through the darkness, he pushed forward, the soft
brush of spider webs caressing his whiskers as he went.
It was not long before a soft shimmering light illuminated the tunnel ahead.
Following it eagerly, the boy slid along past a fork in the path, keeping his eyes on the
growing light. Gradually the light that entered the tunnel settled as Milton approached
it, and he realized that it glimmered from a small hatch in the floor. Reaching down,
he slid his fingers around the small wooden trapdoor and eased it gently aside.
Through the hatch, the young mouse could see the vast dining hall below. A
large table sat to one side, with empty plates and silver platters arrayed ready for a
meal. Nearer him, though, and attached to the ceiling by a hefty chain was a large
chandelier, one of three which cast lighting through the large room. It didn’t take
Milton long to recognize that the hatch through which he peered had, in the past,
been used by the household servants to pull the chandeliers up by those heavy
chains and relight the candles. Of course, in these days such requirements were
unnecessary, but the youngster was glad that he could make use of them now.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the echo of a voice in the grand room
below. The first few words were muffled, before a sturdy door in the northern wall
opened and allowed two figures to enter the room. “… can be done without further
delay” said one of the figures. Peering, Milton thought that he could make out the
stocky form and brightly colored clothing of the guest that had arrived shortly before.
Milton’s eyes, though, were drawn to the second figure that entered. He was
tall, of broad shoulders and short cropped hair. Entering the room, a step before
the guest, he moved with an easy, comfortable manner as though very much at
ease with both the other man and the surroundings. From the distance, the young
mouse thought that he could make out the fine cut of a sharply tailored doublet,
and Milton was sure that this man could be no other than the lord of the manor.
Together, the two approached the table. Milton watched, and as they drew
closer to where Milton could easily see them it was clear to the young mouse that
the lord’s slender features and draped wings identified him as a bat, whilst the
round little one that followed him was clearly a grey-furred rabbit. “Do not put
yourself in any haste” said the lord, addressing his guest with a smile. “I would
not want to put them in any hazards simply to establish a new caravan route.
Take all the time that you need. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
The rabbit scrambled along in long, wobbling strides. “Nay, thank you
milord. Tea goes right through me.”
“Quite” said the bat in reply and slipped down onto one of the fine chairs
by the table. “I believe dinner will be ready soon. In the meantime, tell me how
you feel this route will impact on your guild’s standing with the Rinaldi? I would
not wish to create animosity.”
Hopping up onto a chair across from the bat, the rabbit – who Milton now
assumed to be a merchant – gave a lightly dismissive wave of his paw. “It
shouldn’t. There will be a tax for the caravan each season upon leaving the
borders of Triskellian, but as you are happy to pay for that…”
Slowly, the mouse pulled his head back away from the hatch. He could
barely understand the words that the two were saying to one another, and he could
only wonder at the peculiar way in which they spoke. Their words seemed clipped
and precise, with each letter spoken with such formality that it reminded him more
of the butler’s manner of speaking than that of any of the staff of the house.
Below, a door opened. Sticking his head back through the ceiling hatch, Milton
watched as Samuel entered the room with a plate of candied oranges and stewed
plums balanced quite expertly in one hand, followed by two of the kitchen staff who
carried freshly crisp salads which had been carefully woven so that the leaves were
woven together to resemble the scales of a fish. The meal glistened temptingly and
gave a strong delicious aroma, but instead of hunger the young mouse felt only a
shivering chill of fear fill him as he watched the servers making their way to the table.
His breath quickened. The youngster wasn’t sure what to do now. He looked at
the helpers that followed the butler and let out a soft gasp as he recognized the broad
form of the tiger. Milton felt a terrible sinking feeling deep in his stomach. He had no
idea what to do, but he had no plan or idea what to do. He only knew that he had
to do something – anything! Squeezing his way through the hatch, he grabbed onto
the chain that held the shimmering chandelier. Swinging himself down, he hoped to
be able to land atop the large chandelier – however the chain that he clutched onto
swung back and forth in his grip. Below, every head in the room turned upwards, a
few gasps of horror rising at the chandelier rocked back and forth and quickly came
loose. The chain, old and creaking, unfound from its holdings and spun like an angry
snake in the air, and Milton gave a startled cry as the chandelier began to plummet.
The huge glass light fixture crashed onto the ground with a resounding
smash. Pieces of glass, old candles and metal scattered across the floor. Startled,
Samuel leaped back from the collapsing chandelier, dropping the plate that he
carried and knocking into the kitchen staff that walked behind him. The lord and
the merchant covered their eyes, quickly darting to stand from their seats. With a
resounding thud, Milton crashed onto the dining table, knocking plates and cups
aside, the world seeming to spin around him like an especially painful roller coaster.
“My word” sputtered the bat, his lips forming into a snarl. His eyes fixed on
the butler, “What is the meaning of this?”
Milton slowly picked his head up, giving a soft moan. His entire body ached,
and the room seemed to swim around him in waves. A hefty clanging sound filled
the air as two armored guards rushed into the room, blades drawn, ready for any kind
of action that might present itself. The young mouse looked at their drawn blades, but
the immediate sense of fear that he felt came from the enraged butler that marched
over towards him. “Boy!” snapped Samuel, rage filling him, “Explain yourself — now!”
The youngster looked around. The dining hall was now an upturned mess,
but with a sense of relief he noted much of the food littering the floor among the
broken pieces of the chandelier, knocked to the side when the butler had leapt
back. He glanced around, his senses foggy and in a haze. The tiger, he noticed,
was edging his way back, sidling away from the ensuing chaos.
“Him!” yelped the young mouse, pointing a damning finger at the saboteur.
“He poisoned the food.”
The tiger turned to glare angrily to Milton, his eyes a shining amber and
teeth wet. He was about to speak, but not before the butler raised his voice first -
“Not this foolishness again” snarled Samuel, leaning over to grab the youngster.
“Excuse me, milord, I’ll remove th-”
Moving quickly to duck out of the butler’s way, the youngster slipped off the
table. “Check the food, then!” he yelped. “If you don’t believe me, check it and see.”
“Little fool” hissed the tiger. Reaching into the folds of his kitchen uniform,
he pulled forth a thin dagger. “You’ve ruined everything, damnable child!”
The boy gave a startled cry, stepping backwards. He slipped, tumbling over
an upturned dining chair and falling to the floor once more. Giving a loud bellow,
the assassin lunged forward, saliva glistening on his wet lips. Almost immediately
the two guards charged after him, swords hefted in both hands.
Thoughts seemed to flee from the young mouse’s mind as the fully-grown
adult tiger raced towards him, dagger in hand. He was terrified, scrambling on the
floor, unable to fight. He wanted to run, but the tiger was too fast for him. Instead,
Milton did the only thing that he could think to do – he aimed a sturdy kick at the
small dining chair. It skidded a few feet ahead of the mouse, directly into the path
of the assassin. Tangling in the large cat’s rushed strides, the legs of the chair caught
around the man’s feet, sending him crashing to the floor as well. Immediately the
two guards were upon him, piling atop the roaring, spitting cat. Milton scrambled
back, his chest heaving, his little heart pounding and tears stinging his eyes.
The next few moments passed him by in a daze. The tiger, bound steadily by
the guards, was hauled to his feet. With each of the armored protectors clasping
one of the cat’s arms, the assassin was led from the dining hall. The lord and the
merchant both sat slumped in their chairs, struggling to regain their composure.
The butler, lost for words, stared at the mess that lay strewn around the
room, trying to decide where to even begin with his cleaning. “This” muttered
Samuel to himself, “might take a while.”
Carefully, the lord of the manor rose from his chair. Dusting off his doublet,
he turned to look at Milton. “Young man” he said, “I would very much like to
speak with you. Walk with me please.”
 Timidly, Milton hurried along behind the large bat. Scurrying along nervously, he
followed through the dining room door and along a long winding hallway. As he strode,
the bat barely glanced behind, his hands folded behind his back, footsteps muffled by the
resplendent carpet. Before long, the pair reached a long hall that was lined with portraits,
which Milton assumed to have been the lineage of the lords and ladies of the manor.
“Young man” said the bat. “You are old Hedfast’s son, aren’t you?”
Milton blinked. “I…” he stuttered. Looking down, he glanced at the carpet,
pausing mid-step. “I don’t know, sir. I never knew my father.”
Glancing down, the bat gave a soft smile. “I’m a lord, not a sir” he said,
“Lord Ffelthan of House Repense, to be precise. but don’t worry, you’ll learn that
in time. You may not know this, but we of House Repense hold a noble line, small
though it may be. As a minor house, we serve the gentry of Bisclavret – Do these
names mean anything to you?”
Slowly Milton shook his head.
The tall bat gave a light smile. “Good. Childhood should not be intruded upon
by such things as politics, although perhaps there is history there that you would care
to study, one day. But to answer the question on your mind, yes, I knew your father.”
“You did?” asked the mouse, feeling more than a little timid.
Lord Ffelthan’s brow, firm and strong, seemed to gaze off into the distance.
“How did you know of the poisoning, lad?”
A lump swelled in Milton’s throat. “I, uh” he began, “I found the bottle. I
knew it could only have come from one person.”
Nodding, the lord scratched his chin. “Good, good. And go on. Tell me
what you did then.”
The boy looked down. Slowly, he shuffled his feet, feeling as though he
might be scolded at any moment. “I knew I had to do something, sir” he said,
“but I didn’t know what. I tried to talk to Ma, but…”
“You could have been seriously injured” said the lord.
Milton’s ears drooped. “I know” he said. “I just… I didn’t know what to do. I
had to do something. So I used the old tunnels to get to the dining room, and
when I got there I saw the tiger — I knew it had to be him, sir, you see, he was the
only one from the kitchens who I didn’t already know — and then I just kind of…”
Slowly, Lord Ffelthan nodded his head. “Tell me” he said, “who do you
think the assassin was trying to kill?”
Milton fell utterly silent for a moment. The thought hadn’t even occurred to
him. He closed his eyes and began to rub his bruised arm. The ache in it had
started to swell up now, and he was starting to feel very tired. “I think” he said, “it
was the rabbit. Your friend, the man in the bright suit?”
“Why?” insisted the bat.
The small mouse struggled to find the right words. He had acted so quickly,
and without any pause to think through the situation, and now here he was being
asked to account for it. “You were talking to him about a trade” he said. “Was the
tiger angry that you were trading with the rabbit and not him?”
Slowly, the bat nodded. “It is something like that, yes” he stated. “Until recently,
my family had a trade deal with a consortium of import traders. They brought
valuable herbs across from overseas for House Bisclavret, which we managed.”
Milton blinked. The lord’s manner was unusually candid. The youngster was
not used to being spoken to in such a way, as though he were an adult who could
understand such things. It gave him a fluttering feeling in his chest.
“The consortium, we discovered” continued Lord Ffelthan, “were procuring
the herbs by fiercely unethical means — illegal methods. Since then we have
sought an alternative supplier: that was the deal that we were finalizing tonight. I
believe that the consortium may have planned for our supplier to be met with an
unfortunate fate during our dinner, which would have left my house with no other
avenue for trade apart from them.”
The boy nodded, barely understanding more than a few words of this.
“It may surprise you to know” said Lord Ffelthan, “that your father would
have been very proud of what you did today. You acted quickly and intuitively,
with a sense of honor and courage, even when you could have got hurt. That is
what your father did when he worked here as well.”
“My father worked for you?” asked the boy. He had always known about his
mother’s role in the manor and had always assumed that his father had worked in
the kitchens or cleaning staff as well.
The bat nodded. “Your father served as one of the knights sworn to my
family. It was a very serious duty, you understand, and a great honor for him.”
Slowly Milton nodded. “What happened to him?”
Leaning down a little, the bat placed a large paw on the boy’s shoulder. “He
died in battle, protecting me and my family, just like you have done today. I owed
your father a great debt, and that is why when illness took your mother when you
were but a child, I insisted that you remain here in this manor.”
“I…” began the mouse, small tears shimmering at the corners of his eyes. “I
didn’t know.”
 “No” he replied, “I didn’t want to fill your mind with such ideas of duty and
honor, not until you were older. I wanted to make sure you could enjoy a normal,
simple childhood, which is why I asked that you be raised without such cares.”
“I see” said the mouse. “Thank you, sir. Uh, lord.”
“I had hoped, when you were old enough to understand the duties
associated with such a schooling, to let you choose if you wished to be dispatched
to train as a squire. I had not intended to give you this choice for another two
years, however. But based on today, maybe we needn’t wait that long…”
The bat’s words seemed so strange and alien to the youngster. Milton’s jaw
dropped at the very idea. To be a squire meant to train to be a knight, and the
very thought of that made his eyes widen. It promised a world of adventure, but
also of danger. His thoughts raced to suits of armor and blades, of riding through
the forests and across the plains, of the two soldiers that had escorted the assassin
away. “Milord” he muttered, his mind reeling, “only earlier today my world was
helping to wash dishes and playing in the tunnels.”
“Tunnels?” echoed the bat. “Oh, yes, an artistic achievement of our
Repense forebears. I’m glad to see that they served a useful purpose.”
The mouse looked down. “I would love to be a squire” he said. “But… I
don’t think I’m ready yet. I would miss my family in the kitchens too much.”
With a comforting nod, Lord Ffelthan stood. “I understand” he replied.
“When the time is right, then, you will make a wonderful knight.”
Slowly, the pair made their way back to the dining room.
When Milton returned Ma was already busy at work in the dining room with
a hefty retinue of cleaning staff. The moment that she caught sight of the boy, she
scooped the youngster up in her arms into a tight embrace, telling him
emphatically how relieved she was for his safety and terrified she had been.
The young mouse, shuffling around the rest of the staff who scurried this
way and that to clear the wreckage of the chandelier from the room, was able to
hear fleeting moments of the conversation between Lord Ffelthan and the
representative of the Merchant’s Guild. From what he could overhear, Milton was
pleased to hear that the deal was completed in a satisfactory manner, although
the rabbit looked continually jumpy and nervous.
Several hours later, the dinner was completed without any additional
uproar. All, that was, apart from Samuel. The butler had been notified that one of
the upstairs bedroom windows had been broken and, assuming another assassin
could be on the prowl, enlisted two of the household guards to aid him in
searching every single room well into the middle of the night. Milton was long
asleep by the time the butler admitted defeat, dreaming of his future as a squire,
but being every bit satisfied with his life among those who lived downstairs.
 Kevin Clark is an amateur fantasy author based in Pennsylvania.

Kolenka Gorisov

From an early age, Kolenka Gorisov had known fear. Hanging from the
ceiling in his parents’ vardo – the second one they had owned, in his young life,
but at least the fourth his father had seen — wondering if this would be the night
the camp would be driven out of town. Perhaps a mob of shrews, or a crowd of
so-called Penitents. The wagon was sparsely decorated, built only for shelter from
the elements. His family, and the rest of the camp, kept their few precious
belongings in bags they could carry while flying away, should the need arise.
He knew that other folk looked askance at his kind. In his family’s travels,
Kolenka had met up with sparrows and Ravens. Neither seemed to feel any
particular animosity from flightless beings. Certainly not the hostility bats faced.
Perhaps the feathered folk looked more graceful in flight, though Kolenka always
thought them slow and ungainly compared to bats’ more agile maneuvering.
Was it their particular features? A face like a combination of fox and boar,
with feet like a monkey and hands that defied comparison. Or was it their use of
sound, audible only to some, to find their way even in darkness?
Whatever the reason, Kolenka had learned, like many before him, to keep
his ears open and be ready to fly.

As he grew, Kolenka came to believe it might be a simple conflict of

language. As a travelling people, bats tended to pick up many languages, from the
common Calabrese to Berla Feini, the Phelan tongue. Some bats even spoke
Zhonggese. But none of them felt as natural to him as what was called in
Calabrese “Night Speech”, a language only bats and the occasional shrew could
speak, though people with similarly sharp ears could learn to understand it.
In Night Speech, to describe a place was to give the listener the experience
of being there themselves, hearing every tree, every stone. There was no barrier
between the speaker’s memory and the listener’s understanding. Even abstract
ideas felt clearer when transmitted this way.
 Though Kolenka could parse and speak Calabrese well enough to move
among the flightless folk, he never really felt that he truly understood. Certain
phrases made no sense to him when he tried to render them into Night Speech.
He had learned what was meant by “pulling my leg”, and could translate the
underlying idea, but Night Speech itself did not have idioms.
Even among those that spoke Calabrese exclusively, misunderstandings
were common, from what Kolenka had heard. No, there had to be some purer
language, one in which misunderstanding, maybe even falsehood, was impossible.

Now an adult, but not yet affianced, Kolenka flew above the city of
Triskellian as the sun set. His parents had been buried a few years before, and
Kolenka had constructed a vardo of his own after burning theirs as demanded by
tradition. He listened to the city below, the shape of the buildings, the chatter of
the lamplighters and others enjoying the early evening.
He had just left the Cracked Egg tavern, where he had spent the afternoon
conversing with a mouse, visiting the city to bring news back to his family who
worked Bisclavret land. He belonged to a minor House, Repense, which also
counted some bats among its upper castes. The mouse, Trystian, spoke with
reverence of those bats, clearly admiring not only their flight but also their talent
for predicting the future by watching the stars.
Kolenka listened indulgently, but out of kindness to the youth, did not
volunteer his own opinion of fortune tellers. He had seen many such
mountebanks among the caravans he had known, and rarely did their divinations
over cards seem to be more than a combination of skillful guessing – in most
cases, guessing what the mark most wanted to hear.
Trystian’s voice lowered to a whisper, easily audible to the bat but barely a
half sigh of breath to anyone else. “Some say the Repense Countess, the Lady
Venetia, can even read minds.”
Another parlor trick. “Perhaps she merely appears to do so but is simply very
well-informed.” He gave a smirk, one claw pointed to his ears. “We tend to hear
much more than most realize. If I concentrate, right now, I can hear your heartbeat.”
One ear twitched. “Yes, it just sped up, just for a moment.” Kolenka shook his head.
“In any event, whether she has such magical powers or not, it would be a useful
reputation to cultivate. Her enemies would think twice before crossing her, hmm?”
 Trystian returned his attention to his drink. “It may be as you say, but I
would not be inclined to doubt the Lady. I have seen her predictions come true,
and those who vexed her come to ruin, too often to dismiss such claims entirely.”
The bat stood. “Oh, I do not doubt her. If she has remained long in such a
position, she is not to be taken lightly. However, I fear I must leave you for now,
as the hour is late, and judging by that yawn you almost silenced, it has been a
long day for you already. Good evening.”
His flight had taken him from Old Town into New Town. It is a pity this city
largely goes dormant after dark. Though I suppose it’s much less noisy.
[There is still conversation to be had, my skeptical friend. Land at the Three
Spears. Ask for Jareth, and you will be admitted.]
Kolenka’s wings faltered for a moment. Where had that voice come from?
He hadn’t felt it on his ears or the skin of his wings. It seemed to have no source.
His ears swiveled, scanning the streets below, but he caught no upturned faces in
the echoes from his sonic navigation. But someone was watching him.
[Please, do not keep me waiting. I promise, your questions will be answered,
but my time is limited.]
The bat alighted on the steps of the Three Spears Inn, the most extravagant
establishment in the wealthier district of Triskellian. He had never been inside,
and from the way the two Rhinos framing the massive doors crossed their
polearms before him, he would not do so tonight, either.
The one on his left, whose horn had lost its tip, spoke. “Are you lost, friend?
Old Town is to the west. You may find it more hospitable.”
“No, thank you. I am looking for one who calls himself Jareth.”
At the mention of that name, both sets of eyes seemed to dim, and the
polearms lifted. Then the pair spoke in unison while opening the tall door, the
interior incredibly bright. “Of course. Go inside. He’s waiting for you.”
The bat stepped inside, stumbling a bit once he was off the street and forcing
himself to let his eyes adjust to the surprisingly well-lit interior. The acoustics of
the inn were confusing. He could see groups holding private conversations, seated
in booths along each wall, but he could not actually make out what was being
said. And for all he could tell, the walls themselves just weren’t there.
[Ah. Of course, I should have anticipated that. The management prides itself
on guaranteeing privacy, but to one who lives by sound, it must be disorienting.
Turn to the right and walk forward. Look for a coyote in a green cloak.]
Kolenka found the coyote’s booth and sat down opposite him. He looked
strangely familiar, but the bat could not recall seeing him before. “Jareth, I
presume. You have my attention.” He relaxed, the world making sense again now
that he was seated. Whatever trick of design or magic that made the booth
inaudible from the outside, naturally, did not affect conversation within.
The other nodded. “And you have mine. Jareth is not my name, but for
tonight, it will do. Someday you may learn my name, but as a practical matter,
the members of my brotherhood do not volunteer such things.”
“I won’t bother asking which brotherhood this is, then. Why have you
brought me here?”
The coyote took a sip from his goblet of wine. “Your comments to that
mouse, back in Old Town, reached my ears. Like yourself, my brothers and I often
hear more than anyone suspects. Sometimes we hear what isn’t said.” He set
down the wine and looked into Kolenka’s eyes. “And no, in our case, it is not a –
how did you put it? Ah yes – a parlor trick.”
The bat thought back to his conversation with the mouse. “You were in the
tavern.”
[I saw you arrive, but I was not present for the full conversation. I don't need
to be present to see your thoughts. Had you not figured this out?]
Kolenka didn’t so much as twitch an ear. Very well. But you haven’t
answered my question. What is it you want with me?
[Pragmatic. Very good. What I want, what we want, is for you to act as our
ears. Your caravan moves from place to place. You hear many things. We would
have you relay them to us.]
Are you going to just peek into my thoughts every day? Or shall I write you
short letters, to be delivered in a dark alley? And what do I get out of this arrangement?
[Answers. Power. We know a great deal about you, Kolenka Gorisov. We
know you have dreamt of conversations just like this one. Conversations without
misunderstanding.]
This time, the bat’s ear did flicker. Dream. I dreamed about you.
[It would be more accurate to say that I was in a dream you had. In any
event, I have given you a bit to think about, and I would not be so crude as to
demand an answer now. If you are interested in our offer, meet me here again,
tomorrow, at this time. If not, we will look elsewhere for an agent.] The coyote
stood, drawing the hood of his cloak over his ears and turning his back to the bat.
How do you know I won’t report this conversation to the city watch? Or the
Church?
[For one thing, I have given you no proper names to report. You do not
know who we are, or whom we serve. For another, if such were truly your intent, I
would know. It is impossible to deceive, mind to mind.] He turned back around to face
Kolenka, and though the coyote’s lips did not move, the bat picked up the impression of
a snarl in his mind. [But mostly, because you realize we have been watching you closely.
You have to assume we will continue to watch you. And it would be no more difficult
to make you forget this encounter than it was to compel the guards to admit you.]
The coyote turned, his purple-trimmed cloak flaring behind him, and left the
bat alone with his thoughts. For now.

While the sun shone over Triskellian, Kolenka slept hanging from the ceiling
of his vardo, as he had from childhood. In his dreams, he flew over the city, but
parts of it kept disappearing; his eyes insisted the buildings were still there –
painted green with purple trim, no less — but his ears knew better.
Standing atop the Three Spears stood the coyote, now bearing a staff and
standing at least half again as tall, his green cloak covering the roof and slowly
inching its way down the walls, hiding them from the bat’s ears.
“You’re not real. None of this is real. I’m dreaming.”
“Yes, you’re dreaming. And very little of what you see is real. But I am.
You’ve seen me in your dreams before.”
Kolenka alighted beside him. “If you’re more than my mind playing tricks on
me, prove it. Tell me something I don’t know. How are you doing this? Magic?
Something in my wine?”
The coyote laughed. “I may as well answer. If you accept our offer, you’ll learn
our methods; if you don’t, you won’t remember any of this anyway.” He reached into
the pocket of his cloak – no, his robe, the bat realized – only to withdraw an empty hand.
“Ah, of course. I forget sometimes that I cannot bring everything with me when I enter
someone’s dreams. In the waking world, I have a collection of hairs, and one of them
was yours. That hair remembers being part of you, and so I can use it to come here.”
“Like an insect that tastes of the flowers it has visited, I suppose. Very well.
What are you doing here? You said I had until tomorrow to give you an answer.”
“Curiosity, mostly. I wondered what you might dream about today, after our
conversation.” He looked over the city. “Your mind is an interesting place, to be sure.”
Enough was enough. “My mind, my dreams, my life, this is not some
pantomime for your entertainment. I’d refuse your offer, here and now, if I
thought you’d leave me alone. But I didn’t ask for your attention in the first place.”
“So, you accept, then.”
 It wasn’t a question. “Yes. Yes, I accept. If only to learn how to keep you out of my
mind. Even such an intrusive brotherhood as yours must have some notions of privacy.”
The edges of the coyote’s robe began to slide back up the walls of the inn, and the
other buildings in the city that had been rendered inaudible were suddenly restored. “I
suspected as much. Keep our appointment tomorrow, and your training will begin.”

It had been a few weeks since Kolenka had begun his studies. The
brotherhood, he had learned, called itself “the Green and Purple College”, with
each color having its own specialty. Followers of the Green Path specialized in
gathering information; the focus of the Purple Path was influence.
He found both paths interesting as well as amusing. The College stressed
that actual magic should be held in reserve, using suggestion and simple verbal
probing to finish whatever mission had been assigned, if possible. The techniques
for that were familiar enough to the bat, having seen them employed by various
performers over the years. Of course, the College could back up verbal trickery and
misdirection with magical force, and he found those lessons far more interesting.
Fairly early in his studies with Jareth, Kolenka had learned how to send his
thoughts to another, covert communication being essential for such a secretive
order. He had also learned that he had to be able to see someone to send his
thoughts to them. Which meant that even if Jareth hadn’t been watching him that
first night, someone had been; the coyote had been less than forthcoming about
the particulars. The bat had seen references to a spell for seeing through another’s
eyes, and he hoped to uncover its secrets as his studies continued.
Reading minds also required being able to see the target, at least to initiate
the process. Especially powerful followers of the Green Path could maintain that
connection for some time afterward. But reading a mind was more difficult than
speaking to it, as it required extracting thoughts from an often unwilling target;
this meant there was a way to resist Jareth’s intrusions, and he would find it. Of
more immediate concern was the implication that Jareth had lied to him, or at
least, misled him, on the aspects of the College he had been most interested in.
Which meant that deceit, mind to mind, was possible. It might take special
training, but it was possible. Kolenka thought back to the performers in his caravan,
the way the actors had so completely assumed their roles, the audience forgot
they were watching a performance. Perhaps by combining those techniques with
what he already knew of the College’s magic, Kolenka might uncover the secret.
 “Master, when will I learn to read minds as you can?”
Jareth smirked at the question. “As I can? Well, now, that could take years.
But I think you can begin learning the basics. We’ll start with an easy target.” He
pointed to a booth a few yards away, where a heavyset rabbit and tall, muscular
deer with a massive great sword strapped to his back appeared to be negotiating
something. As usual, the peculiar acoustics of the Three Spears kept Kolenka from
hearing what was said. “Imagine the rabbit is sitting in front of you, and you’re
asking her questions she doesn’t want to answer. Think about how you might phrase
your comments, so she answers your questions without realizing you’ve asked them.”
Just like tracing a line in someone’s palm and claiming to read their history
there. The bat concentrated, mentally probing at her, remembering the tricks he’d
heard a particularly adept crone use. Ah, my dear, I see from this that you have
children…no, no, you do not, but you want children, yes? Oh, yes, many children!
(Just sign the contract, you boor. Father insists that I have a bodyguard for the trip
into Bisclavret holdings. This backwater, antlered ignoramus will have to do. With any
luck, he’ll fetch a large enough price in the wolves’ slave market to repay his hire cost.)
Kolenka returned his attention to the coyote across from him. “She means to
betray him. We should warn him.”
Jareth’s eyes were lidded. “I know. She thinks herself a schemer, but her thoughts
are perfectly clear.” He gave a nod toward the deer. “He hopes to make enough money
from this venture for a donation to the Church, ask them to take in his son, teach the boy
to read.” The coyote’s eyes opened. “Give the child an advantage his father never had.”
Few on the island were lettered, so it was not an unreasonable guess. But
the bat had spent enough time with Jareth, even with the latter’s training in
deception, to tell when he was guessing. “You are certain he cannot read?”
“Yes. I was not only in his mind. I saw through his eyes. When they looked
upon the contract he’s preparing to sign, there was no comprehension. A pity.
That contract gives her, or anyone she designates, claim on him in perpetuity.”
Jareth drained his goblet of wine. “She plans to sell him, but he’ll be a slave the
moment he marks that parchment. And his son will never learn to read.”
“Then why do we sit here? She’s taking advantage of him!” Kolenka made
to stand but found he could not move. A month ago, he might have panicked, but
the coyote’s training let him recognize even subtle magic. [Let me go.]
 [Sit. Be still. Keep your voice down. Even the inn’s privacy measures only
go so far, and her ears are nearly a match for yours. If you would save him, you
must be more subtle. Think.]
Kolenka nodded. He looked over the other booths. Finding someone in the Three
Spears who could read the contract for the deer would be simple. Finding someone
willing to help him, that would be more difficult. Finally, he heard the rhythmic tap of a
staff on the floor, and he spied a broad-shouldered raccoon making his way to the door,
humming what the bat recognized as a hymn. Around his neck hung an eight-pointed
star. Well, he hoped for the aid of the Church. It’ll just be sooner than he expected.
The bat directed his mind to the cleric’s. {What is that deer doing in
Triskellian, so far from the northern woods?}
The raccoon blinked, looked about as if for the source of the voice, then
spied the deer and rabbit. He ambled toward them, and Kolenka shifted his
attention to the deer’s mind. {I should not sign this. I cannot even read it. How do
I know she is not playing me false?} The cleric arrived at their table. {Perhaps this
fine gentleman, a man of the cloth, can help me.}
Kolenka felt the bonds on his limbs loosen, and he turned back to the
coyote. “Subtle enough for you, I take it?”
“You managed not to reveal yourself, nor the College. But aside from
maintaining our cover, what did this accomplish for us?”
{We saved someone from a life of slavery. She would have stolen his life
and his son’s future.}
[I am aware of what you accomplished for him. That was not my question.]
{Are we to simply stand by, allow injustice to happen, when we can prevent it?}
[Where does our interference end, once it begins? Do we tend to the deer’s
son, and his son, and his son as well? Will you follow that rabbit around, to ensure
she doesn’t ensnare anyone else? Perhaps the cleric could use some help with his
next sermon; will you spy on his congregation, learn what sins they should be
lectured on? Kolenka, the power I have taught you is to be used to further the
College’s goals, not satisfy some selfish delusion of altruism.]
{I appreciate the clarification, since I seem to recall you promising me
“conversations without misunderstanding”. I’ll save more lavish uses of magic for
things that more directly serve our interests. In the meantime, I’ll consider tonight
a study in subtlety. The value of a light touch.} He couldn’t hold back an amused
smile. {Which means I should start learning the more advanced spells, yes? To be
of more use to the College? That trick you pulled to hold me in place, for instance.}
 From the look on the coyote’s face, he had an answer to that, but chose not
to share it.

Kolenka did not learn the spell for paralysis until much later. First, his
mentor insisted, was the matter of defense. Not against physical assault. The bat
could simply fly away from some clod with a sword or cudgel, and moving targets
were hard enough for archers on the ground, let alone in the air.
No, the coyote spent the following days training him to deal with magical attacks.
“The powers of the elementalists, while visually impressive, are nonetheless crude.
They lack the subtlety of our spells. A pyromancer preparing to conjure flames will
glow with reddish light, for example. Such simple assaults are easy to avoid.” He gave
a wry smirk. “At least, I’ve heard it’s red. My people do not see color as well as others.”
Kolenka refrained from telling Jareth that he also had poor color vision,
though his caravan had encountered a group of fruit-eating bats who claimed to
see vibrant reds and blues. That had been an awkward dinner, when his family
had offered them a selection of apparently unripe fruits. “As you say, our own
spells are more subtle, but what of the Church’s magic?”
Jareth nodded. “The disciples of Heloise are less obvious, yes. Only those with
sufficient magical training can tell when they have prepared a spell. Unlike the simple
assaults of elementalists, these spells cannot be dodged like a flung stone. They must
be resisted. It is a matter of concentration and mental flexibility; it is your mind, not
your body, that must weave out of the way if possible, and shrug off the blow if not.”
Perhaps that’s the way to keep you out of my mind as well. “My caravan has
been visited by its share of, how shall I say, enthusiastic priests. Impressive
orators, to be sure, and persistent, but we’ve learned to be stubborn as well.”
“You’ll need to be, but stubbornness alone won’t protect you. The Church
can be meddlesome, but the thaumaturges are more dangerous to us.”
Kolenka flicked an ear at the strange word. “Thaumaturges?”
“Wizards who specialize in ‘the magic of magic itself’, or so they claim. The founder
of their order called himself The Shadow Mage. That should give you some idea.”
The bat had the impression of a child who, having just learned to catch a
ball, thought himself a juggler. “Overly impressed with themselves, I take it.”
The coyote nodded. “But not entirely without reason. Like our spells, theirs
are subtle, imperceptible to most. They tend to share my distaste for the vulgar
spells of the elementalists, and they are particularly adept at fighting them.” Jareth
leveled a finger at the bat. “And other forms of magic as well. Casting a spell
requires speech, even if it’s under your breath. If he catches you off guard, a
thaumaturge can render you completely silent. No speech, no sound at all.”
Kolenka suppressed a shudder. The privacy booths at the Three Spears were
bad enough. He made a mental note never to fight a thaumaturge in dim light.
“Apart from being wary, what defense is there?”
“That spell tests your whole being, body and spirit, as though you were
physically grappling with someone putting his hand over your mouth or trying to
run away. I have heard of some who were able to shake off the effects and get
away. On its own, the condition is temporary, lasting no more than five minutes.”
The bat hadn’t been in many close-quarter fights, himself. The best defense
in his experience was a strong set of wings paired with quick reflexes. But he’d flown
over his share of skirmishes, in one city or another. Five minutes was an eternity.
“Can thaumaturges at least be recognized? They call their founder – what was it? The
Shadow Mage? That sounds like a group that prefers admiration over discretion.”
Jareth gave a short laugh. “No, they do not value secrecy as much as the
College does. But very few do. But to answer your question, they tend to wear
gray robes and carry their staves openly. And one of their lesser powers is a spell
of protection. So, if you see someone walking with a staff, draped in gray, staying
perfectly dry during a downpour…”

Once the coyote had taught him the mechanics of reading another’s mind, it
took Kolenka only another couple of weeks to block Jareth from reading his. Part
of the challenge was determining when he was making the attempt, but the bat had
come to recognize the signs. Kolenka had spent many an evening in his youth playing
cards in the caravan, learning to read someone’s hand from their body language. The
coyote wasn’t nearly as subtle. Not after Kolenka had nailed down the feeling of having
someone in his mind, then learned to listen for Jareth’s sub-vocalization of the spell.
The defense against Jareth’s intrusion was simple enough, once managed the first
time. The trick was in keeping the coyote from realizing his failure. The mental processes
were similar, though. It was like the difference between moving cards around too quickly
for a mark to track the target and convincing the mark’s eyes to follow the wrong card.
It helped if, as in Jareth’s case, the mark had already convinced himself he
couldn’t be fooled.
 After Kolenka had managed to keep Jareth out for the first time, he knew
the coyote would try again as soon as he could, putting more force behind the
attempt. Kolenka spent the hours in between preparing himself, and the following
night, he managed to resist again. But this time, after parrying Jareth’s mental
thrust, the bat sent a thought to him:
{Bastard’s stronger than I thought, but I kept him out.}
Jareth’s lip curled. [No, you didn’t.]
All too easy.

Of course, now that Jareth knew Kolenka could block his mental intrusion,
the bat suspected he would hesitate to teach him the more powerful spells in the
College’s arsenal. No matter. Kolenka had learned to read minds, and so it was
only a matter of time until he grew powerful enough to pull Jareth’s remaining
secrets. In the meantime, he practiced on the rest of the city.
While he did learn a few interesting tidbits here and there, for the most part
the bat was struck by the banality of most minds, the shallowness of their thoughts.
Left to their own devices, most of the people he encountered thought of little beyond
their next meal – literal for commoners, metaphorical for nobles. The latter was at
least somewhat less boring, as it involved other people and political maneuvering.
Here and there, Kolenka encountered criminals, either simple cutpurses or
others with more elaborate plans involving second-story windows or blunt
instruments. These he left alone. Though more rampant in Old Town, crime was
not unheard-of in New Town, and the gorilla, Umberto del Serio, that ran the city
watch seemed to have things under control. His only regret in such cases was
having wasted a day’s magic on such petty affairs.
The first time he actively intervened was when he learned of a murder plot
while scanning the mind of a minor Bisclavret noble, Ewan MacDouglas, early one
evening. The city’s premier money lender, a shrew named Tamurello, had
apparently furnished the wolf with a large sum of money for a potentially lucrative
business endeavor. As was common with his people, the wolf found his grand
schemes did not align with reality, and the expected profits failed to materialize.
Kolenka learned that Ewan had offered his cousin’s home in Harrowgate as
collateral, having apparently lost his own holdings through prior, similarly ill-advised
investments. Tamurello would foreclose in the next few days, despite the wolf’s
pleas for more time. This would come as a surprise to the cousin. Ewan’s options
were limited. He could allow the foreclosure to proceed (unthinkable); repay the
loan in time (impossible); or sell himself into servitude to pay the debt (ridiculous).
And so, Ewan concocted a new plan, more poorly-conceived than the first:
remove the lender and all records of the loan.
Kolenka saw the details in the wolf’s mind. He was even now on his way to
Old Town to hire a team of thugs to ransack Tamurello’s shop, destroying all
paperwork they found. If they found the shrew within, they were to dispatch him.
If not, at least the lender would have no proof of his debt.
The bat knew he had hours at most. While Kolenka had no particular love for
lenders in general, and had never met Tamurello, he recognized the wolf’s kind.
Moneyed, landed folk. Above the law the commoners live by. This one has always
been shielded by his noble birth, his family fortune. And now, having squandered
his own estate, he sacrifices that of his kin, then plans a murder. He may even
have a plan in case that fails, to avoid any blame for his part in the crime.
That was what decided him. For every mob that had attacked his family’s
caravan – ironically, many of them made up of shrews – there was always someone
inciting them. Always someone with an agenda riling up the crowd. Usually someone
with money. And when the rabble were inevitably rounded up, the rouser walked away.
Kolenka’s ears swept the city below him, listening for the tall, looming shape
of the magistrate. He knew the gorilla liked to check in at every guard post in the
city, and the bat spotted him returning from the west gate. Kolenka landed on a
rooftop and concentrated on the figure below him, remembering how he had
rescued the deer from slavery.
{I should assign some guards to watch that money lender’s shop tonight, in
case anyone tries something.}
The gorilla looked around him but saw no one. And then he looked up at Kolenka
and whispered, just barely audibly even to a bat, “Come down, and we can talk.”
{Why am I wasting time with this bat?}
Again, he whispered, just at the edge of Kolenka’s hearing, “I know the
sound of my own thoughts. Now, you can come down, or I can come up. You
wanted my attention. You have it.”
Kolenka glided to the street below, landing before the imposing figure. “Very
well, Magistrate Umberto. A minor Bisclavret noble is planning to have Tamurello’s
shop burgled, and the lender himself killed if possible, to eliminate his own debt.”
The other shook his head. “You say he will have the shop burgled, not that
he’ll do so himself. Do you know whom he will hire for this? How many? What sort
of folk? Do you know where he’s getting them?” The other shook his head. “The best
I could do would be to lock up the scoundrels he hires, since as a noble, even a minor
one, he’s beyond my reach. But I can’t even do that much without more details.
And devoting guards to the shop tonight would pull resources away from other duties.
How do I know this is not a scheme of your own?” The gorilla’s eyes narrowed.
“You tried to fool me once already this evening. Forgive me if I’m less than trusting.”
The bat looked down at the pouch tied to his waistband. Standing on one foot, he
deftly untied it with the toes of the other, then handed it to the magistrate. “My name is
Kolenka Gorisov. The wagon I sleep in is parked in the woods beyond the east gate. You
could confiscate it, but there is little in it of value to me. That pouch is another matter.”
Umberto took it, nodding. “I know something of your people. You put your
true valuables in these, so you can fly away with them in the event of an emergency.”
“Yes. Emergencies like a wagon, or a shop, being attacked by a hired gang.
I entrust it to your keeping, until the truth of what I have said can be proven.”
The magistrate tapped the side of his head, lowering his voice. “I also know a little
about your other people. Enough to recognize the feel of someone attempting to meddle
with my mind. You’re not doing that now. Very well. I do not entirely trust you, but I
will watch Tamurello’s shop myself for the next three nights.” He held up the pouch. “If
I make any arrests in that time, you’ll get this back. Otherwise, come see me afterward.”
“That is fair, Magistrate, and thank you. I will seek you out in due course.”
He stretched his wings, preparing to take flight.
“One last thing. The noble is beyond my reach. He is absolutely beyond
yours. If what you have told me is true, his plot may be exposed by those he hired,
in which case he may face high justice. But even if he is not exposed, you may
have to be content with leaving him to Tamurello’s debt-collecting mercies.” He
offered a half smile. “It is frustrating, I know. But I must officially ask you not to
pursue him yourself.” The gorilla’s lip curled into a half smile. “I cannot officially
condone a commoner taking extra-legal action against a noble. So, I hope, if any
harm should happen to befall him, no official evidence pointing to you is found.”
The bat rose into the air. You could not be clearer if you were shouting. He
watched the magistrate make his way toward New Town and the shrew’s shop,
then turned his attention back to the wolf. He flew above the run-down
neighborhood, the light fading from the sky. The only illumination to be found was from
the few businesses still open at this hour, candles flickering in lamps with cracked but
mostly intact glass. Kolenka listened for the wolf. Ewan had been clad in rough leathers,
wanting to keep a low profile. Even a minor noble, traveling with neither retinue nor
bodyguard, made a tempting target for the scavengers Kolenka heard lurking even now.
 So, Ewan had attempted to disguise himself, and to the eye, it was
convincing enough. But when he had focused his attention on the wolf earlier,
Kolenka heard the clink of armor under the leather. Not much of a businessman,
but hardly a fool. It was that sound he listened for now, as the taverns began
spilling their staggering drunkards onto the street.
There he was, leaving the Empty Purse. Kolenka followed him from the air,
grateful for the clouds drifting past the full moon tonight, masking his shadow.
Ewan wound his way from one alley to another, glancing behind himself
occasionally. Finally, several blocks and multiple reversals later, he paused to lean
against a wall in his latest alley to catch his breath and bearings.
Kolenka landed on a rooftop overlooking the alley.
{You’ve run out of second chances, Ewan. No more protection for you now.}
The wolf tried to back further into the wall. “Show yourself!” he growled.
{You don’t get to make demands, here. Your station doesn’t shield you from
me. And after tonight, it won’t shield you from anyone. Not after what you did.
Your own cousin. Not even the stinking cumalai sell out their kin.}
The wolf’s voice rose. “Nobody knows about that!”
From a few blocks away, Kolenka heard a few sets of footsteps pause.
{You’ve been careless, Ewan. More people know than you’d think.} He thought
back to the brief time he’d spent in Bisclavret territory. {Did you think Duke
Tremaine wouldn’t know? That his eyes wouldn’t see?}
Ewan’s voice grew louder as he looked about for the source of the voice.
“The Duke wouldn’t take my cousin’s side! He’s always favored me!”
The footsteps were getting closer, now. At least three, maybe four, seemed to be
taking an interest in the wolf’s odd outbursts. {Don’t count on his protection anymore.
{I doubt you’ll ever see Harrowgate again. There’s probably a bounty on your head
already.} The bat considered. Yes, just another push. I should turn you in, myself.}
Ewan tore away his leathers, revealing the expensive, gleaming armor
beneath. “Then face me, and I will put an end to your lying tongue!”
The footsteps separated just beyond the head of the alley, with two sets
circling quickly around the block.
{Very well, Ewan. My friends and I are coming now.}
Two raccoons rounded the corner and stalked into the alley. From the
opposite end, two more approached. All had knives drawn. The tallest of them
snickered, beckoning with his empty hand. “Come on then, milord.”
Kolenka rose into the night sky and left Ewan MacDouglas to his noble destiny.
 The walls of Kolenka’s vardo echoed with the pounding knock upon the
door, and the bat groggily roused himself from his slumber, stretching his wings. He
walked along the ceiling and peered blearily through the small hole in the doorway.
Nearly eclipsing the midday light was the countenance of Magistrate Umberto del
Serio. Kolenka’s foot reached for the cord running along the ceiling; he gave a tug to lift
the bar over the door and took a few steps back from it. “Please, come in. I would offer
you a drink, but I am not in the habit of receiving visitors here. Let alone at this hour.”
The door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, and the gorilla’s doorframe-
filling form squeezed inside. Kolenka gave an appraising chirp, with the door no
longer in the way; Umberto sounded even more tired than he’d looked. The magistrate
closed the door behind him and looked up at the hanging bat. “Sorry to disturb you.
I suspect you had an even busier night than I did. Could you come down, please? The
last conversation I had with someone from this angle, he was held for questioning.”
The bat released his grip on the ceiling while spreading his wings, flipping
himself over and landing without difficulty. “I had guessed this wasn’t a social
call, but can I assume it’s not an interrogation?”
“That remains to be seen.” He held up the pouch Kolenka had given him. “I
believe this is yours. Four weasels attempted to break into Tamurello’s shop last
night. I was only able to capture one of them. Slippery bastards.”
“And has he volunteered anything? The name of the noble who hired him?”
Umberto shook his head. “He’s given us a name, yes, but I doubt it will
help. He claims he was hired by a wolf who called himself Tacet Sacculus.”
“The unseen purse?”
The gorilla gave an approving nod. “Silent, but I can understand the confusion.
You and the wolf both speak Magniloquentia, I see.” He gestured at the walls of
the vardo. “Picked up in your travels, I assume. But in any event, I doubt that
name will lead us anywhere. Unless, of course, you can provide more information?”
It sounded like a question, but the gorilla’s body language said otherwise.
“Yes, I know his name. I hadn’t mentioned it last night because you had no
reason to trust me. And you couldn’t have held him, in any case.”
“We’ll see to it that he’s handed over to those with authority. The name?”
“Ewan MacDouglas.”
Umberto nodded. “Thank you. I’ll have Tamurello check his records for that
name.” The magistrate shifted. “Though if my suspicions prove correct, the shrew
may have some difficulty collecting from him.”
 “What do you mean?”
The gorilla set the pouch on the floor. “This morning, one of my Old Town
patrols found a corpse in an alley. A wolf. Stripped naked with multiple wounds. A few
scraps of armor were found near the body. Probably damaged when the rest was torn
off him. No commoner could afford armor like that. My people are checking the records
of the city gatekeepers to see which nobles have entered recently and not left.” He gave
Kolenka a long look. “Officially, you are not a suspect. Even beaten, the body looked
too strong for you, or any single person, to have done that to him. It would have taken
at least three, maybe four. So, as I said, officially, you had nothing to do with this.”
Kolenka retrieved the pouch and secured it to his waistband. {And unofficially?}
The gorilla had already opened the door and was retreating through it.
“Unofficially, I hope for your sake that whoever robbed and killed him cannot
identify you. Because at that point, I could not look the other way. For now, I
must return to my duties.”

[You’ve been busy.]

Kolenka sent out a few scanning chirps as he flew over the city, sparing as
much concentration from his flying as he dared, but could not find the coyote’s
form, which meant the coyote was likely behind something that allowed sight, but
not sound. A glass window, perhaps. They were more common here, in New
Town, but Kolenka didn’t see anyone peeking out of them at the night sky above.
He felt Jareth’s familiar attempt to read his mind, and by reflex, resisted it.
And immediately he realized his mistake.
[I knew you’d figured out how to keep me out of your mind, but I had
thought you’d only managed it once. But I was suspicious. Now I know for certain.
Meet me on the steps of the Cathedrale.]
Kolenka circled around to the tallest building in Triskellian, lowering himself
toward the street. Once he was within a dozen paces of the steps, the bat’s ears told him
Jareth was standing on the steps already; his eyes insisted no one was there. Kolenka
alighted a few paces away from the coyote and closed his lying eyes, relying only on
his ears now. {I assume you’re about to make me forget everything you have taught me.
Would you mind stopping whatever it is you’re doing, first? Let me actually see you?}
[If you can’t see me now, then how…oh, of course. You’re close enough that
you don’t need your eyes to see me. Very well. Though I was looking forward to
the look on your face when I appeared.]
 Kolenka heard the coyote wave a dismissive hand, then opened his eyes, and
Jareth stood before him. {Much better, thank you. Sorry to ruin your dramatic entrance.}
“We need to talk, and I for one would like a drink.” Jareth waved toward
the Three Spears, already walking in that direction.
Once the two of them were ensconced in one of the inn’s privacy booths
with food on its way – a rare cumal steak for the coyote, a bowl of fried
dragonflies for the bat – Jareth turned to his pupil with a grin.
“I hope you’re not planning to strip my memories and leave me to pay the
bill. I couldn’t afford my own meal, let alone yours, even if I pawned my vardo
and everything in it.”
The coyote laughed softly. “No, no. Payment has already been arranged.”
He pointed a single claw at a well-dressed otter a few tables away. “He’s going to
suddenly remember that he owes me a favor.” Jareth pointed at a boar across the
room. “And if you’re curious, he bought your first meal here.”
“I would question the ethics of robbing them, were I not amused. Besides, I
suspect they can both afford it.” He turned back to his mentor. “So, what happens
to me now? Will I remember anything of the last few weeks?”
That brought another laugh. [When first we met, blanking your mind was a
valid threat. Now? After you’ve not only managed to keep me from reading your
mind, but persuade me otherwise? No. It would take one of the College’s most
powerful members. And that would be a great loss.]
{Thank you, I suppose. But you haven’t answered my question. What
happens now?}
[You’ve shown a great aptitude, as my superiors expected. I’ve not taught
you any of the College’s offensive magics, but you’ve managed to turn telepathy
into a lethal weapon.] The coyote nodded to their server as the entrees were set
before them, wasting no time tearing into his steak. [Though I must say, you were
a bit untidy in your disposal of that wolf.]
{I was expecting you to chastise me for, how did you put it, “pursuing selfish
notions of altruism”.}
[Tamurello is a pillar of the community. It would do the College no good if he
came to harm. But as I said, a bit untidy, though I give you credit for making it look
like a typical Mardi night in Old Town. Next time, see to it the body is never found.
The death of a noble just creates complications. The raccoons you used will end up
dead, if Umberto finds them.] Jareth pointed toward the boar and otter. [If you’re going
to make a habit of using people, try to keep them alive so you can use them again.]
{Point taken.}
 The coyote took another mouthful of steak. [All that said, I think it’s time
you started learning more powerful spells. Combat magic. As much promise as
you’ve already shown, I’d rather teach you these spells than wait until you wring
them from my mind.] He narrowed his eyes at the bat. [As I’m sure has occurred
to you. So rather than let you find the matches yourself and risk burning down the
city, I’ll show you how to start a fire safely.]
The next night, in a small tavern in Old Town, Jareth taught the bat three spells,
and Kolenka reflected that indeed the College’s magic was more subtle than the obvious,
flashy powers of elementalism. These spells were, on the surface, strictly defensive.
They could give the caster a better chance of escape from a fight, but they were not
themselves obviously harmful. Certainly not when compared to setting someone on fire.
When Kolenka raised this point, Jareth smiled. “So it would appear, yes. But
as you know, what is obvious is rarely true. Just as the right word in the right
place can change history, the proper application of even a subtle spell can be very
effective. Consider what you would do when faced with several assailants. Flight
is the obvious answer, but suppose they have arrows? Or guns?”
The bat pondered the three spells, which could stoke someone’s anger, unbalance
their mind, or cause minor muscle spasms. “Well, I can’t see how making them any
angrier would help. A spell for diplomacy seems more useful. Or obedience, ideally.”
“True, that might be counter-productive. However, if you were well out of
range, at least for the moment, that spell could keep them from closing. Especially
if there’s any existing animosity among them. Observe.”
He gestured subtly to a squirrel muttering to himself at the bar, counting a
few small coins over and over in between sips from a foul-smelling flagon. A few
whispered words from the coyote, and the squirrel’s tail bristled. He began to pound
on the bar, clearly agitated, shouting that someone had robbed him and would pay for
it. The bartender, a sturdy raccoon who Kolenka had earlier seen carrying massive beer
kegs one-handed, growled a warning to calm down, taking hold of the squirrel’s wrist.
Instantly, his other hand raked its claws across the raccoon’s arm, spilling
the contents of the flagon. The bartender released his grip, then seized the squirrel
about the shoulders, lifted him over the bar, and hurled him across the room.
When the squirrel returned to the bar, the raccoon informed him there’d be no
more drinking tonight. The fight gone from him, the squirrel departed.
Jareth turned back to his student. [That kind of rage demands an outlet. He
wouldn’t dare attack the bartender, no matter how much he’s had to drink. So, he
assaulted the bar. But suppose he bore the raccoon a grudge.]
 {Or even felt less fear of him. Yes, I see. If nothing else, a fight breaking out
in a crowd would be a useful distraction. I’m surprised nobody took his coins.}
The coyote chuckled. [Nobody would dare. This is one of the safest taverns
in Old Town. Now, can you think of any use for the other spells you’ve learned?]
Kolenka ran through his options, then nodded. {Confusion. Hitting a
moving target, let alone a flying one, takes concentration. I could make myself
more difficult prey by confounding their minds.}
[Very good. And of course, as you make you escape, the third spell can slow
pursuit.] He gave another soft laugh. [These three spells have more powerful
versions, one of which you’ve already felt.]
{When you paralyzed me. That’s the enhanced version of the spell to cause
spasms, isn’t it?}
[Again, very good. For the anger spell, by the way, the more powerful form
causes blindness. And the confusion spell’s counterpart makes the target highly
susceptible to suggestion.]
The practical applications of such a spell needed little imagination.

A few days later, Kolenka asked the coyote a question that had been on his
mind for some time. They had met a few dozen paces away from the bat’s vardo,
outside the city proper, for the sake of privacy during the evening’s lessons.
Jareth plucked a single hair from his own muzzle and handed it to him. “I’ll
want this back when we finish.” The coyote looked around, then seemed to listen
for something, before nodding in satisfaction. “Good. We shouldn’t be disturbed.
For tonight’s lesson, we’ll both be sleep.”
Kolenka took the hair and looked for a sturdy branch in the tree beside them.
“You’re going to teach me to visit dreams. I’ve been curious about that one.”
Jareth took a vial from his belt. “Sleeping draft. It should last for half an
hour. But first, a quick lesson.”

Once the coyote was satisfied his pupil understood the mechanics of the
spell, he uncorked the vial and took a small sip, making sure to stopper it again
before sleep took him. Kolenka ascended to the branch he had decided on earlier
and hung from it, concentrating on Jareth’s hair as the spell formed in his mind.
 The bat found himself in a foggy corridor with doors at varying intervals,
wearing the robe Jareth had given him recently but nothing else. Even his pouch
was missing. Kolenka chirped into the fog but heard nothing in return. Afraid to
take flight, he walked along, trying each door as he passed. All of them were locked.
After what felt like hours, Kolenka saw a figure emerge from the mist. To his ears,
it had no substance at all; but to his eyes, it was like a shadow cast against a wall, but
with no one to cast it. The shape was like the coyote’s, in a general sense, but where
Jareth had eyes, this figure had only two holes, the mist behind it visible through them.
When it opened its mouth to speak, Kolenka saw that too was only a hole.
“You do not belong here. Recruiting you was a mistake.” Its voice gave the
impression of arrows whizzing past, ominously close. “The College’s masters must
be testing me. They want me to fail. They’re looking for an excuse to get rid of
me.” With every line, the figure grew larger and its voice louder.
Kolenka heard one of the doors swing open behind him, then footsteps as
someone joined his side. “Silence and begone! Your lying counsel isn’t wanted here.”
As the shadow dwindled and retreated, Kolenka turned, and he saw Jareth,
but taller and broader of frame. The coyote was glad in bright green armor,
decorated in purple script. When he saw the bat looking at him, Jareth resumed
his more usual dimensions and attire. The fog began to lift, and Kolenka realized.
“I’m in your dream. The spell worked.”
“It did.” He pointed down the corridor, in the direction the shadow had fled.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“What was that? It looked like you. In an abstract way.” Kolenka pointed to
his ear. “But it wasn’t really there.”
“You may find that your senses do not quite work as you are used to, in
dreams. But your ears are mostly correct. We call that thing a shade. It is a
concept, an idea, given shape and form.” Jareth gestured around them. “They have
more substance in dreams, but one finds them in the waking world, sometimes.
There, they tend to appear wherever the idea associated with them is fixated
upon, by one or many. A tavern might generate a shade that craves alcohol.”
The bat nodded. “But in a dream, I would meet shades created by the dreamer.”
“In this case, a manifestation of my own insecurities, anxieties, and so forth.
I thought it was safely contained, but the potion I took may have allowed it to
escape. In any case, consider that a practical lesson about dreams. It’s helpful to
know as much as you can about the dreamer before you wander in, so you can
anticipate the kinds of shades you are likely to meet.”
 Kolenka pointed down the corridor, indicating the doors. “What about
these? They represent secrets? Ideas? What are they?”
Jareth shook his head. “Every dream is different, as is every dreamer. I knew
you’d be visiting, so that probably impacted the venue. In this case, probably secrets,
yes. Things I’m not quite prepared to share with you just yet. But my mind is more
disciplined than most, as yours is becoming. It’s easier for me to lock away parts of it.
Other people, you will find their dreams easier to navigate. And with practice, interpret.”
“So, the College may ask me to spy on someone through their dreams?”
“From time to time. But we also use this spell to communicate with each other.
You and I share a sleep schedule, but there are others in the College who are diurnal or
crepuscular. When you need to speak with someone while they’re asleep, this is a useful
spell. And unlike telepathy, distance is no object, and your target can be out of sight.”
The bat nodded. “But you need a link to them, like the hair you gave me.”
Jareth turned to one of the doors, and Kolenka saw a label appear on it:
INKLING. “Yes and no. You need a link, but it need not be physical. In time, I
will teach you a spell to create your own mental link to someone.” The corridor
began to fill with fog again. “For now, the draft is wearing off, and there is more I
must teach you of dreams when we awake.”

A few weeks and lessons later, Kolenka again felt Jareth’s presence in a
dream. The bat had learned there was no way to prevent the spell’s success, but
that like any dream, he could exercise a measure of control.
Thus it was that Kolenka looked down at Jareth from his hanging perch in what
appeared to be a massive library. “Ah, good morning. As you can see, I did some
redecorating since your last visit.” He pointed a claw to the bookshelves. “Some of
those contain the spells you’ve taught me. Others contain my own secrets. Those
books are locked and can only be opened with a command uttered in Night Speech.”
“Very clever, my apprentice. You’ve developed your skills to the point I
cannot read your waking thoughts easily, and you’ve found a way to shield your
dreams as well.” The coyote looked up at him. “You’ve made very good progress,
and now I think it is time for your first real assignment.”
Kolenka released his grip on the perch and drifted to the floor. “Very well.
Are all such assignments to be delivered this way? I had hoped you would return
that hair of mine at some point.”
 Jareth nodded. “Yes, the College typically sends its instructions this way. I
still receive my orders in dreams, even after all my years of service.”
“Very well. What does the College ask of me today?”
The coyote smirked. “You may find this amusing. The night we met, you
had a conversation with a Repense commoner about Countess Venetia. You
dismissed his belief that she had strange powers.”
“I take it he was right.”
“Yes. However, we have not been able to reach her for some time. You are
to travel to Repense territory and learn what has become of her. Discreetly.”

After a week of travel, Kolenka arrived a few hours before sunrise at the outskirts
of Merza on the Skirfane River. The trip had been largely uneventful, even though he
had travelled largely by night. The occasional highwayman was easily heard in advance,
and a subtle {He doesn’t have anything work taking} was sufficient to persuade most
to lose interest; the few who persisted were left stumbling, blind, in the trail dust.
The bat made sure his beast had room to forage, then concealed his vardo as
best he could before making his way into town. He wasn’t sure he could learn anything
about the missing Countess here, but perhaps he might pick up a lead. If nothing
else, this was the demesne of the Repense, and he could be assured a decent meal.
Kolenka entered the first tavern he found, the Drunken Beetle, and made his
way to an empty table before scanning the crowd. The mouse serving girl treated him
with a combination of deference and confusion, her ingrained respect for bats clashing
with his outsider status, but as Kolenka took in the other bats in the room, he decided
he didn’t look too out of place. The others were presumably nobles, but minor ones,
and of course they all favored clothing like his own that let wings move freely.
When the mouse brought his order of honeyed wasps, Kolenka focused his
attention on her, working his way into her mind. {Where can the Countess
Venetia be found?}
The mouse pointed over his shoulder, and as he was turning to look,
Kolenka heard an unfamiliar voice in his mind. <Ah, there you are. A minute or
two late, but mostly on time.>
The lady bat who had just entered the common room wore an evening gown
and a choker set with amethysts, though one seemed to be missing. She made her
way to his table, the eyes of serving mice and the ears of dining bats following her.
{If we were the only bats in the room, I would address you in Night Speech for
privacy. May I presume I have the pleasure of addressing the Countess herself?}
Without being asked, the mouse brought the lady a bowl of fried crickets.
“Thank you, Justine. Leave us be for a moment, please.” She returned her attention
to Kolenka. <You do. And you are the College’s envoy, sent to reestablish contact.>
{I gather you were expecting me.}
<I was expecting someone, to be sure, but until a few days ago, I was
unsure of the particulars. Clever of them to send a bat. Less likely to stand out.
But yes, I foresaw your approach.>
Kolenka felt a pressure at the edge of his mind, recognizing it as a gentle
probing. He pushed back, just as gently. {Please, Milady, there’s no need for that.}
The Countess twitched an ear. <Impressive. Jareth himself couldn’t keep
me out. He should be proud of your progress.>
{I could say the same, Milady. If that was a guess, it was a very good one,
and I can usually tell the difference.}
<The task of reaching out to me would be assigned to someone who had
completed his early apprenticeship. And just as a child learning to speak will take
on the dialect of his parents, your mind sounds more than a bit like Jareth’s.>
She nibbled a cricket. <But come, the night is young, and you haven’t asked the
important question yet.>
{Very well. How is it that the College lost contact with you in the first place?
The dream visitation spell doesn’t have any limitations on distance. And even if
that were thwarted, as powerful as you seem to be, I doubt anything could stop
you from reaching out to them.}
<With the College’s penchant for secrecy, I couldn’t very well use
conventional channels. But you’re right; I could find a way. But yes, that spell has
only one flaw.> She mimed plucking a hair from the top of her head.
<Fortunately, I found someone who can break such links.>
{That leaves only the question of why.}
<As I said, I foresaw your approach. I have learned to predict the future by
watching the stars, and I saw a day coming when the College would use me
against my people. This I could not allow. The Repense have my first loyalty.>
{I suppose I should attempt to restore the College’s ability to reach you, but
you could just sever it again. And just as you saw me coming, you’d see other
envoys, or larger parties, in plenty of time to take preventive measures.} He
finished his wasps. {But you still risk being found out, by telling me all this.}
 <Yes, but I doubt you’d betray my secret. I knew that one of my travelling
kin would be arriving today, coming to this very inn. Tell me, would you move
against your own people if the College demanded it?>
Kolenka smiled. {Again, Milady, most impressive. You read the truth without
invading my mind. The College of course will want answers. So, I think I should
meet this friend of yours.}
<Good. Look behind you.>
Kolenka opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as a hand fell on his
shoulder. He turned and saw a lynx. A lynx who had managed to approach him
without being heard. Felines could move quietly, to be sure, but even their stealth
could not compete with a bat’s ears, even with the low murmur of conversation around
them. When an appraising chirp directed at the lynx brought no echo, like the privacy
booths at the Three Spears, Kolenka reached out with his growing sensitivity to magic.
Sensing a faint glow about the lynx, he turned his attention back to the Countess.
“Since he cannot introduce himself at the moment, allow me to present my
associate, Desconocido.”
“A name I suspect he chose for himself.” The bat turned to him. “You feel
like a wizard, and with an appellation like ‘unknown one’, I can only assume
you’re a thaumaturge.”
In response, the lynx only waved toward the door.
<Yes, let us take this conversation someplace more private.>

The three of them retired to Venetia’s opulent room at a nearby inn, the
Spread Wings. On the way there, Kolenka noticed he could hear the lynx’s
footsteps. He thought he felt something like an itch in the back of his mind, but it
passed quickly. I didn’t hear him vocalize any spells, so probably just my
imagination. Staying up days on the road will do that. When they arrived, the
Countess locked the door. “We can speak freely,” she said.
Kolenka nodded and turned to the lynx. “You haven’t spoken, but I doubt
you’re mute. Was I correct, back at the Beetle?”
Desconocido withdrew a wand from the sleeve of his tunic. “I am a student
of Kyndranigar, yes. As you probably guessed, I cast a spell of silence on myself to
approach you undetected.”
 Kolenka settled into a plush chair. “Yes, that’s one of the few spells I know
of. My master told me to beware of it. I suspect most wizards are told the same.”
He turned back to Venetia. “How do you two know each other?”
The Countess poured three glasses of wine. “We met a few years ago. A
political rival had hired him to assassinate me, actually.” She handed one glass to
the lynx, then offered the second to Kolenka, who declined. “Given the rumors I
allow to circulate about my powers, a thaumaturge was a natural choice.” Venetia
took a long sip. “As you have discovered, it is very difficult to take me by surprise.
My rival had provided him with the amethyst missing from my choker, and so he
was able to follow me around, but I remained a step ahead.”
The lynx reached into his tunic and withdrew the stone in question, now
worn as a necklace. He took up the tale. “After a few exchanges, it became clear I
wouldn’t be able to box her in, and so I elected to return to her rival and give
back his money. That was when I heard her voice in my head. And the priming of
her pistol a few paces behind me.”
“You should’ve heard the look on his face, when he turned and saw me
hanging there. In any event, we reached an agreement. In addition to giving up
on the job he was hired for, he would tell me who had paid him. In return, I
arranged for that rival to forget the whole thing. Literally.”
Desconocido set down his empty glass. “And now, as need warrants and
availability allows, we do favors for each other. She keeps me informed of any
ominous portents, and I help her deal with magical threats.”
Kolenka gave a smirk. “Like me.”
“I did not foresee you causing any trouble, and you haven’t, but as my
fellow seers say, ‘trust the stars, but tie up your cumal’.”
Desconocido approached Kolenka. “One of the favors I have done for her is
to break the link her colleagues used to contact her. Shall I do the same for you?”
“At some point, yes. But not just yet. There are spells my master has yet to
teach me, and it would not be wise to fog the air between us.”
At the lynx’s confused look, the Countess laughed and spread her wings.
“My people do not speak of burning bridges.”
The lynx nodded, then plucked a hair from his head, offering it to Kolenka.
“From what the Countess has told me, you should be able to contact me using this.”
Kolenka took it, then gave Venetia a hair of his own. “And should you need
to reach me. It may be helpful for you to have a friend in the College.”
The Countess accepted his gift. “I may borrow your ears from time to time,
if you’ll let me.”
 “Of course, Milady. Visit my dreams, and I’ll relay what I’ve heard.”
Venetia gave a short laugh. “I was thinking more in terms of eavesdropping.
Literally borrowing your ears.” Then she noticed his look of confusion. “You don’t know
about that spell? Using another’s senses?” She appeared to concentrate on the hair.
Kolenka felt an odd itch in the back of his mind, though not quite like what
he had felt before. An awful certainty began to form, like an indistinct echo that
suddenly resolved into a wall. “You’re doing that now? Listening through my ears?”
She nodded. <I am, for the moment. Please, do not speak out loud. My own
ears still work, so the effect is disorienting.>
{Then forgive me, Milady. I must evict you for the moment}] He turned to
face the lynx, directing his thoughts at him. {You must break my master’s link to
me. I fear he’s heard everything.}
The lynx nodded and muttered a quick spell. Kolenka felt the energies wash over
him and simply let it happen. An instant later, the bat thought he heard the sound of
two strings – one a few paces long, the other stretching back to Triskellian – being cut.
The Countess rubbed her temples. “I wish you’d given me more warning.
Being expelled like that is not pleasant.”
“My apologies, on several fronts. I fear I’ve given the College their answers
without meaning to. Jareth was already eavesdropping from the moment we
entered this room.” He plucked another hair from his head and handed it to her.
“Since the other one won’t work anymore. And since I cannot go back to my
former master for additional lessons, would you like an apprentice?”
Venetia replaced the useless hair, shaking her head. “The fault is mine. Jareth
may not be as powerful as I am, and as you have the potential to be, but he’s always
been more devious. The moment I knew he had been the one to send you, I should have
asked Desconocido to cast that spell. But we are safe for the moment. If he could find
agents as inconspicuous as yourself, he would have sent them already, and the stars are
not my only informants.” One of her ears rotated at the sound of a yawn, and she turned
to the lynx. “Ah, forgive me, my friend. The hour is late for you, I sometimes forget.”
Desconocido nodded. “The hour is late, and the wine is potent. And as you
may recall, that particular spell is a bit draining. My kind tend to be nocturnal, but
I’ve mostly adopted a daylight schedule. In any event, yes, I must retire for the
evening. As ever, you know how to reach me if needed.” The lynx secreted away
his wand, nodded to both bats, and departed.
Once he was alone with the Countess, Kolenka belatedly took the wine she
had poured for him earlier. “I was in earnest earlier, Milady. I would like to
become your apprentice, if you will have me.”
 “At this point, you’ve progressed beyond mere apprenticeship. But that said,
as Jareth has left your education unfinished, I would be happy to teach you what I
can.” She crossed to a closet and withdrew a book. It had a purple cover, but no
title, and a green bookmark lay inside.
The Countess handed the book to him, and he began leafing through its
pages, but could not read what was written on them. He closed the book and
returned it to her. “Milady, I fear the script is strange to me. I can read, of course,
and I’ve encountered many languages in my travels, but I cannot interpret this.”
“Jareth never taught you to…oh, of course. Of course, he didn’t.” She
uttered a curse in Night Speech, one that translated into the aural image of a pile
of cumal droppings. A thought seemed to strike her. “How did you learn how to
resist my attempt to read your mind, before? Surely Jareth didn’t teach you that.”
“No, he didn’t. But when he taught me the spell itself, I was able to work backward
from his description.” Kolenka didn’t bother to mask his pride. “And one day, I blocked
him. And then managed to convince him he’d gotten back in, when he tried again later.”
Venetia laughed. “He flew into a fogbank when he took you on, I think. But
back to the subject at hand. I would guess you don’t have a wand, either. Or a
staff. Did he at least provide you with a robe?”
Kolenka’s right ear flicked. “A robe, yes. I had seen him with a staff, when
he visited my dreams once, but I never saw him use a wand. That always seemed
too showy. Not subtle enough. A staff can at least be passed off as a mere walking
stick. But no, I don’t have either. And I’ve never seen a book like this.”
“Yes, a wand is more obvious, and the more powerful among us do not
need them.” She regarded him a moment. “What spells can you cast?”
“Thought-sending, as you know, and I can read them as well. I can induce
anger, cause confusion, and induce spasms. And I’ve just learned the spell for
blindness. He hasn’t taught me paralysis or mesmerism yet.”
“You learned all of those without a spell book. And you’re able to cast them
without a wand or staff to focus them. I was right. You have great potential.
Unfortunately, I was wrong about something else. I said you were beyond
apprenticeship, and in terms of sheer power, that’s true.”
Kolenka laughed softly. “Without even reading your mind, I can hear the
‘however’ in that thought.”
“Jareth never took you on as a proper apprentice. Because he didn’t want one.
He wanted a tool. Tell me, does he still use magic to get others to pay for his meals?”
“Yes, and mine as well. You seem to know him very well. He certainly has
no qualms about using people. And I can’t say I’m innocent on that front.”
 The Countess opened the book and handed it back to him. “You’ve had a
bad teacher. Let us begin correcting that now. Lesson one: reading this book.”

The secret of parsing the tome turned out to be fairly simple, once explained,
but not something he would have figured out on his own. Which makes sense. The
College wouldn’t want any mere scribe who happened upon a spell-book to be
able to learn its secrets. He learned the names for the spells he had already
mastered and was amused to discover details not only of how to cast them, but
how to resist their effects. Jareth’s own tutelage had been far less forthcoming.
Once the spell-book was open to him, Kolenka made swift progress. The
technique for casting the spells for paralysis and mesmerism turned out to be similar
to that for the blindness spell, as he had suspected: begin by casting the simpler, less
powerful counterpart – “eyebite” for the third, “ataxia” and “perplex” for the other two
– then concentrate on the intended target for a few seconds before releasing the spell.
He also learned of the spell for seeing through another’s senses,
“xenomancy”, and how to resist it. But in the process, Kolenka discovered another
spell Jareth hadn’t told him of, called “inkling”, that allowed the caster to create
their own link to someone. At Kolenka’s request, the Countess devoted several hours
to helping him master the resistance to that spell. Jareth would never bind him again.
The following afternoon, Kolenka dreamed of his former master. Jareth
appeared before him, arrayed in both robes and armor, carrying not a staff but a
flanged mace. Knowing it for a dream, the bat was briefly gripped with panic that
the coyote had found a way to re-forge what the lynx had broken. “You can’t be
here. You’d have to face me before you could get another connection.”
The coyote’s voice was deeper, and it echoed from the walls, making him
seem to be everywhere. “Is that what your new master told you? Silly boy. I found
you once. What made you think I couldn’t do it again?” As the bat backed into a
wall, the coyote grew taller, looming over him. “You belong with me, anyway.”
From behind the coyote’s form, Kolenka heard a series of chirps, conjuring
in his mind the images of a tree in the air and a stone bobbing in water. It was the
Night Speech phrase for “illusion” or “falsehood”. From the direction it had come, he
heard the flapping of wings, then saw the Countess. “He’s not real. Look at what he’s
carrying, my student. Remember what you’ve learned. What Jareth didn’t teach you.”
 He looked over the towering figure, then realized. “Yes. That spell only lets him
take certain things with him. No armor, no weapons beyond the College’s own.” Kolenka
returned his attention to the phantom. “If you’re real at all, you’re only a shade. Begone.”
The Countess landed beside him, securing her own robe about her even as
the false coyote evaporated. “A shade, yes. Your own fear, I think. The real one is
troubling enough. And in fact, Jareth is why I’m here. My sources, astrological and
otherwise, tell me his agents are on the move. We need to relocate. Awaken and
pack. Once night falls, you’ll need to visit Desconocido’s dreams and warn him.”
“I’ll be ready in moments.” Kolenka watched the Countess fade away as he
shook himself to wakefulness, dropping from his vardo’s ceiling and grabbing his
pouch before flying to Venetia’s room. I’ll need another vardo, now. Jareth will
have described this one to his agents.

With his pouch and new possessions that wouldn’t fit into it – a short wand the
Countess had shown him how to carve from an olive branch and an oak staff, hollowed
out and lined with iron, with quicksilver inside  — Kolenka was soon riding in Venitia’s
carriage toward a small town that only appeared on local maps, Birnam. Thankfully, she
preferred something nondescript. Jareth isn’t the only one who can appreciate subtlety.
Night had fallen by the time they arrived at the lodging the Countess had
arranged ahead of time, so while Venetia supervised the unloading of her carriage,
Kolenka withdrew the vial in which he had secreted Desconocido’s hair and
entered the lynx’s dream. He found Desconocido meditating in a circular room,
with a marble fox statue in the center and seven columns arranged along the wall.
“Good evening. I assume this is not a social call. Has Jareth made his move
at last?” He waved at the statue and columns. “This is Kyndranigar, and those are
his seven Virtues. The Countess has been helping me to master two of them:
Enigma and Intuition.”
Kolenka chuckled. “I had assumed you’d made a reasonable guess. But yes,
my former so-called master’s agents will be arriving soon to look for the Countess,
and probably you as well. We have arrived in Birnam. Do you know the way?”
Already the lynx was beginning to fade away as he woke himself. “No, but
that doesn’t mean I won’t see you there.”
Kolenka awoke from his trance and entered the suite of rooms, hearing the
voices of Venetia and Desconocido in the next room, though the latter seemed
distorted. He made remarkably good time getting here. When he entered, he saw
not the lynx, but an odd facsimile of him fashioned of crystal. Venetia’s choker lay at
its feet. The construct turned toward him, and Kolenka winced at the grating sound.
“Ah, forgive me. I should have anticipated that. One moment.” The crystal
lynx appeared to concentrate, and in a few seconds, it had become flesh and cloth.
Desconocido made his way to a chair, falling into it. “It’s been far too long since I’ve
done that. I forgot how tiring it is.” He gave a half smile. “Still, it’s better than walking.”

A few days later, the Countess began training Kolenka to use his staff not
only to hold spells but also as a more conventional weapon, under the pragmatic
theory that few threats were immune to both magic and bludgeoning. The sun was
just beginning to rise at the end of a night’s practice when he first became aware
of soft, slow footsteps coming down the road. Kolenka gave an appraising chirp in
that direction, and the answering echo identified the figure as a jackal.
And then the footsteps sped up, getting closer. Blast it. There aren’t many
who can hear that sound.
The Countess heard it as well. “Unless I am mistaken, that’s one of Jareth’s
agents. When they arrived in Merza and found us gone, they probably split up,
each following a different trail. He happened to guess right. Hold him.”
Kolenka had already begun the process of preparing the ataxia spell, eyes
alert for the jackal’s form as those pounding feet grew louder, though he was
vaguely conscious of the Countess muttering a spell of her own. The tracker’s
large frame, clad sparingly in a loincloth, became visible just as Kolenka finished
the spell, allowing him to concentrate on the jackal and build the spell’s power,
refining it into the spell for paralysis. When the spell hit him, the jackal struggled
against it briefly but ultimately succumbed, finding himself rooted to the spot.
The Countess leveled her gaze at the immobile jackal, Kolenka’s magic
sensitivity tingling faintly at the power of the spell she had prepared. “You cannot
move, but you can speak. Do so. Tell us who sent you.”
At the jackal’s snarled response, that same sensitivity told Kolenka that the
tracker also had power of a sort at his command. The intruder’s claws seemed to
sharpen as he struggled once more against the invisible bonds holding him in place.
Venetia unleashed her spell, and the jackal’s struggles ceased. He stood still
and his claws returned to normal. “Very well. When my student releases you, you
will forget that you found us. You will return to the one who hired you and report
failure. The trail has grown cold. We cannot be found.”
 When the jackal spoke, it was with a flat tone. “Forget…failure…cold…cannot…”
Apparently satisfied, the Countess turned to Kolenka. “Release him. He’s of
no threat now.”
Kolenka ended his spell, and the jackal walked sluggishly away. He turned
to Venetia. “Mesmerism. But won’t it wear off?”
“Yes, his current state will wear off, but he’ll carry out my instructions even
so. He’ll go back to Jareth and report that he couldn’t find us. But I doubt he’ll be
fooled. If he thinks of it, he’ll use the same spell to undo what I’ve done, uncover
the jackal’s buried memories.”
“And then he’ll send more agents or come for us himself. Do you have
another place we can set up shop then?”
“I do. But he’ll keep coming. We’ll have to deal with him eventually. Let us
do so at a time of our choosing.”

A couple of weeks later, Jareth arrived. Kolenka was just waking as the
evening began, but a sudden loud crack from outside jolted him fully awake. The
lynx had been on watch, but when Kolenka grabbed his staff and dashed outside
along with the Countess, he saw his former master standing over Desconocido’s
prone body. There was blood on the back of his head.
The coyote had blood on his staff. “Ah, my foolish young apprentice. You did at
least complete the task I set you. You found out why the College had lost contact with
Venetia. Taking up with this thaumaturge, abandoning her duty to us. For shame.”
[Deal with Jareth. I must tend to our Desconocido, make sure his mind does
not slip away into a permanent dream before his body can recover.] She retreated
and barred the door.
Kolenka pointed a claw at the staff. “That wasn’t terribly subtle. Even an
elementalist has more style. How did you get the better of him?”
“Perhaps someday I’ll teach you the spell. Suffice it to say, he never saw me
coming.”
It can’t have been the blindness spell. The lynx would have raised an alarm
if that happened. “You always told me to beware of thaumaturges, but I had no
idea you were this afraid of them.”
Jareth snorted. “Enough of this. Step aside and let me deal with the traitor.
The College wants her back.” He levelled his staff at the bat. “Which reminds me.
Your link to me was broken as well. Time to correct that.”
 Kolenka felt the linking spell enfold him, but he had practiced with the Countess
for this moment, and he was able to fend off the coyote’s attempt. “That won’t work,
Jareth. You’ll find I’m not so easy a target as someone who cannot see you coming.”
Already the coyote was preparing another spell. “So quickly you forget your
place, apprentice. Just like, I suspect, your new master. Very well. I had hoped
you would help me bring her back, but now you will join her in whatever
punishment the College chooses.”
The moment he heard Jareth intoning a spell under his breath, Kolenka had
done likewise. His mind is stronger than the jackal’s. This won’t be easy. As the
Countess had taught him, Kolenka channeled the spell into his staff, ready to be
unleashed in reaction to Jareth’s own.
They released their spells almost in unison, and the magical energies met in
the air between them. To anyone untrained in magic, nothing appeared to be
happening, but the spells’ battle for dominance was all too clear to the bat.
Abruptly, the coyote’s spell proved the stronger, and Kolenka felt the effects
take him, rooting him to the spot. He forced himself to remain calm. I’ve learned
a great deal since he did this in the Three Spears. This isn’t over yet. The bat
couldn’t move, but he could still speak; while he could speak, he could cast. He
started working on his next spell as the coyote sauntered over.
“And there’s my proof. The Countess showed you that trick.” He swung his
staff, aiming for the bat’s side. “But you’re not a master in your own right just yet.”
Feeling like he was trying to fly with his feet trapped in mud, Kolenka managed
to shift his own staff just enough to block the blow. His own spell at the ready, the bat
continued to struggle against the bonds that held him yet, feeling them start to give way.
Kolenka held his spell for now, concentrating on his foe and intensifying the spell’s power.
Jareth stepped in and plucked a hair from the bat’s head before Kolenka could
stop him. “That’s better. You’ll be the College’s eyes and ears again, soon enough.”
As the coyote stepped back, either to ready another spell of his own or to
replenish some of his spent magical energy, Kolenka finally broke free and hurled
his spell at the coyote’s eyes, then dropped his staff and took to the air as Jareth
flailed about below him. And here I thought he was afraid of being silenced. I
forget sometimes how much other folk depend on their eyes.
Kolenka knew the coyote would eventually shake off the effects of his spell
and be able to attack him again, so he took the opportunity to plan his next move
while circling out of reach of Jareth’s wild swings, and to regain some of the
energy he had spent, preparing one of the spells the Countess had taught him.
 “Not every spell requires seeing the target, apprentice.” The coyote clutched
the stolen hair and muttered a spell Kolenka had felt him use once before but had
not known about at the time. Now he recognized it. He knew how to resist its effects.
He didn’t bother. Kolenka let the spell wash over him, granting the coyote the use
of his eyes while his own recovered. He allowed Jareth a fleeting glimpse of the world,
then closed his eyes and let his ears guide him, swooshing past Jareth and changing
course in an eyeblink, banking and looping. Kolenka was used to such maneuvers
and the effect they had on his balance, the feel of the wind against his face and wings.
Jareth was not. Instead of flailing about with his staff, he now leaned on it,
clutching it desperately for support as his instincts fought with what the bat’s
senses were telling him. Standing upright yet falling! Holding still yet jerking from
side to side! He lurched from left to right as Kolenka banked, finally falling over.
And that was when the bat struck, unleashing the spell of fear he had been
preparing, filling the coyote’s mind with thoughts inspired by the shade he had
met in Jareth’s dream: a College council, denouncing him for his failures; a
hooded figure, striding toward him with a heated fireplace poker to burn out his
tongue; every spell wiped from his memory.
Jareth collapsed into a whimpering heap, and Kolenka felt the coyote’s spell
recede. The bat opened his eyes and landed beside the lynx, who had begun to
stir, just as the Countess emerged.
Desconocido looked up at the bat, then at where Jareth had fallen. “You’ll
have to forgive my failure to stop him, but you seem to have managed.” The lynx
rubbed the back of his head, feeling the fur matted with blood, then pointed at the
coyote. Jareth’s ears lay back as he crawled along the ground, reduced to howls
so soft only a bat could hear them. “What should we do with him?”
The Countess strode over. “Leave him. He’ll recover, in time. His eyes will
return, and his fear subside. But he’s no threat to us anymore.” She turned to Kolenka.
“You beat him, and he’ll never forget that. As for us, I think it’s time to return home.”
No more running.
 J.S. Hawthorne is a New England raised writer and lawyer,
currently in exile in suburban New York. She has been playing
Dungeons & Dragons since its second edition, and Ironclaw since its
first edition. She is overjoyed for the opportunity to spend some
time in her favorite setting, with her favorite scholarly raccoon.

Echoes of the Past

“A treasure map, boss?” the rhino asked in his thick Avoirdupois accent. His
name was Stephane and his cultured, urbane dress and dandy-like manner belied
a great reservoir of strength and power. He held a rough wooden cup in his
hands. The contents of the mug were the worst kind of rotgut, and it offended
Stephane’s refined tastes and he therefore held the mug but did not drink from it.
His stormy grey eyes were fixed on the woman seated across from him.
The woman was a plush skunk by the name of Kiara. She was as wide as
either of her companions but a full two hands shorter. Where Stephane wore a fine
cloak over a polished suit of armor, the skunk had a worn and serviceable leather
cuirass over equally brown breaches. A pair of pistols were strapped to her hips,
and a short, heavy sword at her back. Her fur was a pale lavender-blonde, an almost
imperceptible stripe of white starting just above her eyes and going all the way to the
tip of her gigantic tail, in contrast to the coal-black stallion or the slate-grey rhinoceros.
Her eyes, a green the color and sheen of emeralds, were locked on Stephane’s.
Seated next to the rhinoceros, on a bench just as rough-hewn as the mugs,
was a horse clad in immaculate white robs. He, too, had a mug, though he refused
to even touch it. He never touched alcohol and found the very concept offensive
to his religious sensibilities. His name was Etienne, and he clucked in disapproval,
though it was not apparent of what he disapproved. “He is right,” Etienne said
with a sniff, eyes the color of winter sky roving over the bar. He had the same
accent as Stephane, though a bit reedier and less lyrical. “This is beneath us.”
“Boys,” Kiara said, with a dirt and weeds Triskellian accent to match the bar,
“if the map is true, then this is the greatest trove of Autarch artifacts ever uncovered.”
“If the person who sold you the map was honest,” Stephane pointed out.
“Which cost how much, again?”
“Not important,” said Kiara, without missing a beat. She drained the
remains of her mug, then slammed it down on the table with satisfaction. She
leaned in close, a manic gleam in her eye. “Rich, boys. Rich beyond our wildest
dreams. We could retire, buy a little estate somewhere, and live the easy life.”
 “You are incapable of the easy life,” Stephane said, a tinge of laughter in
his voice. He leaned in a little, too. Etienne merely scowled at the dirty floor.
“No more than a week. Two days there, we dig up the treasure in three, and
we’re back in Harrowgate this time next week.”
Etienne snorted, his ears pinning. The other two could hear the whipping
sound of his tail as he lashed it back and forth. “Unless we are killed by Phelan,
perhaps, or eaten by something.” He shoved his drink away and stood. “This
time, no, Kiara. I’m not risking my life so you can buy your vulpine little friend a
new trinket.” He spun on his hooves and stormed out, massive calendar sword
banging loudly against the armor he wore hidden under his shining clerical robes.
Stephane watched the stallion go with a look of regret, then turned back to
Kiara. “He’s got a point.”
“So do I,” said Kiara. She knew she could convince Stephane, and Stephane
could convince Etienne. “It’s just over the border, not deep into Phelan lands at all.”
The tavern they sat in was in a small village with delusions of grandeur.
About halfway between Harrowgate, capital of the Bisclavret demesne that the trio
called home, and Thanon, the far western edge of both Bisclavret territory and the
island of Calabria, was a tiny road headed north. A half day’s journey up that road
dumped a traveler in the town of Eilanreach. If one counted assorted traveling
roustabouts, like Kiara and her friends, and used a very generous method of
counting, Eilanreach had a population of perhaps five hundred inhabitants, almost
entirely wolves. Nevertheless, it boasted three taverns, an oversized barracks, a
rather well-stocked library, and a tower that its inhabitant, the Baron Angus Repense,
insisted on calling the Castle Eilan. For the trio, Eilanreach represented a convenient
base of operations near the untamed Phelan wilderness. For Stephane, it was a
chance to avoid whatever legal consequences waited for him and his unguarded
tongue in Harrowgate. For Etienne, a place to spread the light of S’Allumer. And
for Kiara, it represented a chance to spend some time with the town’s only librarian.
“It just seems like a wild snipe hunt,” said Stephan. He grinned widely as the
lupine barmaid swung around to check on his drink. She flashed him a smile back,
but it vanished when she saw his mug was still full. Stephan huffed in regret and
wounded pride as she spun away before he turned his attention back to Kiara.
“Why can’t we take a simple job? Something that pays a little bit, but guaranteed?”
Kiara sighed, her cheerful expression slipping for a moment. “Why can’t we
give this a try?”
 “Because it’s a scam, boss,” Stephane said, sudden venom in his voice. “It’s a
waste of money, it’s a waste of our time, and one of these days one of these scams is
going to get us killed.” He found he couldn’t meet her eyes, full of hurt at his words.
“You don’t know —”
“No one sells real treasure maps, Kiara. And even if they did, you don’t
know how to find them. What about that sunken pirate ship? Or that cave in the
Rothos? You’ve tried three times to get to the lost Autarch city in Chevernaise
Pass!” Stephane slammed his massive fists onto the table, making it, and Kiara,
jump. “I want to earn my keep; I don’t want to chase dreams.”
Kiara searched Stephane’s face. “How much money did you make in each
of those?” she asked, her voice low.
Stephane narrowed his eyes. None of the treasure hunts that Kiara had led
— and there had been many — had panned out, but neither had they all been
complete busts. Stephane and Etienne had gone home each time with
considerably more coins in their purse than they had started.
Kiara leaned forward, emerald eyes glittering in the dim light. “I’m not a
complete idiot, Stef.” Still, he couldn’t look at her. “Tell me what it’ll take to get
you on board. You know I can’t do this without you.”
The rhinoceros ground his teeth, tiny ears twitching agitatedly as he digested
Kiara’s words. The skunk covered her smile with her steepled fingers, knowing
that she had him. It was now only a matter of time before the dam broke.
“Light curse you, fine,” Stephane growled, then he smiled. “Get me one expert
to say that your map has a possibility of being real, and I’ll talk Etienne around.”
He crossed his arms over his chest with a look of smug satisfaction. “And while we’re
looking around in Harrowgate for an expert, I expect you to cover our expenses.”
“Do you?” Kiara snatched up Stephane’s beer and downed it. “I know just
the girl,” she said, already standing.
The library of Eilanreach was the only building truly worthy of note, and that
was for its contents, not its architecture. Everything else, from the “castle” to the various
taverns, could have existed anywhere else on Calabria without anyone giving it a second
glance. The library, however, was unique. To be certain, there were other libraries, some
quite grand and impressive, scattered across the land. But none contained anywhere near
the number of illicit, banned, or censored books that lined the shelves of Eilanreach’s
library. One of the best kept secrets in Calabria, few realized that some little town on the
outskirts of Bisclavret land was the repository of such rare and valuable volumes. Those
who knew of the library were not keen to share that secret, either. The widely held, and
very specifically unsubstantiated, belief was that the Duke de Bisclavret himself supported
the library and that it was under the protection of his personal spies, the Indicateurs.
From the outside, there was nothing to distinguish the library from the row of
cheaply made and poorly maintained houses amidst which it sat. No signs adorned
the front door, and the style was identical to every other building in the town. One
might, perhaps, notice the thin curtains on the street-facing windows, much lighter
than the ones used by most of the inhabitants in this cold and windy country.
Kiara held the door open for Stephane, and he entered the dark library, keen
eyes flitting about as he took it all in. The inside left no doubt as to the building’s
purpose. Shelves lined every wall and extended out into the interior, covered in
hundreds, if not thousands, of books. There was a distinct air of disuse, which
smelled of old books and new fungus. The light filtering in through the thin curtains
was pale and illuminated the dust in the air and on the spines of the books.
The only inhabitant inside the library was a swift fox, tan except for lighter
markings under her chin and down her throat and darker swaths of fur like tear
tracks running from the corner of her amber eyes to her cheeks. Her ears were large
and pointed and they turned towards Kiara and Stephane before the rest of her did.
She had long auburn orange hair that was pulled back at the nape of her neck and
fell like a cascade to the middle of her back. It was cold this late in the season, but the
fox was bundled up even more than the average citizen. Heavy woolen robes, a plain,
undyed grey, covered a body that Kiara knew to be unusually thin and so heavily
scarred that she looked like had mange. Her tail, more like a rat’s than a vulpine bush,
was hidden under bustle and skirt. Leather gloves covered up fingers that had been
mutilated and declawed. Kiara’s heart ached, like it always did, when she saw the fox.
“Oh!” said the fox when her vision caught up with her hearing and she
realized she had visitors. “Kiara, how may I…” Her voice, as soft as a wind chime
and with a shockingly thick Bisclavret burr, trailed off as her attention alighted on
Stephane. The rhinoceros seemed to fill the crowded library.
“Alexandra,” Kiara said, stepping forward even as the fox’s ears pinned back,
her eyes wide and fearful, “This is my friend, Stephane.” The skunk motioned
Stephane to sit and he obeyed, gracefully folding himself down with surprising lightness
on a low bench. “He’s okay. A friend,” she repeated, taking Alexandra’s hand in hers.
“R-right,” Alexandra stammered, tearing her eyes off of Stephane to look
into Kiara’s. “Um. How can I help ye?”
“We need to authenticate a map,” Kiara said in a carefully neutral voice.
Stephane was watching her with deliberately undisguised suspicion. “We want to
know if what it shows is real.”
 The fear drained from Alexandra like water in an unstopped bathtub, and
she was rapidly filled with curiosity. “What sort of map?”
In moments, the three of them were squeezed into a small office in the back
of the library, filled with three heavy oaken tables. Stephane was crowded into a
corner, watching everything while trying to be unobtrusive, while Kiara and
Alexandra weighted the map down with small rocks. Alexandra took one look at
the land, then nodded to herself and rushed out of the room.
“Boss?” Stephane asked.
“She’s skittish, is all.”
“Okay, but…”
“She knows her stuff, Stef. If she says there’s not likely to be anything there,
I’ll drop the whole thing and we’ll go hire on a merchant caravan. First job back
to Harrowgate, deal?”
Stephane, looking mollified, nodded and leaned back to wait.
They didn’t have to wait for more than a minute or two before Alexandra
came back, bent double under the weight of a half dozen books and scrolls and
maps tucked under her arms and between her stomach and the tomes. She dropped
everything on the table with a muffled crash, then started unrolling some of the maps.
Neither Kiara nor Stephane had any idea what the scrawny librarian was
doing, but they were oddly hypnotized by her swift, sure movements. Map after
map was unrolled, orientated, then laid off to the side. Then she started zipping
through books like she scarcely needed to read their contents. She opened one,
flipped to a page, scanned a line or sometimes a sentence and once an entire
paragraph, then slid it off to the side and pulled out the next one.
The whole process took perhaps an hour, during which time neither Kiara
nor Stephane talked. He was worried about breaking the magic that the fox
seemed to be weaving. Kiara, on the other hand, simply knew Alexandra well
enough to know that silence was best.
“Alright,” Alexandra said, soft voice full of conviction and a weird, passive
authority. Kiara turned to grin triumphantly at Stephane. “The map’s a fake.”
Kiara’s grin wiped away, replaced with a look of stunned defeat. “But,” Alexandra
went on, “There’s something here.”
“Something like what?” asked Stephane, curious in spite of himself. He
straightened as if to stand and Alexandra flinched.
“There were definitely Autarch ruins in that area,” Alexandra muttered,
addressing Stephane’s knees. “The map’s not real, but what it shows might be. I
can’t tell ye whether there’s real treasure to be had there, but I can say it’s possible.”
 “Who makes a fake map to real treasure?” Stephane asked. Alexandra
mumbled something inaudible.
Kiara spoke up. “Maybe fake’s the wrong word. Maybe it’s a replica. A
recreation.” Alexandra nodded in agreement, though she seemed unable to
verbalize a response. The fox, ears pinned back, was edging closer to Kiara.
“Someone made a copy of a map. Alex, how do you know it’s not an original?”
Alexandra took a few minutes to compose herself, and when she spoke, her
voice was barely a whisper. “The geography’s missing landmarks. The paper and
ink date the map, but the style is much older, and mistakes there, too.” She cleared
her throat, paws scuffing along the ground. “And its signed, but that’s forged.”
Kiara turned to Stephane and held her breath. It wasn’t the clear win she
wanted, but it might be enough.
Stephane was silent for a long time, his focus entirely on the map. Finally,
when Kiara’s lungs were burning, he nodded. “Alright.”
Kiara let out her breath in a gasp. “Alright?”
Stephane nodded again. “I’ll talk to Etienne. We’ll go.”
Kiara was ecstatic as Stephane bid farewell to her and to the librarian, then
wandered off in search of the stallion. She watched him go, grinning like a wild
cat, until she felt a gloved paw slide into hers.
“Kia?” Alexandra asked, her voice soft.
Kiara turned, intertwining her fingers with Alexandra’s. The fox gave one
abortive attempt to pull her paw away, then relaxed. “Everything alright?” she asked.
Alexandra hesitated, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, eyes downcast. “I just…
be careful out there, alright? There are a l-lot of things in those woods that aren’t
kind to folk.” She looked up just long enough for Kiara to see tears glistening,
then ducked her head down. “Tis not a safe place ye’re going.”
Two hours later, Kiara, Stephane, and Etienne were on the rough cart track
that made up the road north. Eilanreach was rapidly vanishing in the distance and
the dust of the swayback rounceys the three rode. Etienne was his characteristic
dour self, but Stephane was equally subdued. None of them talked, the silence
stretching for hours as they rode through the hinterland forests. Eilanreach was
long in the distance before Etienne broke the stillness.
“Who is that?” he asked, pointing forward.
Startled, Kiara looked up from the back of her rouncey’s scaly blue-grey head
and saw, a dozen paces away, a dour looking raccoon in a conservative beige traveling
dress. Her expression was of great distaste, as if she had just bitten hard into something
sour and rancid, and she was holding a set of reins in her hand, but there was no mount
to be seen. A large grass and dirt stain covered her dress on the left from ribs to calf.
“That’s Miranda Devoisier,” Stephane said with excitement, bringing his rouncey,
twice as large as either of the others, next to Kiara. “Of the Dunwasser College.”
“How in the light of blessed S’Allumer do you know that?” Etienne asked,
forgetting momentarily to be aloof. Stephane merely sniffed at him.
“Ah, good,” said the raccoon, as the trio drew close. She drew a pair of
mud-splattered glasses from a pocket and set them on her nose. “My destrier
appears to have run off. Might I hire a ride?”
Kiara and Etienne shared a look, but Stephane immediately dismounted and
bowed. “Madame Devoisier,” he said as he straightened. “We would be honored
to lend you aid.”
“I’m sorry,” Devoisier said, squinting up into Stephane’s face. “Have we met?”
“Very briefly, madame. At my father’s mansion in Chalon-sur-Sauldre, a few
years back.”
“Ah.” The raccoon’s expression was blank.
“You had wanted to find a particular book.”
“Yes, I remember.”
Kiara, behind Stephane’s back, used sign language to ask Etienne if he knew
what was happening. The stallion shrugged.
Kiara cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind us asking, Madame Devoisier,
what takes you to this speck of woods?”
Stephane answered for her. Kiara could have kicked him. “You’re still
working on that treatise on the Phelan, madame?”
Devoisier grunted in what might be taken as an affirmative. “I don’t mean to
delay you on what I can see is clearly a mission most important. Does this track
lead back to civilization? I can just follow it back.”
“Nonsense!” Stephane beamed. “We can give you a ride back to Eilanreach.
It’s only a few hours ride.”
Devoisier visibly paled beneath her fur. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.” She took several
hasty steps to the side, clearing the road. “You folks look like you’re in a hurry.”
“Nonsense!” said Stephane, but Etienne came to the raccoon’s rescue. “We
are in a bit of a hurry, Stephane,” the stallion said. “Perhaps we should simply bid
Madame Devoisier adieu and move on?” Devoisier mouthed a ‘thank you’ at Etienne.
Kiara spurred her rouncey forward, touching her fingers to her forehead in a
vague salute. “Good day to you, madame,” she said, leading her companions
forward. Devoisier curtsied in response. Stephane sputtered but with Etienne and
Kiara already moving forward, and Devoisier striding confidently southward, he
had little choice but to mount again.
They managed less than twenty paces before Devoisier shouted.
Kiara slid free of her saddle rather than wait for the rouncey to turn its
ponderous bulk. Her pistols were in her hands before her paws hit the ground, but
it still took her a moment to make sense of the scene laid out before her.
A massive wildcat, nearly as tall as Stephane, wearing only a loincloth and
bearing a wicked looking spear, had leapt out of the forest straight for Devoisier.
A half dozen other felines were pouring out of the dark woods, shouting in a
language that Kiara did not recognize.
Kiara took one step, raising her guns. Devoisier, too, had pulled a pistol out
of somewhere and was falling back even as she leveled it against the big cat
bearing down on her. Stephane and Etienne were dismounting, both slow, both
only just starting to catch up to the scene.
Kiara took a second step and fired her first pistol into the crowd. One of the
cats howled and went down clutching at their side. Before Kiara’s ears had stopped
ringing a burst of sound and smoke erupted from Devoisier’s gun. The large cat
kept coming, ignoring the wound in his gut, screaming in fury as he raised his spear.
Kiara took a third step and, as she did so, pivoted to the side to draw a bead
on the big cat. Etienne had his sword out, finally, and was saying something that
Kiara couldn’t hear. Stephane hadn’t bothered with his weapons but rather lowered
his head and charged into the pack, sending cats scattering in every direction.
Kiara took a fourth step and fired. The big cat was nearly on top of Devoisier,
who ducked to dive out of the way of the flashing spear, when the bullet took him in
the side. She landed face-first in the mud. The spear point slammed into the ground
inches from her head. The cat was streaming blood but still moving, wrenching his
spear free as he turned to make another attack at Devoisier. Stephane had finally
managed to pull his sword out and was holding off two of the remaining cats.
Etienne had killed another, and the remainder were fleeing back into the woods.
The big cat swung his spear up and brought it down in one fluid motion. In
desperation, Devoisier attempted to parry with her gun, and the strike reduced it
to so much kindling. Devoisier was sent sprawling into the mud once again. Kiara
was running now, her pistols back in their holsters as she jerked two daggers free
from the holster under her armor.
Etienne was faster. His massive sword glowed with an inner fire as he charged the
cat, and soon Devoisier was forgotten as the two men battled. The stallion’s lips moved
in a constant stream of prayer. Then Kiara, daggers flashing, joined the fight. The big
cat spun his spear almost too fast to see, blocking attack after attack, but when Stephane
strode forward, he bared his fangs and hissed out something in a language none of
them knew. Then he leapt, sailing high above them and landing behind Stephane.
The cat did not stop to see their stunned faces, but fled into the forest, still spitting.
“Screeberagh,” Devoisier muttered. She was sitting in the mud, holding the
broken bits of her pistol.
“I’m sorry?” Kiara asked, offering the raccoon a hand up.
Devoisier accepted. “That was a Screeberagh raiding party. They have a few
small holdings throughout the forest but are squeezed between Bisclavret and the
various Phelan clans. They must be getting desperate. I suspect they’ll be camping
out on the roads, waiting for travelers to capture and loot.” She looked down at
the broken gun and let it drop with a sigh. “I think perhaps it might be better to
wait a few days to head south. Might I accompany you?”
It took them a few moments to get sorted. Despite Stephane’s hopeful requests,
Devoisier rode behind Kiara, one arm looped around the skunk’s waist to keep her from
sliding off. The raccoon was a comfortable warmth and weight against Kiara’s back,
silent except for the gentle scratching of her pen in a leather-bound notebook. Stephane
skulked and pouted slightly behind them, while Etienne kept pace with Kiara, hands
flashing as he tried to engage her in a silent conversation. Kiara responded awkwardly.
She was not the master of mounted combat that Etienne was, and could not release
her reins to sign with both hands, the sign language equivalent of speaking through
a loose gag. Her thoughts, too, were far away. Devoisier’s warmth reminded Kiara
of Alexandra, and the raccoon kept remembering the dusty smell of the small library.
What Kiara had not told Stephane, or Etienne, or even Alexandra for that
matter, was that this treasure hunt was all for the librarian’s sake. The library had
deep political connections, connections of which even Alexandra was unaware. Kiara
had made it her business to know where the power was hiding everywhere that she
went. If Alexandra found a valuable enough piece of old lore, something to make her
stand out, then her superiors might call her home to Harrowgate, maybe even to work
in the Fèrobian Bibliotheca. If the rumors were true, then the Bibliotheca was home
to ancient Phelan artifacts already. Surely Autarch artifacts would be just as welcome
there. A promotion would get Alexandra out of this tiny village on the outskirts of
civilization and give Kiara a chance to move back to the city she considered home.
Eventually, Etienne gave up trying to talk to Kiara, and the rest of the day
passed in a quiet haze. They ate their supper in the saddle and stopped to camp
once it had grown too dark for the rounceys to avoid hazards. The road, such that
it was, had long ago vanished, replaced with a wide trail in the woods. Devoisier
explained that it was an old foraging trail once used by the clan of Phelan who
had become the Bisclavret and now, a century later, only infrequently traveled.
They camped in a shelter of old growth trees, upon a thick bed of fallen leaves
and the warm smell of old decay. They pitched tents, except for Devoisier, whose
supplies had been on the destrier that had run off on her. Etienne volunteered to
lend the raccoon hers and would have slept out in the chill and damp if Stephane
had not offered to share his with the stallion. It took Etienne a long time to agree.
They built a small fire in a pit they dug out of the leaf litter and heated a pot
of water for tea. Their conversation was dull and stilted. Stephane kept trying to
talk to Devoisier, who held herself apart from all of them but Stephane most of all.
Etienne seemed to go back and forth on whether he wanted to spend the night
with Stephane and showed it by alternating between warm conversation and cold
indifference. Kiara and Devoisier pored over the map. The scholarly raccoon was
a wealth of knowledge of the Phelan lands, and helped to plot out the best route
to where Kiara and her friends wanted to go.
“There’s a Phelan settlement a league or so away from where you’re going,”
Devoisier told her. “A little Deaseich village. If you don’t mind a couple hours’
delay, maybe you could drop me there?” Kiara agreed.
When the tea was gone and the fire banked, they started, one by one, to
vanish into their tents. The night was peaceful and calm, though at one point, laying
on her back and staring at the side of her tent, Kiara thought she heard something
large moving through the brush not far from the camp. Whatever it was, the normal
nighttime sounds faded to silence when it approached. It did not bother the travelers,
however, and soon the sounds of crickets and small nocturnal lizards returned,
sluggish in the cold. This land would soon be covered by snow and ice, Kiara
thought. A cold land, and harsh, and no place for Alexandra to be forced to stay.
When Kiara awoke the next day, she found Stephane already up, cooking
some sort of root vegetable in a skillet over the fire.
Kiara dropped onto one of the logs they had carried over to serve as a
bench the previous day. “Did he kick you out,” she asked, jerking her head at
Stephane’s tent, “or did you get sick of him instead?”
Stephane snorted. “Want some breakfast?”
“Tea, if you have it,” Kiara said, grinning at the rhinoceros’s non-answer. She
rummaged through her pack until she found some dried fish to chew on. She didn’t mind
the two herbivores’ food choices, at least for lunch and dinner, but she needed a little
meat to be awake in the day. Devoisier was up next and accepted a gift of Kiara’s jerky
while they waited for Etienne. The stallion emerged, tousle-haired and bleary-eyed, just
as they were beginning to strike camp. He waved off Stephane’s offer of breakfast and,
instead, stepped out of their clearing and knelt over the pommel of his sword to pray.
“Does he always do that?” Devoisier asked, voice soft so as not to disturb
the horse. Kiara shrugged before continuing to pack up her tent.
“Every morning,” Stephane said, voice a little distant and his gaze on
Etienne. He shook himself out of his reverie. “He’ll be done in a minute. Help me
with the fire, madame?”
There was little to mark their passage when they resumed their travel an
hour later. A few tracks, perhaps, and a rough circle of logs surrounding a pile of
ash and cinder were all they left behind as they mounted their rounceys, Devoisier
again riding behind Kiara, and headed north. Kiara had gotten very little sleep the
night before, but the other three were cheerful and animated. Even Devoisier was
more interested in the jocular conversation, which ranged from the best inns in
Harrowgate to the intricacies of obscure capitular orders of the Holy Church. When
Devoisier was very engaged, her tail had a habit of twitching back and forth. Kiara
could feel it brush against her hips and thigh. She was reminded of Alexandra.
It was well after midday when Devoisier poked Kiara in the side. “Are you
alright?” she asked, while the men argued in the background about which city,
Ardent or Chalon-sur-Sauldre, had the better views.
“Hmm?” Kiara said.
“You haven’t said more than a dozen words since lunch, and Brother
Etienne keeps flashing those strange hand gestures at you, which, I think, you
haven’t even noticed.”
“It’s sign language,” Kiara said, glancing over her shoulder. Indeed, Etienne
was asking her to back him up on the beauty of the Abbey at Ardent. She told him
Triskellian was better. “Stephane doesn’t speak it.” She stretched in her saddle
with a grunt. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“My mentor at the college used to say that insomnia was the sign of an
anxious mind. Of course, all of we students were nervous constantly, so none of
us got much sleep.” Devoisier chuckled dryly. “If you care, perhaps unburdening
your worries might lead to a better sleep?”
As much as she was starting to like the raccoon, Kiara had no desire to tell
Devoisier that she was afraid her map was a dud, or that this really was a wild
goose chase and that there was every possibility that the three of them would walk
away with nothing more than their lives. Or worse, that some or all of them might
not get even that. She had told Stephane that she had always led them to profit,
and that had been true, but Kiara knew that had been luck more than anything,
and she equally knew that luck was a finite resource. Kiara wouldn’t rest well until
they had returned to Eilanreach with something to show for their adventure. But
Devoisier didn’t need to know that and, therefore, Kiara changed the subject.
“Did you hear that whatever it was moving around camp last night?”
“No, I’m afraid I fell rather deeply asleep. What did it sound like?”
“Like Stephane when he gets drunk and can’t find his shirt,” said Kiara with
a twisted grin. “Something big stomping around, I don’t know. Bigger than
anything I’ve heard before.”
Devoisier made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, which Kiara took
to be a stifled laugh. “Ah, let’s see. There are a number of strange creatures in the
Muire Forest. The Phelan tell legends of a fearsome beast called a uadh-chrith,
maybe you heard one of them?”
“What are they like?”
Devoisier snorted. “A hundred stone in weight and as tall as two buildings
stacked atop each other. A beast made of nightmares and anger and hunger, rolled
into flashing, murderous claws and teeth.” Devoisier made the noise again. “Every
Phelan I’ve ever asked on the subject has said they’ve known someone who was
part of a uadh-chrith hunting party, and I’ve met Bisclavret who tried to sell me
bones from a supposedly slain one, but I don’t really believe they exist. Probably
they’re just telling stories about an overgrown destrier that went wild. I actually
have a bet with one of my fellow students about whether they’re real or not.”
“So, you think I heard a wild destrier?”
Devoisier shrugged, which Kiara could feel but not see. “Maybe, or a heavy
cumal that got away from its owner.” Devoisier fell silent, leaving Kiara alone with
her thoughts. It hadn’t sounded like a destrier, nor had it had the ponderous sound
of a cumal, the large domesticated lizards that the Phelan and Bisclavret kept.
Kiara pushed the thoughts away. They had traveled leagues north and
whatever it had been, it was certainly now miles behind them. She allowed
Stephane to draw her and Devoisier into a discussion of the various noble houses,
including Stephane’s own, and Calabrian politics.
That conversation lasted them until the day had waned into evening and
they were considering where to make camp.
That’s when they found the remains of Devoisier’s destrier.
There wasn’t much left of the poor creature. They found a few scraps of torn
saddle, the remnants of a pack, and the tip of the creature’s tail. Kiara and
Devoisier shared a look, both thinking about their earlier talk, then quickly turned
away. In unspoken consensus, the four pushed on into the night.
 The howling started just as night truly fell. The companions stopped, and
then all three turned to look at Devoisier.
“Phelan,” was all she said.
The howl grew as more wolves joined in, and soon, long before the travelers
reached the sprawling farms that marked the edge of their destination, a dozen or
more armed Phelan trotted out of the forest. The wolves formed two columns, one
on either side of the companions, and trotted in time with the rounceys. Their
guards led them straight through the farmland, the old path widening and
smoothing out into a proper road, if a potholed one. They were marched into the
center of town, where another group waited in warm torchlight.
Unlike the warriors, this group was unmistakably townsfolk. They were
mostly wolves but there were a handful of other folks mixed in, and only a very few
of them were armed. As the companions drew near, three figures stepped out of
the crowd towards them. The largest, in the middle, was a tall wolf in a fine wool
kilt and richly embroidered coat. His long white hair and greying tan fur marked
him as rather elderly, though he walked straight-backed and sure. To his left was a
raven with ink-black feathers, wearing loose black robes and eyeing the interlopers
with a beady expression of interest. On the wolf’s right was a dog wearing breaches
and a coat that would not have been out of place in Harrowgate. She had mottled
black fur and sort cropped white hair, and her eyes, one blue and one brown,
were nervously shifting back and forth between the wolf and the companions.
The wolf raised a hand, and the soft murmuring of the crowd faded to a
silence so complete that Kiara’s ears flicked back and forth. He looked around,
first at the gathered Phelan, then at the travelers, and began to speak in a
beautiful, clear voice. Kiara couldn’t understand a word.
Devoisier was nodding at the wolf. When he finished talking, she turned to
the others and said, “That’s the chieftain. He said a lot about the sanctity of the
land and the people, and the authority entrusted to him. It was quite poetic,
actually. A little ritualistic, but that makes sense.” She had pulled out her
notebook and was jotting something down in it. “There are some interesting
inflections on some of the verbs, I’m not sure what those mean, hmm.”
Kiara cleared her throat, and Devoisier looked up, blinking owlishly behind
her glasses.
“Oh, right,” the raccoon said with an embarrassed cough. The Phelan were
all staring at her. “Uh, the chieftain wants to know why we’ve come to his village.”
“Tell him that we’re just passing through,” Kiara said, but it was the dog
who turned to the chieftain and began translating.
 “Passing through to where?” the dog asked, after the chieftain had spoken
to her. She had a distinct Bisclavret accent, not as thick as Alexandra’s, and with
a hint of foreign education.
“Who are you?” Kiara asked, narrowing her eyes as the canine.
The dog stiffened. “I am Seonag GilDomnhall, commissioned of His Grace, the
Duke Mausein de Bisclavret, to ensure peaceful relations with our Phelan cousins.”
“Oh,” said Stephane, “You’re Indicateur.”
Devoisier turned her inquisitive gaze on GilDomnhall, raising an eyebrow.
Etienne and Kiara turned to stare in horror at Stephane, who blinked at them.
“What?” he asked.
The crow was whispering in the chieftain’s ear, staring past him at the dog.
GilDomnhall blanched and took a step backward.
“Dammit, Stef,” Kiara muttered. “Miranda, what’s going on?”
“Hm?” said Devoisier, “Oh, uh, the crow is denouncing Miss GilDomnhall as
a spy and a traitor and… uh…” The raccoon flushed. “I shouldn’t repeat that in
mixed company.”
GilDomnhall started arguing with the crow, much to the jeers and cries of
the audience. The chieftain took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest,
watching the fight.
“What is going on, Miranda?”
“It’s hard to explain in just a few sentences. I have some lecture notes from
a presentation I gave in my bag if you…”
“Just the highlights, please.”
“Oh.” Miranda scratched her chin, still focused on the fight. “Well, basically
a contest of, well, insults. It’s one of the ways in which they settle debates.”
“What happens if the Indicateur loses?” Stephane asked.
“She’ll be denounced as a spy and probably either killed or sold as a slave.”
“Also,” Etienne said sharply, “Stop calling her that.” Stephane looked hurt
and opened his mouth to respond.
“We need to do something, Miranda,” Kiara said, cutting off the brewing argument.
“Unless you happen to be fluent in Bérla Féini and know a lot of very good
insults, I’m not sure we can do anything.” The crow was rising to a crescendo and
GilDomnhall looked both pale with horror and swollen with anger. “They’ve
basically accused her of working for the Screeberagh to weaken Phelan interests
in the area so the Bisclavret can take over. That’s a pretty serious accusation.”
“Good job, Stephane,” Kiara muttered. “What if we bargained for her life?”
 “I’ll ask.” Devoisier cleared her throat and shouted over the din of insults.
The crow stopped, turning their head to glower at her. As Devoisier kept talking, though,
the chieftain waved them down and back. He responded, and a short, incomprehensible
dialogue ensued. Kiara could feel her blood pressure rising as she listened to
Miranda bargain for their lives in a language she did not know. She reflected bitterly
on how recently she had met the raccoon and debated whether she really did trust her.
After a tense quarter hour, Devoisier turned to the others. “Well, he’s accepted
that we don’t know Miss GilDomnhall, and in fact is somewhat grateful for exposing
a spy in their midst. I think it helps a great deal that we’re none of us wolves. He
wants to know what else you have to offer in exchange for such a valuable slave.”
“What about the —” Stephane began but Devoisier cut him off.
“He, uh, has already claimed the rounceys as his own property.”
“Oh.” His eyes turned on Etienne and his sword.
“Not a chance,” the stallion growled. “We have other weapons, though?”
Devoisier shrugged and turned back to the chieftain. When she was done
conversing, she told them, “He’s uninterested in regular swords or armor, and, to
be perfectly frank, I don’t think anyone here could even use your equipment,
m’lord Stephane.” The rhinoceros shrugged. “I didn’t mention the guns, but they
would probably do. I should note, however, that even one gun is much too
expensive for a slave of this quality.”
“Hey!” GilDomnhall said. They ignored her.
“What money do we have?” Etienne asked.
“The Phelan are barterers,” said Devoisier, “They don’t have much use for
numismatics.”
“What if we knew the location of a vault of Autarch knowledge?” said Kiara,
not looking at anyone. “A map to ancient ruins, full of valuable items of power.”
Stephane hissed in shock. Etienne merely raised an eyebrow.
Devoisier shrugged and translated. The crow sniffed and said something that
even Kiara recognized as sarcastic, but the chieftain cut them off. “He says,”
Devoisier translated, “he’s listening.”
At Kiara’s instructions, Devoisier told the chieftain that they would lead him and
whoever else they chose to the ruins. In exchange for GilDomnhall’s life and a few hours
to examine the ruins themselves and take what loot they might, they would acknowledge
the Phelan’s claim to the land and all of the ancient power it possessed. It took some
negotiation to hash out how long, exactly, the companions would have, and then
Devoisier insisted on a separate deal to allow herself to stay and learn from the Phelan.
 By the time they had finished, night had come fully on. The companions
were pointedly not invited to stay in any of the Phelan homes, but shown to a
rocky and untilled section of the farmland that surrounded the village. Their
packs, including their tents, were returned to them, but their mounts were led off
to join the chieftain’s herd. Three of the Phelan warriors sat down between the
companions and the forest. They didn’t look at Kiara and her friends, but they
watched the foursome all the same. The travelers were permitted a small fire and
given an allotment of food, all meat, and then left to their own devices.
There was not much conversation around the fire. Etienne took one look at the
brace of skinned lizards they had been given, then, without a word, stood and walked ten
paces away. The others watched as he knelt and began to pray. Stephane eyed the meat
but didn’t complain, though he also didn’t eat. Kiara and Devoisier didn’t talk much as
they ate, and Devoisier kept pausing to jot down notes in her journal. They didn’t bother
to erect their tents, but simply laid out their bedrolls on the rocky ground. Despite how
uncomfortable they all were, a fitful sleep claimed them nearly as soon as they laid down.
They awoke as the first rays of dawn snaked their way through the tangle of
forest. The village was already alive with the sounds of industry. Phelan workers
were out collecting the first of the fall harvests, while others were tanning skins or
spinning thread or a dozen other tasks needed to prepare for the winter.
The chieftain was already out and ready, surrounded by ten warriors in
beautiful, if somewhat outdated, armor. The crow was there, as well, dressed the same
and looking extremely put out by the sword at their waist. GilDomnhall was a little way
apart, unarmed and wearing an undyed wool dress that looked so absolutely wrong on
the dog that Kiara was worried it was a different person altogether. GilDomnhall had her
arms crossed and was glaring at the travelers, which Kiara took as her cue to approach.
The chieftain began to speak to Devoisier before the group had crossed half
the distance between them. This made GilDomnhall glower even harder, and
when they finally reached the warriors, she snarled under her breath at Kiara.
“I hope you’re happy.”
“Sorry,” Kiara said, not at all upset. “Seems to me that your position here wasn’t
too stable if all it took to get you in this much trouble was Stephane’s big mouth.”
“Tàmin,” she nodded towards the crow, who made a face at her, “has been
whispering in the chief’s ears for months that I wasn’t to be trusted. They were
primed to turn on me.”
“How did they know what I said, though?” Stephane asked.
 GilDomnhall rolled her eyes. “The word for Indicateur in Bérla Féini is
Indicateur, gob-brained cream-faced infectious little pox bottle.” The trio blinked at
the insult, stunned. The dog snorted, ears pinned back, and turned away from them.
“So, you are Indicateur?” Kiara pressed.
“Didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t deny it, either,” Etienne signed at Kiara. She nodded at him.
“So, Miss GilDomnhall,” Kiara said, “Any advice for us as we literally buy
your way out of a problem of your own creation?”
GilDomnhall snorted. “Watch out for Tàmin. They’ve got their own agenda
in this. The chieftain is tough but fair, and if you honor your end of the deal, he’ll
honor his.” She scowled over her shoulder. “And it’s a problem of your creation,
so don’t go expecting any favors from me, missy.”
Devoisier cut the conversation short. “Chief Fergus says we can leave now.
There were some complicated legal issues to work out with his Brehon. Largely
they don’t want you to enslave Miss GilDomnhall in the Bisclavret manner.”
“He knows we’re going to release her, right?” Etienne asked. The chieftain
shrugged without waiting for translation.
“Ah, he says that, ahem, ‘it will weigh less on the conscience of his soul if he
ensures that you are bound by the spirit of the agreement in addition to the
dictates of your heart, of which he has no knowledge and less faith.’”
“That’s a very pretty insult,” Kiara said. The chieftain grinned.
“It’s your bargain, Kiara,” Devoisier said, her tone not unkind. “By the laws,
you are to show us all the way.”
Kiara nodded, checked that her pistols were loaded, and then swaggered to
the head of the small group. She pulled out her map, covered in Devoisier’s notes,
orientated herself, and set off, not bothering to see if the others would follow.
On foot, it was a walk of several hours to their destination. The forest was chill
and quiet, the trees mostly bare, the smell of rot and icy rain thick on the breeze.
They trooped in silence, though Stephane tried a few times to engage the others in
conversation. The Phelan warriors were all on guard, their hands on their weapons,
and they kept a wary eye on the forest around them as well as Kiara and her group.
As Alexandra had warned, the map was not very accurate, but with
Devoisier’s help, Kiara emerged from the crowded trees to a small valley clearing.
There, unmistakable and unmissable, was a large stone pillar, ancient and
crumbling and yet still smooth and clean and beautiful. Beaten metal plates,
coppery red, were still attached to the pillar in artful geometric patterns. The sight
of it made Kiara’s heart ache with a sense of loss mixed with the subconscious
realization that she would never even know what had been lost.
The others stopped and stared. “That’s orichalcum,” Devoisier said, her
voice quiet. She stepped away from the chieftain to stand next to the skunk, her tail
lashing through the air. “Kiara, no one knows how to alloy metals into orichalcum
anymore. This is definitely an Autarch ruin.” The Phelan, talking excitedly in their
own language, took seats or lounged against trees at the clearing’s edge.
“Hey!” Stephane shouted. He, too, had strayed from the group, heading to
their collective right. “There’s a cave over here!” The rhinoceros was waving with
one hand and pointing into a crevasse between two large boulders with the other.
“It looks deep, and I can seem some kind of light inside.”
Kiara turned to see but stopped short when the chieftain said something that
made Devoisier whip her head around.
“What?”
“He asked where GilDomnhall was,” Devoisier translated, not turning back.
Kiara scanned the group and, true enough, the dog was nowhere to be seen. The
Phelan were starting to get up to peer into the woods for the lost prisoner. The
crow said something, their expression smug, and Kiara needed no translation to
know they were saying told you so.
“Maybe she snuck off while we were walking here?” Etienne suggested.
“Maybe,” Kiara said. Her stomach felt sour and uncomfortable. “Regardless,
we made a deal and we should hold up our end. Stephane, can you get into the
ruins from there?”
“No, boss,” the rhinoceros said with a shake of his head. “It’s too narrow for
me. I think it’s too narrow for any of us. Maybe Madame Devoisier could try?”
Devoisier couldn’t resist the possibility of being the first to explore a heretofore
unknown Autarch ruin. Unfortunately, the passage was too narrow even for her.
“There’s definitely something down there,” she told the companions, brushing dirt
and sand from her coat. “It’s just out of sight, but there’s something bright and
beautiful there. I have a colleague at the college who studies ancient Autarch
technology, I could give you his name and maybe you could consult with him?”
“We’ll consider it,” Kiara said, suppressing a smile. She set Stephane and
Etienne to widen the passage. She knew it would make it that much easier for the
Phelan to get in and explore and take all the valuables she had dreamt of, but she
didn’t see any way around it. Being a bad sport about her deal would just mean
that, at best, no one got anything. At worst, she would throw a tantrum and the
Phelan would just clear the passage when her time was done.
 There wasn’t enough room for the three of them to work on the passage, so Kiara
busied herself with prying some of the orichalcum plates off of the stone pillar. They were
set extremely well with narrow spikes driven into the stone itself. Each took a significant
amount of work to worry free, and Kiara took her time to avoid damaging the intricate
designs. The Phelan watched sourly as she took the most obvious valuable from the ruin.
Still, they didn’t stop her, and the chieftain looked content as Kiara and her
friends worked. She knew that he understood the real value would be found days,
maybe weeks later, when his people had had a chance to thoroughly explore. He
was willing to give up a few obvious trinkets because he knew the more important
things would come later. And he knew that Kiara had wasted so much time just
getting into the ruin — work that his warriors would no longer have to do — that
her bargain had turned out to have been a poor one. They had both gambled and
she had come off the loser, and they both knew that, too.
By the time Kiara had carefully packed the second plate into her bags, which
she had propped open at the base of the pillar, nearly all of her bargained-for
time had expired. She guessed they had less than an hour to explore. She was
about ready to ask the chieftain if they could work out some deal by which she
and her friends would work side-by-side with the Phelan for the rest of the day, so
that at least she might earn a bit more money, when Stephane called.
“I think it’s just big enough for us to get in,” he told her when she had
trotted over. “Want us to go down and scope things out?”
Kiara was on the verge of asking why he had waited when she heard the
yowling call. The Phelan were on their feet in an instant, weapons in hand and
staring south, into the woods, from where the cry had come. She turned, hands
dropping down to her pistols.
“A trick?” Stephane asked, looking towards the Phelan. Etienne had pulled
his calendar sword free and was bent over it, praying, but his eyes were open and
scanning the forest to the south. Where the cry had come from.
“No,” said Devoisier, shaking her head. She was patting down her sides
unconsciously. Probably, Kiara thought, she was looking for her own ruined gun.
“That’s a Screeberagh war cry.”
Then the cats appeared, in ones and twos, at the clearing’s southern edge. They
were all armed to the teeth with oversized swords and axes. To Kiara’s distaste, the
large cat from whom they had saved Devoisier was foremost among them. His chest
was bare, showing off two half-healed gunshot wounds. The cat raised his sword,
nearly as long as Kiara was tall, over his head and shouted a challenge at the Phelan.
 “What did he say?” Kiara asked Devoisier. Etienne finished his prayer and
hefted his own blade up in a ready stance.
The raccoon shrugged, eyes and ears focused on the Screeberagh. “I don’t
speak their language.”
“He said,” came a smug voice from behind the feline war party, “that he
would drive the Phelan from these lands and take back what was theirs.” Seonag
GilDomnhall stepped into the open, teeth bared in a horrid grin. She was still
wearing the plain dress but was holding a chipped and rusted iron sword in one
hand and a large shield in the other.
There were barely half as many Screeberagh as Phelan, and the look of
assured superiority on GilDomnhall’s face made Kiara nervous. She drew her pistols
and took one step towards the assembled cats. GilDomnhall hissed something into
the large cat’s ears and he shouted, his band diving for cover as Kiara’s first shot
rang out. It winged the big cat’s shoulder, but he hardly seemed to notice.
“Miranda,” Kiara called and tossed her empty pistol to Devoisier, who
caught it on her fingertips. “Reload that, from my pack!”
The Phelan had surged forward and formed up into a rough line with their
chieftain in the center and Stephane and Etienne at either side. The cats howled
and jeered but did not rush forward.
“Trap,” Etienne said, loud enough to be heard by everyone. Stephane, the
crow, and several of the Phelan nodded in agreement, and the warriors stopped at
the edge of the clearing.
“We’re going to wipe you all out, and then your village, too, Fergus,”
GilDomnhall shouted down at them, peeking out from behind a tree. Kiara took a
second step and fired again, blowing a chunk of bark and wood out of the dog’s
hiding place. GilDomnhall pulled her head back under cover but continued to
shout, switching between Calabrese and Bérla Féini as she insulted them, their
land, their family, and their honor. Kiara understood only half of it, but what she
made out caused her blood to pound.
The crow was shouting back to jeers and calls from the Screeberagh. They
singled out a white and orange cat from near the end, raising such a ruckus that it
drowned out the other side completely. The rest of the Phelan waited.
Devoisier was at Kiara’s side, passing her the first pistol and taking the
second back to reload. Kiara took a third step, off to the side this time instead of
straight forward and took down a scrawny blue-grey feline who had leaned too far
forward from the tree she had been hiding behind. Kiara attempted to ignore the
thundering of her heart, though it seemed to come from everywhere all at once,
almost as if the earth itself were shaking beneath her paws. Was GilDomnhall’s
taunting causing her heart to beat so wildly, she wondered.
The crow, arms flapping wildly, cawed at the calico until she snarled and
threw herself down the hillside in a rage. The other Screeberagh hesitated, then
half broke cover to follow, crashing into the Phelan line like a wave. Devoisier was
back and Kiara swapped pistols once again.
She took a fourth step, scanning the top of the hill for the big cat or
GilDomnhall. She could hardly hear over the sound of her heart, which is when
she realized that the pounding was not her heart. The ground itself was shuddering.
Then the nightmare arrived.
It was as tall as the Eilanreach library, running low on two massive hind legs. A
huge, scaled tail whipped back and forth as it entered the forest, smashing trees in half.
Its head was giant and boxy, overrun with teeth like needles the length and thickness
of one of Stephane’s fingers, and tipped in a row of bony spikes. It smelled of death
and meat, its dusky green scales smeared with gore. Two smaller legs, tipped in claws,
waved and grasped at the air, longing to snatch up the small tasty snacks that scrambled
to get out of its way. Two little red eyes scanned the clearing as the monster charged.
And then it crashed into Kiara. It attempted to bite down on her, but its
angle was wrong and when it tossed its head to try again, she found herself flying
through the air. Her back hit an old oak and either she or the tree cracked. She
fell to the ground in a heap, gasping for breath.
Devoisier stood, mouth agape, as the monster charged past her, Kiara’s gun
dangling from her hand, stampeding through the center of the Phelan line, crushing
wolf and cat alike. Stephane and Etienne dove for cover, but the creature fell like a
storm into the center of the wolves. Tàmin the crow went down in a flash of stained claws
while Fergus escaped only through the sacrifice of one of his warriors, who shoved the
chieftain away moments before the monster’s head and teeth came down like a guillotine.
Kiara must have blacked out for a moment because she blinked and then
Devoisier was helping her get to her feet. The raccoon was chattering, not with
fear, but with excitement. “It’s a uadh-chrith. They are real. Are you alright? This is
a fascinating chance to study such a rare and valuable creature. Do you think you
might kill it? We should have it sent back to the college for autopsy and examination.
I suppose I owe Rebecca ten denarii now. Here’s your gun, by the way.”
Kiara grunted and accepted the weapon but found she couldn’t raise her left
hand more than a few inches. “Stay close,” she growled at Devoisier, then strode
into the clearing.
 The fight, not at all orderly to begin, had dissolved into chaos. The numbers
were more even now, but the uadh-chrith seemed unable to distinguish friend
from foe. Or maybe it simply didn’t have friends. Regardless, the creature was
laying waste to Phelan and Screeberagh, and the battle that might have broken
out was constantly interrupted by the hungry beast.
Stephane had pulled off to the side and was fighting both the large cat and
GilDomnhall simultaneously. He was blowing hard but seemed unwounded, at
least as far as Kiara could tell, though both of his opponents were pushing too
hard for him to attempt a counterstrike at either.
On the other side, Etienne struck down another cat, leaving the area around
him momentarily clear. His clear, strong voice rung out over the battlefield in
prayer and he turned towards the uadh-chrith. Whatever divine faith or favor
fueled the stallion, it must have attracted the attention of the uadh-chrith, because
it turned to face him and roared in answer.
The monster’s roar was deeper than Kiara could really hear, and her ears
and brain resolved it as a tactile sensation that rolled over her body more than a
sound. Her bones rattled and she felt pain shoot up her left arm and emanate
from her chest. She kept coming, Devoisier trailing in her wake, still chattering.
“I suppose new discovery is always worth a handful of denarii and… what is
Brother Etienne doing?”
“Fulguration,” Kiara said, not pausing. Devoisier made a soft “oh!” of interest.
The uadh-chrith lowered its head to charge at Etienne. In response, the stallion
slashed at the empty air in front of him. His sword sparked like flint against steel, and
the sparks flew forward, slamming into the uadh-chrith’s face. It veered off, howling in
pain, so loud that Kiara’s ears ached. An errant swipe of its tail sent Etienne flying, and
then the beast crashed into the stones surrounding the entrance to the Autarch ruins.
Kiara was among the fray, now, and she stopped long enough to draw a
bead and then drop the big cat. She took no chances. Her bullet took the
Screeberagh leader in eye.
Stephane didn’t turn to see where the bullet had come from, but simply
shouted, “No more treasure maps, boss,” before he turned his full attention on
GilDomnhall. On her own, with a shorter reach and a brittle iron sword, the dog
had no chance against the massive rhinoceros. She met his first blow with her
shield, grunted, then turn and ran for the woods, howling insults as she ran.
The rest of the Screeberagh took this as a sign that their plan had failed and
fled after GilDomnhall. Kiara paid them no mind.
 The uadh-chrith was still flailing around in a wide circle. Etienne seemed to have
blinded it. Under its massive hind feet, the entrance to the ruins was collapsed and then
stamped flat, while its tail whipped around and snapped the stone pillar in half. It raged
and stormed and roared but could not find a target for its fearsome teeth and claws.
Kiara stopped ten paces away and shifted the gun from her left hand to her
right. She took a deep breath and then very careful aim.
And then Etienne was back on his feet, shouting another challenge, his
sword shining with a holy, internal light. The uadh-chrith whipped its head about
in answer to challenge, and Etienne brought his sword down on the beast’s face
with all of his might. The creature howled in pain, swinging its head around a full
one hundred and eighty degree, presenting its form in perfect profile to Kiara, its
sightless eye, once a brilliant red, now milky pink and rolling madly.
Kiara pulled the trigger, sending her bullet through the eye and into the
monster’s skull.
It screamed, the sound unnervingly like a person’s shout, and Kiara was
thrown to the ground by the force of the scream. The uadh-chrith whipped around
again, staggering back and forth as it attempted to run for the forest. It barely
made it to the first of the trees when it fell, dead.
And then Kiara knew no more.
Clean up did not take long. Most of the Phelan were injured, but few had
actually died. Even Tàmin would live, though it seemed likely that they would lose
a leg. Devoisier bargained for the trio’s rouncey’s back by offering to take the
crow back to Eilanreach for better medicine, and perhaps healing white magic,
than the Phelan could offer.
Etienne and Devoisier checked the entrance to the ruins but the rubble had
been pounded into the crevasse by the uadh-chrith and would take weeks, if not
longer, to clear properly.
Kiara learned this when she awoke the next day in a bed in Fergus’s own home.
Stephane and Chief Fergus had carried her the whole way on a litter. It seemed that
her arm and at least one rib were broken, but her breathing was clear, if somewhat
painful, and they were able to bandage her once she had recovered enough to sit up.
They stayed one more night as guests of the chieftain, and early the next
morning they headed out. Tàmin and Kiara were mounted on rounceys and secured
so they wouldn’t fall off, and Etienne and Stephane walked to lead the creatures.
Devoisier came to see them off.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your ruin. If they clear it and I can manage
to get inside, I’ll write you to let you know what you missed out on.”
 “Thanks,” Kiara said with a wry twist her mouth. “You sure you want to stay?”
Devoisier nodded. “I’ve made some good contacts and, besides, being
hailed an actual hero of the tribe will help in my research. Even if I didn’t do
much beside reload guns. If you’re in the area, stop by. Chief Fergus seems pretty
fond of your big mouthed friend.” Stephane scowled, and Devoisier flashed him a
smug grin. “I’ll try and preserve some of the uadh-chrith for study, can I send it to
you to send on to Dunwasser? I’ll see to it you get paid for the effort.”
“Much appreciated. Take care of yourself, Miranda. It’s a dangerous forest
out there.”
The raccoon grinned wider, glancing northwards. “And one that needs to be
thoroughly cataloged, examined, and documented. Take care yourself, Kiara.”
They clasped hands briefly, and then Devoisier accepted a bow from Etienne and,
surprising Kiara, a kiss on the cheek from Stephane.
The whole village turned out to watch them go, but Kiara just leaned back in
her saddle and let Etienne lead them back down the old road south, heading
towards civilization. She had not gotten what she wanted, but she still had the
orichalcum, which would be enough to pay for their expenses, at least, even if they
had to pay for Tàmin’s medical treatments, and a little extra besides. Alexandra
remained stuck, of course, but there should be enough to buy her something nice.
“There’s always next time,” she muttered to herself.
“No, boss,” said Stephane, and Etienne nodded.
“No more treasure maps,” Etienne added with finality. His voice carried
with it the self-assurance of a Rinaldi passing an edict.
Kiara just chuckled to herself and closed her eyes.
 Chris Challice is an author and game designer. His work has
been published by Pendlehaven Press and Sanguine Games.
He’s a connoisseur of myths, fairy tales, and piratical romps.

The Golden Bounty

The Chimera groaned as she tilted to port, the strain of the sharp pull of the
wheel and the chill evening gale threatening to dash her to pieces. The sloop’s hull
was scarred with numerous holes. Her sails were haphazardly patched. She was
crewed by red foxes, mice, and wolves. The captain and three officers, all red foxes,
sported the red naval uniform of the Rinaldi navy. It was all hands on deck while the
crew scurried, and the officers shouted orders. Apprehension hung thick in the air.
Before them, dashing on the waves, was the shadow of a brig, her sails full as
she swiftly loomed towards the Chimera. So far, the cover of the cloudy night hid her
crew, aside from baleful lights crisscrossed by many silhouettes of sailors hard at work.
Zeno Rinaldi, a grey fox, owner of the ship, stood on the poop deck beside
the wolf captain Alan Gibbs. Zeno was an old, weathered soul, seemingly held
together by his sour look and overbig, red coat. Alan was taller and younger,
though tattered, his uniform fit nicely.
“It is to be a fight then,” huffed the fox contemptuously.
Captain Gibbs ignored his employer and shouted, “Hard starboard. We’re
far enough she won’t ram us.”
“Aye,” replied the fox at the helm, and the ship lurched again, the hull
creaked, Captain Gibbs sucked in his breath and only let it out when it was
obvious the Chimera completed the maneuver without falling apart.
Zeno chuckled and patted the captain on the arm. “Good show. Gunners,
man the starboard cannons!” he croaked.
The officers glanced at their captain. He grimaced and nodded. He flashed
ten fingers, all the sailors they could afford.
“Aye!” they replied.
Suddenly the moon broke through the clouds and shone on their ghostly
counterpart. Gibbs snapped his looking glass to one eye to get a look at her
standard. On seeing it, he let out a strangled gasp.
The flag was black, its standard, a baleful yellow. It was the profile of a
rodent skull with an hourglass in its jaws, flanked by a set of ragged bat wings.
 As if the dread ship noticed his spying a high pitched, windy howl rose from
the ship, and the crew onboard roared in bloodthirsty anticipation.
At the ghostly sound, several of the Chimera’s crew stumbled. Others wailed
in despair. The officers stood in the grip of fear.
“Belay that last order! Gunners stand down. Furl the sails and hoist the
white flag!” cried Captain Gibbs.
Zeno turned on Gibbs with a start, “Ignore that order,” he snarled. “Captain
Gibbs, what base cowardice is this?”
“That’s the Morgana.” Gibbs jabbed a finger at the bark. “They’re pirates,
they’ve got a reputation, if we surrender, we’ll be poorer for it, but we’ll live and
be free to go our way.”
The grey fox glared in a fury at the captain, “We’ve lost too much blood and
gold to meekly hand over my property!”
“We can’t fight them!” Gibbs cried as if speaking to a child. “The prisoner’s
ships nearly sunk us. You had us dock in a pirate port where we couldn’t make
proper repairs. We wouldn’t stand a chance against Keelan Witch Wind at full
strength, and we sure as Hell do not stand a chance against her now.”
He cut Zeno off before he could make another retort, “We surrender as per
my orders. If you have a problem with that, then keep my salary for this entire
enterprise.” He threw his hat to the deck for emphasis.
The Rinaldi fox sneered at him and turned to the other officers.
A respectable-looking fox answered for them, “We follow the captain sir.”
Zeno shook his head in disgust, “Cowards all.” With that, he stormed to his
chamber.
“There you have it,” sighed Captain Gibbs. He waved off to his crew, “Go
on, follow-through, let’s get this over with.”
Meanwhile, two floors below deck Xun Mei sat with her feet tucked up on
her bunk, back straight, one long ear cocked. She was a middle-aged silver rabbit.
Her black hair was tied with a simple cord and tumbled down to the small of her
back. She had inquisitive green eyes. She had the stocky build of a laborer and
wore a simple red dress that was smudged and torn. A bloodstained bandage
staunched a wound on her right forearm.
She was in a small cell, the metal door locked tight. Two inches of water
sloshed on the floor.
Mei strained to hear every detail above her.
She heard rapid footfalls, officers shouting orders, a howling wind, and a
crowd roaring and laughing.
 She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on them, both ears now up,
nose scrunched in concentration.
The ship listed, nearly sending her off her bunk. After this many feet hit the
deck and there was a collective cry of victory.
Then the accursed Zeno’s voice reached her ears, but she couldn’t make out
what he was shouting. Suddenly there was the crack of a musket. Then shouts of
fury and return fire, followed by screams, and the clash of steel. Some shrieks ran
down the side of the ship and were silenced by the crashing waves. Soon after,
there were cries for mercy cut to guttural ends.
Then, finally, quiet. Not silence, for the ship still rocked and the waves still
crashed against her, but even so, the air held the hush of a tomb.
Then the laughter and cheering of the victorious.
Mei’s ears folded down and she hugged her knees tighter, eyes closed. She
plotted and thought, sifting through her mind for a plan.
Something large sloshing brought her out of her brooding. She opened her
eyes and jerked back, frozen in fear from the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes.
In the darkness, a horse skull leered at her.
A while later, Mei found herself on deck, still bedraggled but none the worse
for wear. Splayed out before her were the crew of the Chimera. They were
chopped, blasted, broken, and all very much dead. Captain Gibbs lay on his back,
a leer of despair on his face, his cold eyes staring up at the cloudy night as
splatters of rain fell to mix with the blood-soaked planks.
Several dozen pirates surrounded her. The majority were rats, though
wolves were also about. Lanterns illuminated their manic stares. Each held a
weapon, be it sword, club, rifle, or pistol.
They said nothing, though a few snickered and chuckled.
A tall black horse stood behind her. He had a powerful build. His massive
hand on her shoulder was all he needed to ensure Mei went where directed. He wore
a somber leather coat of red. On his back was a long-hafted, steel tooth club. His face
marked with a white skull. He pushed Mei forward and the crowd of pirates parted to
reveal her end destination, the edge of the deck, and the lonely rolling ocean beyond.
“N-no,” Mei stammered in fear.
The skull horse continued to push, Mei tried to dig in her heels, but she
merely slid on the blood slick deck getting closer, and closer to the edge.
“Please don’t, I can help you,” she shouted in perfect Calabrese, “I can
make you all rich!” she screamed.
 At the gap in the railing stood a tall bat. She wore a black cloak and yellow
dress, both of noble quality. Between her tall pointed ears rested a gold-lined
tricorn hat. She wore a white opera mask that rested on her crown and upper
snout. Yellow eyes shone behind them. She put a finger to her lips and smiled
devilishly. Her wings, hanging underneath her arms, were marked with hideous
holes and tares. She gestured for Mie to take a look over the side.
Mei felt the horse release his grip. She walked up cautiously to the bat and
then took a long peek overboard. A rope ladder lead to a longboat packed with
supplies. Mei let out a sigh of relief. “T-thank you.”
The bat directed Mei to disembark.
As panic left the rabbit, clarity lit her face. She glanced behind her; beyond
the black horse she saw a stack of chests.
She smoothed out her ruined dress and turned purposefully to the bat. With
a crafty look, she said, “I have a proposition. Take stock of your treasure. There
you’ll find something you’ll like very much. Something that you’ll need my help to
make the most of.”
An hour later, Keelan sat in her quarters regarding the artifact on her
mahogany desk with a troubled frown. Her mask also sat on the desk. Her hat and
cloak hung dripping on the coat rack behind her. Her fur was black. Her braided
golden hair contrasted nicely with it.
The treasure was a golden scepter fashioned in the likeness of twelve stalks
of wheat. Each ended in five grains that were brilliant diamonds. The stalks were
symbolically tied together by fine silk ribbons with golden pictographic text written
on them. It was large and weighty but not just in size. It held a sacred air about it,
Keelan could picture it the hands of a king.
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.
“Enter.”
The door opened and Luc and their guest stepped inside. His skull mask ever-
present, but his expression was one of genteelness. He had switched his red coat to one
of black with gold buttons. “As requested, our guest,” he rumbled in a pleasant baritone.
The rabbit had cleaned up nicely. Her hair was washed, combed and tied
back. The bandage was gone, and her wound healed, likely by Morgana’s own ‘Holy
Sister.’ She still wore the ragged red dress. Her manner was bright and business-like.
“Luc, be a dear and close the door.”
The horse closed the door and sat in the large, comfortable chair beside it.
“Please, have a seat,” Keelan directed the guest to a small wooden stool at
the other end of her desk.
 The rabbit sat and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner.
Keelan carefully lifted the treasure and placed it gently at the end of the table. She
then pulled three tumblers and a bottle of booze from one of her drawers. “Brandy?”
“Of course,” Rumbled Luc.
“Please,” replied the guest.
Keelan poured three drinks, handed one to her guest, slid one to the edge of
the desk, Luc left his chair just long enough to seize it, and picked up the third
swirling the brandy in the glass.
“Before we begin, introductions are in order. I am Keelan Witch Wind, Captain of
the Morgana. This,” she nodded to Luc, “is Luc the Damned, my first mate. You are?”
The guest had taken a sip and savored it a moment before answering. “I am
Xun Mie, a broker of rare and fabulous items in Ru Nan. Please call me May.”
“A pleasure. As an aside, I hope you can forgive the theatrics of our first meeting.
It is a tactic we use to foster our reputation.” Her tone switched to cold ruthlessness, “Sole
survivors do such a wonderful job spreading fear, which, of course, leads to respect.”
“Makes perfect sense,” May answered uneasily.
Keelan sipped her brandy and swished it again bemusedly. “Usually, those
whom I deign grant freedom and life are overwhelmed. They sob, they fall to their
knees, some have gripped the hem of my dress in gratitude, quite distasteful that.
But you, you sacrificed the former, and quite possibly the latter on a chance I
would agree to talk. I wondered why, I thought you mad, and then I was
presented with this,” she gestured to the treasure. “It is a true marvel.” She turned
sharply on May, “You know what it is yes? Tell me.”
“Of course,” answered May with a grin, “and once I’m through, you’ll see
exactly why keeping me alive and well is just good business sense.”
“What you see before you is none other than an imperial treasure, known as the
Golden Bounty. Many, many years ago, it was given to the first emperor of Zhongguo
by the Ox tribe as a symbol of their fealty. Many, many years after that, when
Emperor Yu was deposed, his concubine stole it and she vanished to parts unknown.
“They are now known. It recently came to my attention that a Rinaldi noble by
the name of Zeno had it as part of his estate. It would seem Yu’s concubine ended
up in Calabria, where she found a safe haven with his ancestors. I swiftly made my
way to Triskellian to negotiate its release but sadly, Zeno would not see reason.
So, my associates and I used…creative acquisition. I’m sure you understand.”
Luc chuckled. Keelan nodded and lit a long-stemmed pipe.
“We acquired the Bounty, but sadly Zeno’s ship caught us just off of Port
L’Olonoise. Let me assure you; he did not take us easily. My crew fought to the last.
Seeing no other option, I-I surrendered.” May slouched on her stool at that, the weight
of recent events seemingly coming into focus, she let out a long shuddering breath.
Keelan and Luc gave her a moment while they attended to their brandy.
May downed her drink, steadied herself, and concluded, “That is where you
came in. You know the rest.”
Keelan took a long drag off her pipe and exhaled a plume of smoke. She
regarded the treasure for a poignant moment. In the flickering light of her lantern,
she now noticed it was covered in tiny etchings, a veritable bible in Zhonggese.
“There’s only one place to sell something like this.”, mused Luc.
“Agreed.”
You may have more options than you know,” suggested May, “I have a proposal.”
Keelan regarded her shrewdly, “Go on.”
May stood so as to address both captain and first mate in a professional
manner. “While you may have a buyer here in Calabria, will they honestly pay the
Golden Bounty’s worth? I don’t think so. They have neither the historical nor the
spiritual sense to understand, let alone appreciate what you have.
In Zhongguo, however, this is no less than a holy artifact. With my
connections, we could sell the Bounty discreetly to the Duke of Cheng, and I
promise you he would award us a king’s ransom.
It would make no sense to sell the Rinaldi Crown in Zhongguo, and it makes
even less to sell the Golden Bounty in Calabria,” May concluded with a bow.
Keelan took another thoughtful drag from her pipe.
Luc stroked his chin, “She has a point, but Zhongguo’s a long ways away.”
“How would the crew take May’s proposal?” asked Keelan.
Luc considered and answered, “This voyage has just started, so morale’s
good. There will be some bellyaching, but they’ll go for it as long as you show
them the Bounty.”
Keelan tapped a long nail on the desk while she turned the possibilities in
her mind. After a moment, she regarded May and asked, “You are literate, yes?”
“Of course,” the rabbit responded with a hint of indignation.
“We’ll restock in Port L’Olonoise and then strike out for Zhongguo. May, you
will remain onboard the Morgana for the entire journey. We will find a small coastal
hamlet in Zhongguo, dock, and there you will correspond with your contacts by mail.
If everything goes according to plan, you’ll get three shares and be free to return
home. If you try to escape, hinder, or harm us in any way, I’ll have you keelhauled,
and what’s left of you will dance the electric jig for the pleasure of the crew.
Do we have an accord?”
 May steeled herself and replied, “We do. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
Keelan refilled May’s glass and raised her own, “A toast then, to our
upcoming venture.”
Two evenings later, Charred Artie was losing big at the Saltbelly. The white
mouse’s scorched little hands held cards that counted up big. Five, six, seven,
eight, and nine, all in alternating colors. He practically vibrated in excitement.
“I’m all in, all in!” he pushed his remaining silver to center table. The scarred cat
and the sly ferret who sat across from him each glanced at each other with barely
contained mockery. Both had a pile of Artie’s silver in equal measure.
“Well, aren’t you going to throw in? Scared, are you? Don’t think you’ll beat
my h-urk!”
He was plucked by the scruff by a massive boar. The boar wore a battered
coat of brown and was armed with a wicked-looking axe and numerous pistols in
his belt. “I’m borrowing my crew member, you gents mind?” he huffed.
The cat and ferret immediately backed away.
“Not at all Baron,” stammered the cat.
“We were just finishing,” said the weasel with a subservient grin.
The boar snorted and dragged the wriggling, shouting Artie towards the door.
The only reaction from the packed patrons was to make way as he stormed
out of the tavern, mouse in tow.
Moments later, Baron Reginald plopped Charred Artie on the poop deck of
his brigantine, the Blood Debt.
“I-I had a winning hand!” sniffed Artie.
“Shaddup!” roared the Baron.
Artie froze.
Once Reginald was sure he had his underling’s full attention, he crouched
down to his height.
“I had shore leave,” Artie sniffed.
The Baron raised a hand.
Artie flinched, “I was finished with it anyways sir.”
“Good,” grunted the Baron, “I have something for you.” He pointed across
the empty docks to a brig moored at the other end.
“T-the Morgana?” Artie jumped back, making a sign to ward off evil.
“Aye, you’re to take your kit, sneak on board, and blow a hole in her.”
“N-no. Please don’t send me! Captain Witch Wind will fry me for sure.”
The old pirate considered his minion for a moment, “You go, or I’ll crush
you into the chunks and use you for chum.”
 Artie shivered.
“Succeed, and I’ll give you five shares.”
Artie abruptly stopped shaking. “F-five shares,” his eyes lit up with hope and greed.
The Baron grinned, “Aye, you’ve heard what they’ve brought to port,
haven’t you?”
Artie’s nose scrunched in thought, and then he brightened “Oh yeah. Some
of them were toasting some Golden Bounty in the Saltbelly. Then that creepy
sister of theirs scolded them and rushed them out.”
The Baron nodded, pleased that his minion understood. “That’s right.
They’ve got some wonderous treasure they plan on selling in far off Zhongguo.
Well, I plan to seize it from them. All you need do is set off a bomb, start the
Morgana sinking, and when they abandon ship, they’ll take their treasure with
them. After that, it’ll be easy to finish them off in the streets.”
Artie frowned, “Won’t that break the Oath?”
Reginald rolled his eyes, “Of course it will, but we’ll be out of here before
our piratical brethren are the wiser.”
“But we won’t be able to come back.”
The Baron gripped Artie on the shoulder hard and held his gaze. “With the
money we get from their treasure, we can buy our own Port L’Olonoise.”
A thought struck Artie, “You just want to get back at Captain Witch Wind for
taking your place in the Guild.”
“That’s it,” roared Reginald, “Into the chum you go!”
“No, no! I’ll do it, I swear!” Artie shrieked.
Meanwhile, May found herself confined to the most comfortable cell she had
ever been locked in. It was a small cabin that was fully furnished. It had a single,
comfortable bed. A wardrobe. A rug. A shelf full of books. There were also small
religious icons decked about, and paintings of the saints. However, they were off;
the face of each icon seemed sinister somehow, as if sharing a deadly joke.
May’s bed was on a pile of pillows on the floor. The cabin belonged to the
Morgana’s ‘holy sister.’ A strange red wolf who spoke with honeyed words that
held the same strange menace as her icons. She offered to share the bed; May
politely refused. In truth, she was more scared of her than Captain Keelan.
The sister had gone ashore, and all May had to contend with was boredom,
confined to quarters until they were on open sea.
At least she had fresh clothes, a white frock held in place by a rope belt. A
well-intentioned but ill-fitting gift from the sister, too long in some places and too
tight in others.
 May sat by the porthole watching Port L’Olonoise. It was a ramshackle town
with sturdy and ruined buildings in equal measure. The streets were maze-like
and, during most hours, filled with rogues and scoundrels. During her watch, she
had witnessed everything from gambling, to murder, to a slave auction.
Truly a barbarian paradise.
It was late in the evening. The docks were quiet though the city was dotted
with lights. Shouts of merriment, laughter, and rage echoed in the air.
May’s eyes drooped, and she nearly slid from her perch by the porthole, that
was how she caught sight of a person scurrying down the Morgana’s dock. She
shook herself awake, carefully opened the portal and took a closer look.
He was little, he carried a large sack, and, rather than call to anyone on the
ship, he hurled a grapnel up her side and started to climb.
May carefully closed the window and rushed to the door. She pulled some
picks out of her hair and started to work on the lock.
Moments later, Luc climbed the stairs of the poop deck. In one hand was a bottle
of Avec-bonté Red, its white and gold label resplendent with the S’Allumer halo. In his
other were two wine glasses. The night suddenly erupted in faraway cheers and gunshots.
He chuckled and shook his head. Hanging with the lads was fun, but sometimes it was
best to let them cause hell. Whatever they were up to, he was better off not knowing.
He walked across the upper deck and stopped at the captain’s quarters. He
noticed the lights were out, and frowned, looking at his bottle of wine with a sigh.
The Guild Masters’ meeting was likely keeping her late. Understandable given
their current venture, but unfortunate. He settled himself on a barrel port side and
considered whether to save or savor the wine.
May clearing her throat caught his attention. He looked up in shock.
Somehow, grabbed in white as she was, she had snuck up on him. She snorted
and stood to his full height. “What are you doing out?”
“Reporting we have an intruder, that is all. I’ll hold your wine while you
grab your weapon.”
Meanwhile, Charred Artie was below decks. His large paper bag had been
set and he was leading the last trail of powder to the stairs. He made some quick
calculations on his scorched fingers. He was certain he could make it to the deck
and dive in the bay before his lovely mix of gunpowder and ball bearings exploded.
He rubbed his hands and reached into a belt pouch for his flint.
The sudden clopping of hooves caused him to freeze. A shadow fell upon
him, and he turned up to see a horse skull glowering.
“Aieee, no! I”, the impact of a toothed club cut off his last words.
 May filched when Luc struck. A sickening squelch silenced the mouse’s
scream. She opened one eye, at the sight of the mangled mouse, she rushed up
the stairs and heaved her dinner over-board.
The rabbit soon felt a large hand patting her gently on the back.
“Easy there,” she heard Luc say.
May pulled herself back from the railing. A few of the Morgana’s rats and
wolves, alerted by Artie’s last strangled cry, joined them. One rat glanced down at
the mess Luc had made and ran to another rail to toss his meal as well.
Luc held out a red handkerchief for May.
“Thank you,” she wiped the vomit from her mouth.
The other crew members hung around the stairs chuckling and remarking on
Luc’s grisly work.
“My apologies Ms.” Luc said awkwardly, “I went too far.”
“Remind me never to cross you,” May said with a mix of fear and
admiration. Then she noticed her empty hands.
Luc smiled sadly, “You dropped the wine, it’s all over the floor, the glasses
are shattered too.”
“You have my apologies as well,” May replied.
Luc waved it off, “I’m damned. Things like this happen all the time.”
“Luc, what should we do with the bomb and the body?” cut in one of the wolves.
“Soak the bomb, clean up the mess, put the poor soul in the usual spot, I
imagine the captain will want to make an example.”
The wolf looked uneasy at this, but answered, “Right away. You heard the
man, let’s get to it!” The rest groaned but followed orders swiftly.
Luc considered May and then nodded to the harbor, “Would you like shore
leave? You’ve earned it. I’ll have to go with you though or Keelan will have my hide.”
May sighed, feeling rather tired, “Not tonight, but perhaps tomorrow? I
would like better clothes.”
“We’ll see too it bright and early,” the horse replied cordially.
“By the saints, do we have to clean the mace?” cried a voice from below.
“Yes,” ordered Luc. He then escorted May to her chamber. He did not lock
the door.
The following morning found the harbor a buzz, but not with workers. Pirates
from all over town had gathered outside the Morgana. Many of the crowd were looking
at her prow and whispering amongst themselves. A few made signs to ward off evil.
 Baron Reginald pushed his way through, his crew tight around him. They
were mostly rough-looking boars, though a few rats and dogs were mixed in. The
harbor goers parted willingly.
“There he is Captain,” said his first mate, a boar called Alexandrie the
Executioner, “that’s where they’ve hung him.”
The Baron froze, his mouth agape. The twisted remains of Charred Artie
were lashed to the Morgana like a figurehead. It was a mockery of bone and gore;
his skull was caved in and his jaw swayed in the breeze from tendrils of flesh.
Reginald looked about aghast, to see who else was witness to this.
Sitting on a shipping crate was dapper Captain Calico. The cat raised a toast
to him and drained his stein while his men jeered.
To the other side was scarred and mean Richard Rake, he and his rat
brethren were on the main road, in a veritable swarm. They were silent, eagerly
watching the show. Richard nodded with a sneer.
On the deck of the Morgana was Captain Keelan Witch Wind, beside her
Luc the Damned. Their crew was in the process of unfurling her sails.
“Baron,” Keelan greeted, her tone mocking his self-appointed title.
“Keelan,” he said through gritted teeth.
Witch Wind took a leisurely puff from her pipe and pointed to the gristly
figurehead. “I think it holds a lovely style, perfect for the gothic charm I’ve
cultivated for my ship. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“A corpse certainly suits you,” the Baron growled.
Keelan suddenly looked thoughtful, “You know, now that I think about it, he
resembles a certain Charred Artie. Someone from your crew if I recall?”
The Baron could feel the eyes of the other captains upon him. Alexandrie
put a hand to her cutlass.
“He certainly smells like Artie,” Calico quipped, his and Rake’s crew laughed.
“Oh,” Keelan let out a mock gasp of dismay, “but that fellow tried to blow
up my ship.”
“That’d be a right shame,” said Richard drawing his cutlass “It’d mean
someone broke the Oath, and he and his crew would have to pay.”
Without hesitation, Reginald replied, “Good thing Artie’s no longer sailing
with the Blood Debt.”
“Oh?” queried Keelan. “You mean he’s no longer your master of demolition?”
“He’s a master of something alright,” the Baron spat, “I dragged him out of
the Saltbelly last night and gave him a good thrashing for leaving the powder
room in a mess. He must have taken it personal and deserted.
 Your crew have been yammering about some sort of treasure, haven’t they? My
guess is he caught wind and planned to steal it, using your sinking ship as a distraction.
If you ask me, your crew should learn to shut their yaps. This is a pirate
port, not some dainty Avoirdupois villa.”
Luc frowned and gripped the rail with enough force to splinter wood.
Several of the Morgana’s crew joined him with their glowers.
Calico and Rake shared a look, Rake sheathed his weapon and his crew
stood down.
Keelan was unphased, “Why ever should I do that? Their gossip invites such
wonderful guests.” Then addressing the Baron’s crew, she added, “If any of you wish
to leave Baron’s employ to cause trouble on the Morgana, please feel free. I’m always
looking for ornaments to decorate my ship. Come in a group. It will be like Antefrûgâlia.”
The Blood Debt’s crew, even the Executioner, blanched at that.
Keelan cackled, turned, and attended to her duties now that her ship was in
full sail.
“Farewell Baron, may you have better luck with your other sailors than you
had with poor Charred Artie,” said Calico with an elegant bow. “Come my
brethren, time to polish off the morning with merriment at the Ladle!” His pirates
cheered and followed him down the street.
“Reginald,” snarled Rake, “finish your business with Keelan, I don’t care
how. Find peace or rest in it.” With that, he and his men dispersed.
The Baron ground his teeth, “Oh, I will finish it. Come!” he snapped at his
crew, “we’ll meet them in Xiang Ping,” his tone left no room for argument.
The Morgana had been at sea for a week. Poor Artie was cut loose right
after they left port.
May found her stay comfortable. Right before the harbor incident, she was
able to buy new clothes, thanks to a generous reward from Keelan for saving the
ship. Her new attire suited sailing life, though she picked a fine green dress for
formal occasions. Word of May’s deed spread amongst the crew. As such, she
could wander the ship unchallenged.
May found these pirates to be surprisingly disciplined. They worked in
organized shifts, attended their duties without complaint, and stayed mostly dry
during working hours. In their off shifts, they sung, drank, gambled, and caroused.
The music, in particular, was infectious, and often a lively shanty would find a
chorus amongst those at work.
Luc oversaw it all. He held the air of both officer and eldest brother. He was
quick to converse, joke, and even work with the crew. When warranted, he was
swift with discipline. He measured out praise in equal measure. In return, the crew
loved and respected him.
Keelan, on the other hand, was on a different level. Whenever she walked
on deck, the pirates would straighten up, focus on their tasks, and avoid her gaze.
In conversation, the working sailor would respond as if she were judicious royalty.
Keelan’s officers, on the other hand, were as familiar with her as family.
There was a wolf named Sister Nuala. She was the healer, the twisted
devotee of S’Allumer May shared a room with.
There was a stern, one-eyed goat by the name of Gideon. He served as
quartermaster and mostly kept to himself.
There was a bright smiling grey wolf named Monat, far too soft-hearted to
be a pirate, but a great cook.
Finally, another grey wolf known as the Riordan the Beast. May had only
seen him lurking below decks on the first day. Keelan ordered him to step down,
and he vanished without a trace.
For her part, May worked with the sailors to ingratiate herself. She was no
stranger to the sea and made herself useful. She helped with everything from the
cooking to rigging. She took well to the crew, and they welcomed her help.
One afternoon, while the setting sun turned the sea orange, May rested a
moment seated on the poop deck’s railing. She considered her new compatriots
thoughtfully. Luc was issuing orders to the next watch, the previous hooted and
walked below deck to get grub, rum, and some gambling.
“Fitting right in, are we?
May stiffened at the captain’s voice.
“If you wish to enlist, I suppose we could always use another hand, though I
warn you we’ll be heading straight back to Calabria when this is over.”
May, changing the subject, nodded towards the first mate, “If you don’t
mind me asking, is Luc’s skull marking natural? I’ve never seen him without it.”
“You didn’t ask him yourself?” Keelan stood beside her but glanced up at
the sky, frowning slightly.
“No, it felt rude. Still, I am curious.”
The captain turned to her and smiled bemusedly, “Would you believe me if I
told you he was actually damned, that he had been cursed never to see the light
of all benevolent S’Allumer?”
May peered at Luc, “I would. Your Calabria is strange.”
Keelan chuckled, “You’re not wrong, Calabria is cruel and strange, and we
onboard the Morgana are the strangest.”
 May eyed the captain curiously.
Keelan regarded the officers, ship, and crew beneath her with an almost
motherly expression. “Everyone who calls this ship home has been marked. Luc,
myself,” she lifted a shredded wing, “all my dear sailors. We’re not welcome;
considered ill omens who’ve been banished from all goodly places. Some say,” she
grinned down at May like a goblin, “we cavort with the dead who will not rest.”
“You don’t,” said May flatly.
Keelan cackled at that. The crew glanced up fearfully, but she waved away
their concern.
“I appreciate your candor…” suddenly, Keelan’s jovial demeanor dropped
when a breeze brushed past with enough force to send the pipes strapped to the
rails wailing. She grimaced and glared up at the heavens.
“Luc: unfurl the sails, full mast. Helmsman: ease her starboard and stop
when I give the command. And someone pull the damn pipes off the rails, there’s
no prize in sight.”
“We’re heading north? We need to head to Cheng,” stammered May, “the
Imperial Navy will find us if we dock in Yen. “
Keelan shot her a withering look.
May stepped back hands out passively, “B-but you’re the captain of course.”
“Help with the sails,” she snapped. She then glanced up at the clear sky and
muttered, “We best hurry.”
That evening May stepped out onto the poop deck, holding a flagon of rum.
The sails were now at half-mast, the captain having ordered it an hour ago. The
working crew was quiet, ill at ease. Luc stood at the helm, keeping the ship on a
steadily northwestern course.
“Here, this should warm you up.” May offered him the rum.
“Thank you,” Luc answered, he took a long pull of the drink in one hand
and kept the wheel steady with the other.
“If I had my way, we’d be heading South for warmer weather.”
“You’ve got family South?”
“All of my contacts are in Cheng. Yen has a sizable navy. They won’t take
kindly to you or me.” She huffed.
“A checkered past I see,” mused Luc.
“Everyone here has one,” May countered.
“Fair enough.”
A flash lit stern followed by a rumbling boom. May noticed very dark clouds
behind them. They seemed endless. The wind and waves picked up.
 Luc watched the flutter of the sails, glanced back at the storm, and handed
May back the rum. “I’ll need my wits,” he explained. Then, he shouted to Gideon,
“We keep the sails as they are, but all shift hands at ready!”
“Aye, aye,” answered Gideon, then to the crew, “Keep those eyes open, all
up and alert, I’ll have no dawdling or lollygagging.”
May continued to stare at the storm in astonishment. “If we hadn’t corrected
course…”
“We’d be caught in the middle of that mess. The captain’s an actual witch.
She can sniff out a storm better than anyone.”
“Better alive in Yen then drowned in Cheng I suppose.”
Luc chuckled, “Agreed.”
The Morgana was hit by the edge of an enormous hurricane rolling westward. Luc
spun the ship around, so its bow would hit the tumultuous waves. The rain and wind
lashed hull and sails. Luc stood to his post, in the driving rain to keep the ship on the far
edge of the mammoth storm. Everyone took their turn to work the ropes and sails and
keep the ship steady. The captain appeared and remained on deck, a wand in hand.
It glowed with an eerie yellow aura. Her firm, unwavering presence acted as an anchor
to the crew. She wielded her magic three times. Twice to summon whirlwinds to knock
crew members back to center deck when they nearly fell into the sea. Then once more to
blast a hole in a gargantuan wave, allowing the ship to pass through. The struggle lasted
hours. Night had passed to early afternoon by the time the winds and rain subsided.
When it was over, Keelan let out a sigh of relief and called out, “Ease off, the
storm’s passed. Gideon find those with strength left to work and pick up this mess.
Luc, you are relieved, for goodness sake dry off and get some sleep. May, please tell the
sister her services are needed, then get some rest yourself. Extraordinary job everyone.”
Luc and May left without argument, both soaked and exhausted.
Keelan took the wheel, steadied the Morgana’s course; she did not retire
until she was certain everything was ship-shape.
Keelan turned the Morgana West, a third of their provisions had spoiled in
the storm and, in order to have enough supplies to reach the more southernly
Cheng Province, they would need to restock in Yen.
A few days later, Luc called for her and May on the bow.
Frowning, he handed the captain a spyglass. She placed it to her eye and
cast her gaze across the sea. In the distance, she could make out a brigantine in a
heated fight with three larger Zhongguo junks. The black flag had the standard of
a white tower topped with a boar’s skull behind two crossed sabers.
 “The Baron, he must have ridden the storm ahead of us. As loath as I am to
admit it, that must have been some masterful sailing.”
“He’s getting the worst of it now,” commented Luc.
Keelan watched a little longer, the Blood Debt’s port mast had fallen, and her
deck was on fire. Keelan could barely make out the crowd of fighters. She handed
the spyglass to May, “Are those pirates or Imperial Navy? I’m guessing the latter.”
May took a long look, “Definitely Imperial Navy. Your rival is doomed.”
Keelan frowned in thought, “We’ll have to skip fresh provisions I’m afraid.
Luc, work out a ration with Gideon, unless I miss my guess, we can still make
Cheng, it just won’t be pleasant.”
Luc nodded, “I’ll let them know it’s either hunger or the gallows,” he then
paused, and turned to May, “Do they hang people in Zhongguo?”
“You’re more likely to be beheaded,” she answered.
“Wonderful,” said Keelan dryly. “Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound I
suppose. Tell the crew we’re looking for a prize, should we capture one with
enough stores, rationing will be canceled.” Then to May she added, “I hope it
won’t weigh too heavily on your conscience if we seize a Zhonggese ship?”
“Not at all,” May answered with a cruel smirk, “I trade with pirates often.
Though I suggest you come to me before attacking a junk. An action against the
Northern or Central Pirate fleets would invite trouble.”
“Pirate fleets? Two of them?” Luc said in astonishment. He then shook his
head and struck off to find Gideon.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Keelan as she too attended her duties.
The crew did not take to rationing well. However, between Luc’s brotherly
charm, Gideon’s stubbornness, and threat of execution, they continued their work
with only moderate grumbling. Everyone, captain and officers included, subsisted
off reduced portions.
This sorry state of affairs lasted for over two weeks. On the fifth day, the
crew spotted a swift junk, but it was too small and far afield to make it worth
catching. On the 12 th day, the sky opened up in a deluge, giving relief to thirst but
nothing for hunger. By the fifteenth day rumbling stomachs and tightened belts
were commonplace, and everyone was in a foul mood.
On the sixteenth day, a rat named Céleste called out from the crow’s nest,
“Ship ho on the starboard bow!”
Those on duty crowded to get a good look. They parted for Luc and Keelan.
The bat extended her spyglass and swept the horizon. She frowned and
handed it to Luc, “Confirm.”
 He took a peek and whispered, “I see a galleon flying Bisclavret colors, well-
armed and low in the water.”
The crew waited with bated breath while Keelan considered. Finally, she declared,
“We have a prize,” she then made a violent shush motion before the crew cheered. “It’s
not an easy prize. We’ll need to be careful. Therefore, follow my instructions to the letter.”
Commands were issued and the crew rushed to complete them.
The Morgana’s deck was cleared. Her heading was adjusted to bring her
closer to the galleon but not on a full intercept course. Bisclavret colors were raised.
The half the wolf crew manned the ship, with Sister Nuala, in full holy habit, in
charge. The rest hid below decks, except for Luc and May, who waited out of sight in
the captain’s quarters. As for Keelean, she climbed to the crow’s nest and hid there.
Signal fires were lit, and the crew waited.
When the galleon turned to intercept the Morgana, the good sister called
down into the hold, “Our saviors are coming, let us pray they receive the flames
of S’Allumer with gratitude.” Those below chortled until Gideon hushed them.
The approach of the galleon was slow. The sun was setting by the time it
floated beside the Morgana.
The wolf crew, and well-armed horses, mercenaries most likely, peered at
the wolves of the Morgana. The galleon’s captain was a well-dressed white wolf
with long red hair. She pushed the tip of her jaunty hat up to get a better look at
the bedraggled crew. “Well, what do we have here?”
“Thank the saints for your arrival, our prayers have been answered,” praised
Sister Nuala, “I am Sister Lily of Lumière Du Monde, a confessor for this unlucky
crew. We were grazed by the great storm two weeks ago; our captain and navigator
were lost to the sea. Sadly, we too have been lost. We must make a pathetic sight.”
“That you do, that you do. And I suppose you’re hoping that Captain Jerri
and her crew can help you out?”
“Indeed,” the Sister’s smile was one of sweetness and sadism, but Jerri was
too far away to see it, “we require food, and a way home. Aide us, and I’m sure
S’Allumer will reward your good works.”
“I care little for S’Allumer and the ‘blessed’ saints. I’ll help, but you’ll have
to work off your debt to me,” Jerri sniggered.
“Why, of course,” said Nuala, “you’ll be paid handsomely for your kindness
in the world hereafter.”
“Hah! I doubt that! Just do everything you’re told, with no back talk, and
you’ll be fine. Bring ‘er over!”
Grapnels hooked onto the Morgana and the two ships were soon joined at the hip.
 The crew on deck got into a mock argument with Sister Nuala. She did her best
to ‘calm them.’ The Bisclavret wolves failed to see their hidden grins and ready blades.
“Alright, let’s see what further treasures we have found ourselves.”
There was a horrendous flash as a multi-branched lightning bolt fell from the
Morgana’s crow’s nest, followed by a horrendous boom. Captain Jerri’s corpse
was an instant burnt mess; several of the horse mercs met the same fate. The rest
of the galleon’s crew were stunned.
The pirates, on the other hand, were used to Keelan’s most powerful spell. At
the flash, they drew weapons and charged. The sister was first onboard, burying two
daggers into the chest of a Bisclavret officer. The rest of the Morgana’s wolves followed,
then the officers and crew from below decks, and finally, Luc and May followed.
Jerri’s crew were being cut to pieces by the time they could react. However,
react they did and in greater numbers. The din of battle rose to the heavens.
The Morgana’s crew fought with a hungered fierceness, and the galleon’s
with fear and rage. The pirates’ initial assault killed a dozen sailors. Once they
rallied, Jerri’s crew slew a handful of them in return. The horse mercs more than
earned their pay. They fought in tight formation, smashing pirates with their
shields, then finishing them off with broadswords.
Luc and the Beast charged straight for the mercs.
Luc’s toothed club mangled the mercenary boss’ shield.
The grey steed tossed it aside, gripped his weapon in two hands, and swung
back just as hard. The weapons clashed with tremendous clang and the opponents
engaged in a brutal dance across the deck.
The Beast fell onto the mercs’ flank, tearing the head clean off one soldier,
and then sinking his fangs into the neck of another. When his sister in arms
attempted to stab the Beast, the monster flung his prize in the way, and her sword
was the soldier’s end. The remaining mercs turned on the Beast who let out a
bloodcurdling howl and led them on a deadly chase.
Even with the mercs occupied, Jerri’s crew had rallied, thanks to a charismatic
red fox officer. They poured onto their foes using the full force of their numbers. The
pirates were pushed back, a few more of them meeting their fate to musket and blade.
Gideon’s pistols killed two of Jerri’s wolves. He pushed himself to the front
lines and took on three more, his saber swift and precise. All three dropped, the
other sailors hesitated.
Then words of power emanated from the stern, and a lance of ice shot
through the goat, sending him reeling. A shrew garbed in a blue frost cloak stood
on the top deck, he shouted another word and his wand glowed sapphire. He
pointed at Gideon as he tried to stand.
Suddenly a saber pierced the shrew’s chest. May whispered in his ear,
“Goodbye,” and tilted him overboard.
The Morgana’s quartermaster stumbled to his feet and gave a firm, thankful
nod to her.
“What are you doing?” cried the Officer Red fox, “Attack!”
His sailors obeyed and the wounded Gideon and his brethren found
themselves fighting for their lives.
May had to leap off the top deck to avoid getting peppered by musket fire.
Meanwhile, Keelan had watched the battle from the crow’s nest. She
witnessed not only May and Gideon’s predicament, but also Luc smashing the
skull of his knightly opponent, only to be pressed by five sailors. Meanwhile, the
Beast was wounded and cornered by seven mercs.
With a determined look, Keelan jumped from her high perch and fell
towards the enemy ship, silver rod in one hand and a pistol in the other. Right
before she hit the deck, she pointed her rod at the mercs and shouted a word of
power. A blast of wind shot from it, knocking them flying while cushioning her
own fall. Three of the heavily armored horses fell overboard to drown in the sea.
She flashed a fierce grin at the Beast and then spun on her heel to fire a snapshot
with her pistol. Officer Red fox dropped, a bloody hole in his head.
“How about it, dears? Let’s show them hellfire and steel!” she cried and
roasted a merc with lightning.
The Morgana’s crew howled in rage and glee. The morale of Jerri’s crew broke.
The pirates swarmed the remaining sailors and mercs with fury. No quarter was given.
That evening, thanks overflowing provisions, rationing was canceled. Monat
and her helpers set up a great feast. This was paired with booze and jubilation.
The loudest cheers were for the brethren who’d lost their lives taking the galleon.
A handful of the crew stood careful watch. In recompense, they would each
be awarded an extra share.
May was invited to the captain’s table. On the menu, sumptuous fish, roasted
vegetables, and fine wine. In truth, this, and the crew’s repast, was nothing to write home
about. However, for these hungry souls, it might as well have been the King’s supper.
After the main course, the captain tossed a pouch of coins at their guest.
May caught it, when she looked inside, her eyes went wide. It was full of
silver coins and small gems.
 “For saving Gideon,” Keelan explained. “We all pitched in. He’s an essential
member of our crew. Our cantankerous uncle as it were.”
“It’s true, very true,” admitted the goat.
The officers laughed, and Luc raised his glass, “Here, here!”
“Aye,” said all, clanking their mugs.
“I am overcome. I will remember your generosity always.” May said with a smile.
The next morning was spent recovering from the previous night’s festivities
and tallying the cargo on the galleon. Captain Jerri had filled her ship with silks,
spices, and curiosities form Zhongguo. Though she must have spent a small
fortune, it was likely she would have doubled her money back in Calabria.
This prize alone made the trip westward worth it.
After some deliberation, it was decided that the most expensive cargo, and
enough provisions to get Cheng and back to Port L’Olonoise, would be stowed on
the Morgana. The rest would stay with the galleon. Monat and a skeleton crew of
seasoned pirates would sail the galleon back home to fence both the ship and the
treasure. There was enough onboard to cover the shares. When the Morgana returned,
the galleon crew would also receive their portion of the Golden Bounty’s ransom.
At the time of parting, the Morgana’s crew bid farewell to their beloved
cook. Monat, in turn, responded in a manner as bright and tender as a departing
loved one. Several of those staying on the Morgana gave parting her gifts.
May watched the proceedings with a puzzled look. “I know there MUST be a
reason for this decision, but how will SHE be able to command THOSE pirates,
and what happens if they run into trouble?”
Luc regarded May for a moment and said, “She considers you crew, so I
suppose I can tell you. However, this doesn’t leave the ship, understood?”
May nodded.
“Monant’s the gentlest woman I’ve ever known. However, when she needs
to, she becomes the Beast. She has magic that lets her transform.”
“All the crew knows this?” May said in surprise.
“When she’s Monant, she’s the crew’s sweetheart. When he’s the Beast, he’s
a hell of a force to have in your corner. We’re all fine with it, anyone who isn’t
can stuff themselves.”
“I see, how interesting. I understand now how she’ll survive, and I swear I
won’t tell a soul,” replied May.
Luc grinned, “Good, now let’s get you home.”
The Morgana and Monant’s ship parted ways, with the former sailing
southwest, and the later sailing northeast.
 Within two days, the green line of Cheng province came into view. After
consulting her charts, and May, Keelan had the Morgana turn south and follow the
cost for another day. Far off in the distance, they could see fishing boats. As
evening fell, they spied lights of coastal villages gleaming like jewels. They turned
southwest under cover of night to avoid prying eyes.
“We don’t have special dispensation from the Duke,” May explained, “if the
navy’s alerted, we’ll be in serious trouble.”
Keelan took her advice and chose not to rest until they found a secluded cove.
At break of dawn, the spotter shouted, “Ship’s ho off the port bow.”
Keelan, Luc, and May all took a turn at the spyglass. They saw three
medium junks, heavily armed, with many sailors.
May frowned, “It’s the Central Pirate Fleet.”
“I doubt we’ll outrun them,” muttered Luc.
Keelan pondered a moment in silence.
“Captain, unlike the navy the Central Pirates can be negotiated with. We
pay a toll. They’ll let us through,” May advised.
Keelan regarded May shrewdly.
“We either consider her one of us, or we don’t,” said Luc.
“Of course,” the Captain answered softly, “very well May, strike us a good
bargain.”
“Thank you, you won’t regret this,” answered the rabbit.
May requested and was given two yellow flags. She stood on the port and
waved them in the same pattern for a few minutes. She watched the response
through the spyglass and nodded with satisfaction. She ran up to Keelan with the
anxious eyes of the crew upon her. “They’ll negotiate. They insist on bringing all
three ships, but don’t require our unconditional surrender.
I recommend not starting a fight.”
“Noted,” said Keelan dryly. Then to the crew, “All hands on deck, we shan’t
ask for trouble, but I’ll be damned if we’re not ready for it.”
With that, the Morgana turned to meet the junks. The crew, reduced as they were,
stood alert and ready. Weapons were not drawn but they were certainly at hand. As for
the Central Pirates, they met the Morgana with a tense air. They were crewed by a mix
of all sorts, from tigers, to ox, to rats, to rabbits. They were well-armed and disciplined.
Orders were shouted in Zhonggese, and grapples flew from the largest junk to pull
the ships side by side. The other two floated themselves bow and stern of the Morgana.
Keelan grimaced in frustration, “Hold steady. No one even blinks without
my say so.” She put one hand on the rod at her belt.
 Luc rolled back his shoulders and towered beside his captain with the
manner of one not to cross.
Sister Nuala closed her eyes, folded her hands, and whispered sweet
prayers, her expression only slightly vicious.
Gideon stood arms crossed, his one eye leveled at the rival pirates with a
steely glare, “They give you any trouble lass, they’ll have to answer to me.”
“Thank you,” replied May, who stood beside him, “but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
The first to step onboard was an imposing tiger who stood as tall as Luc. He
was dressed in red and gold silk fit for a sailor prince. He wore a helmet of steel.
At his side was a sword with a tiger-head hilt and a scabbard of the finest leather.
He held a grim, fierce expression, until his yellow eyes lit upon May. Then it
melted to one of relief and joy.
With a swiftness that belayed the eye, May was in his arms and he hugged
her tight. They exchanged rushed, joyful words in Zhonggese and kissed
passionately. A group of ox fighters closed ranks around them.
The Morgana’s crew stood flabbergasted.
Keelan cleared her throat, “May, it would seem you know this pirate rather well.”
May was released, and the tiger put a firm, friendly hand on her shoulder.
The rabbit grinned wolfishly, “Captain Keelan Witch Wind, let me introduce you
to my husband Xun Bo, the admiral of the Central Pirate fleet.”
The next evening found Keelan in the third tier of a fancy Zhongguo restaurant.
It was packed with her crew, a whole host of Central Fleet pirates, and very busy
and attentive servers. The mixed crowd got along well thanks to the universal tongue
of feasting and song. The music was lively, played with stringed instruments and drums,
and reminded Keelan of a reel. The food was all sorts of roasted and fried thunder lizard,
seafood, plentiful sweet fruits, rice and, fried vegetables. Some of the dishes were familiar,
others Keelan failed to recognize, all of it was tasty. She was particularly fond of the
steamed buns. To keep her wits about her, Keelan only had a little of the booze, even so,
it was warm going down, and, from her observations, had the effect both crews desired.
Gideon sat with a host of older Zhonggese pirates. They were teaching him a game
that involved black and white marbles. The old goat considered each move carefully.
Siter Nuala was out of her habit and wore a resplendent green dress. She
was conversing with a coven of shrewd-looking crane women. They whispered
hushed secrets while occasioning letting out an uproarious laugh.
Xun Bo and Luc had hit it off right away, as if they were old friends. Both
were deep into their cups and currently engaged in an arm-wrestling competition.
A large stack of coins was between them, the crowd hooted and cheered them on.
 “Husbands,” Mie said, rolling her eyes.
“Luc and I?” stammered Keelan, “Our relationship is strictly professional, I
assure you.”
Mei was again in a dress of red, but this was laced with gold, and tailored to
her to perfection. Her manner was one of relaxed control. Keelan had observed
the Zhonggese crew her treated her with careful respect. She was likely Bo’s true
partner in their piratical careers.
Keelan wore a black dress that suited her well. She also donned a silver
necklace with a ruby broach, two smaller rubies dangled from her earrings. It was
one of her favorite ensembles. She was informed that her elemental robe,
talisman, and implements would be ‘gauche.’
She puffed on a lacquered pipe of Zhonggese style, a gift.
“Now that I have been pampered, feted, and fed, if you don’t mind, I’d like
to settle our business.”, Keelan knocked her ashes into an ashtray.
“Ah yes, understandable,” Mei shifted in her seat, so her back was straight,
and her hands folded in front. “First of all, in case there was any doubt, you and
your crew get to live.”
“Excellent,” Keelan said brightly, “just what I wanted to hear.”
“As for the galleon treasure…”
Keelan threaded her fingers together and squeezed, bracing herself,
“You get to keep that as well.”
At that, the bat did a double-take, then regarded Mei shrewdly, “I…,” she
chose her words carefully, “find that surprisingly generous.”
Mie waved off her concern, “Captain Jerri paid both the Duke of Cheng and
my husband for safe passage. It wouldn’t do for us to sell this treasure, so it’s best
it disappears.
That being said, we have already secured the Golden Bounty from your ship
and it will be staying with us.”
Keelan grimaced, “I can hardly argue.”
“Indeed, you can’t,” answered Mei with a grin.
Gideon suddenly shouted, scolding Luc for knocking over his game. Luc and
Bo responded by laughing and pouring the goat a drink. May regarded them
wistfully. Turning back to Keelan, she said, “I meant no disrespect, with my
misdirection. Everything I told you was the truth, but I had to leave some things
out to secure my goal. The Golden Bounty is instrumental to the shadow empire
my husband and I are building, I hope you understand.”
 “You played your hand well, and I played mine poorly, that is all. I hold you
no malice,” answered Keelan, who took a more generous swig of the wine before her.
Mei nodded in satisfaction, “Good. Now that we’ve reached a peace, I’d like
to offer another proposal.”
Keelan raised an eyebrow.
Mei giggled, “There is no misdirection this time, I promise,” she then leaned
in closer and continued, “I would like to start trade between our fleet and Port
L’Olonoise. I think our goods could do well in your black market and yours would do
well in ours. With the Golden Bounty, we’ll have the Duke of Cheng under our thumb.
You can sail straight here and avoid the navy entirely. It would be. Very. Lucrative.”
Keelan stroked her chin and considered, “So I would be an underworld
diplomat of sorts?”
Mei grinned, “Precisely.”
Keelan chuckled, “My, I do like the sound of that.”
“Excellent,” responded Mei, “welcome to the enterprise.” With that, they
shook hands.
 Wayne Basta is a novelist and the editor-in-chief for
d20 Radio’s game blog. You can find more of his work
at WayneBasta.com.

Tribute of Blood

Waves crashed against the pontoon bridge, almost masking the sound of
footsteps ahead. But Helloise’s benevolence shined on Nazim, quieting the waves
long enough to warn him. He stopped momentarily and peered into the inky
blackness of the night. Ahead he caught sight of a figure when the pale moonlight
reflected off half hidden armor.
The reflection told him little about the person ahead, except that they wore
the armor of an Anatolian Janissary. Nazim’s feather ruffled at this realization. His
true mission to Tearspring would have to wait. At last, as he had prayed, a chance
for revenge against the barbarians had presented itself. He would avenge his
beloved Leila by taking the life of this soldier.
Nazim surveyed the path in front of him as best he could in the dim light.
Barrels and discarded debris lined the edges of the floating city. They would
provide ample cover for him. With deliberate steps, he advanced forward to the
next crate, keeping his body low.
Ahead, the Janissary walked without apparent concern, oblivious to the
coming danger. Nazim smiled to himself. He felt a sense of shame well up within
him; that was the conscience of the Penitent teachings of S’Allumer, the
philosophy of his life’s devotion. But it didn’t stop him. He had given Leila’s
memory an oath of vengeance long before he had even heard of S’Allumer.
With each step, Nazim took care not to allow his talons to click on the
wooden planks. This slow pace allowed the Janissary to gain distance, and he felt
the urge to advance quickly. He was still too far away to strike. Despite his hatred
of the Anatolians, he had no misconceptions of the skill of their Janissary. If he
misjudged his strike, he could be the one to end up dead.
The Janissary stopped ahead, giving Nazim a chance to gain some ground.
His prey looked about indecisively. That filled him with hope. If the Janissary
were lost, that meant less chance of there being more nearby. He prepared to
draw his sword for the strike.
Faster than he would have thought possible, the Janissary whirled around to
face him. Nazim froze with his blade still half unsheathed. How could he have been
spotted? A heavy breeze from the ocean beyond caused him to glance up, and he
saw a heavy cloud bank moving off the sliver of moon. He glanced back down at
himself and saw his white Ibis feathers well visible against the blackness all around.
Nazim cursed and yelled out a challenge. He fully drew his sword and
charged, heedless of the danger. The Janissary hastily unslung a musket and lifted
it to take aim. Nazim kept running, expecting the thunderous blast of the musket
at any moment. Helloise was with him again though as the Janissary instead
swung the musket as a club to block Nazim’s sword blow.
Sparks flashed as metal struck metal. At this distance Nazim could make out
that he faced a seal which reminded him of his beloved Leila and fueled his rage.
He slashed again and again, driving the Janissary back. He gave no time for a
counterattack or for the Janissary to draw another weapon.
With a bellow of rage, Nazim swung his sword and stumbled when he found
nothing to resist him. Instead of blocking the blow, the Janissary had disappeared. He
glanced about in confusion for a second before recognizing how close he had gotten to
the edge of the floating city. The black water below rippled with the remnants of a splash.
Nazim cursed and sheathed his sword. He opened his vest pocket and
jostled Mosal, his Sahin, awake. He whispered urgently to the small reptile, “Go,
help me find this Janissary when she surfaces.”
Mosal flicked an irritated tongue at him but spread her leathery wings and
launched from his hand. Nazim flexed his own wings and took flight into the air.
He circled around the spot the Janissary had dove into the water. Few places
nearby would allow anyone put the most athletic to pull themselves out of the
water. Though, the Janissary, and seals in particular, would do better than most.
After several minutes of fruitless searching, Mosal returned and fluttered around
him. The Sahin gestured with her head and Nazim banked in the air. catching a
draft of wind off the buildings below, he soared higher. He looked desperately for
what Mosal had spotted but only saw outlines of building with few lighted windows.
Finally, he caught sight of a figure struggling over the edge of a boat on the far
side of the floating city. Nazim chastised himself. It was a floating city and seals swam
perfectly well far below the surface. He had been searching near where the Janissary has
gone into the water while his target had swum under the boats of the city to evade him.
“Follow him.” Nazim said to Mosal and then dove into the darkness. He
knew the Janissary would see his white feathers against the night sky far before he
got close enough to strike. He would have to once ahead try to attack from the
ground. But this time he would set the ambush.
 Nazim set himself up around the corner of a building down the only street
the Janissary could take to get away from the water’s edge. It was a risk, the
Janissary might dive back into the water, rather than head into the city. But Mosal
would alert him, he felt sure.
Minutes passed and Nazim fretted. He had abandoned his mission for this chance.
At the time it had seemed like a minor diversion. Now he was wasting time. And he
might have been spotted by that damned owl guarding his target when he took to the air.
All doubt fled when he heard Mosal’s croak in the distance. He spotted the
outline of the Janissary ahead and he readied himself. Mosal croaked again, and the
Janissary froze, turning to look up to the Sahin resting on the eaves of a rooftop above.
Nazim saw his chance and dashed forward while the Janissary’s back was turned.
“Mosal?” a soft feminine and familiar voice broke the silence of the night.
Nazim tripped himself with shock as he attempted to stop his sword arm from
completing his strike, but he was already committed to the swing. His sword struck
home clanging off Janissary’s armor. She collapsed to the deck below in a cry of pain.
Nazim staggered over the fallen body, staring down in disbelief. He
managed to stammer out one word.
“Leila?”

Seven years earlier…

“Nazim?”
Leila’s whispered voice sent a chill of excitement through Nazim. He ached
to be near her and had waited all day for their rendezvous. With a flutter of wings,
he glided down from the tree that he had been watching from.
As soon as Nazim touched down, Leila smiled and ran over to him and he
enveloped her with his wings, and she snuggled her head under her curved beak.
He tingled with satisfaction. They stayed that way for several minutes before a
hiss and a flap of leathery wings broke the spell.
Leila smiled again, “Hello to you to Mosal.”
The Sahin landed on Leila’s outstretched hand and she scratched his scales.
Mosal stretched his neck digging into the attention and let out a satisfied hiss.
Leila giggled and looked up to Nazim.
“It looks like you have a competitor for my affections.” Mirth filled her
overly large seal’s eyes.
 Nazim chuckled, “I know I would never win in a fair fight against Mosal for
anyone’s affection. So, scram you scaly monster. Keep an eye out for anyone
approaching.”
Mosal bowed his head dejectedly and rubbed against Leila one more time
before taking flight again. He disappeared into the dark sky. The tension in
Nazim’s eased slightly knowing his Sahin was up there watching their backs.
“I’ve missed you.” Nazim said pulling Leila in close again.
“Me too.” Leila sighed, “My father kept us out an extra day. He had another
one of his feelings about a prime school of salmon nearby.”
“Did you find it?”
“No. Just the same old sparse groups of mackerel.”
“If you had, that might almost have been worth it. The village is eager for
the salmon to return.” Nazim said hungrily.
Leila slumped, “That just means we’ll be going back out again soon.”
Nazim frowned and tilted down to look at her, “Maybe I could ask to join
you? I haven’t learned the ways of the fishers yet.”
A short laugh from Leila stung Nazim, “And how do you think our parents
would respond to that? I can hear my father now, ‘An Ibis has no place on a boat.
They belong up with their heads, in the clouds.’”
Nazim straightened up defensively, “What? That would be a great
advantage. I could spot the schools far out and help guide the boats.”
“You could. But your parents would never allow it either.”
With a heavy sigh, Nazim slumped down, “No, they wouldn’t. I’d be
ostracized for mingling with a ‘lowly’ seal.”
“So, let’s stop worrying about any of them. We’re here now. Let’s enjoy that.”
Nazim wiggled his eyes, “I have a few ideas of how to do that.”
Before Leila could respond, a sharp hiss broke the surrounding air. The pair turned
to look up to see Mosal swooping down to them. He croaked excitedly as he landed
on Leila’s arm. The Sahin’s body went ridged as an arrow pointing to the air above.
“My father probably.” Nazim cursed.
“You should go.” Leila said sadly.
“No. I don’t care what he says.” Nazim bristled.
“Yes, you do. And so do I. Otherwise we wouldn’t be meeting out here in
the dark. Go before he spots us.” Leila caressed Nazim’s beak. “We won’t go out
for a few days at least. We can meet again tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay.” Nazim said. He squeezed Leila’s hand with his wing and then
stretched out and took flight. After several powerful flaps he caught an updraft
and drifted into the sky above the trees. He kept himself low, near their tips,
hoping to avoid his father’s searching gaze.
Several tense minutes followed, but he heard nothing. The dim lights of the
village appeared ahead. Mosal glided beside him and they dove toward home.
The next morning a trumpet woke the village. Groggily, Nazim climbed from
his nest and peered out his window. The rising sun had just broken over the
horizon and illuminated two powerful galleys floating in the villages harbor.
Confusion washed over Nazim. The Angel Islands were the home to the great
pirate lords. They were never raided by them. And his village paid their tribute of
dried fish twice a year to the local lord but never harbored any of the pirate crews.
People began flowing out of the hovels and toward the two waiting ships.
No one looked scared or ready for a fight. The two ships had only unloaded a
handful of people. Half-dressed much the same as the villagers except with swords
hung at the waists. The others bore shiny and elaborate armor. Soldiers.
Nazim floated down to join the crowd and landed beside his father near the
center. His father cast a disapproving look at him though Nazim held himself firm,
pleased his father had to tilt his head upwards slightly now, rather than staring
down at him. With a click of his beak his father said, “You were out late last night.”
“A nighttime soar. We’re having good weather.”
“Indeed. You went alone?”
Nazim, not wanting to lie to his father, ignored the question and gestured
toward the ship, “Do we know who these people are?”
“That is lord Blackpaw and the Janissary of the Anatolian Caliph.”
Nazim blinked, “Together? I thought Blackpaw raided Anatolia?”
“He has. But he doesn’t look to be their prisoner. They both arrived on
separate ships.” His father said, “This must be what your uncle has been up to.”
“Uncle?” Nazim asked. His uncle, Zulal, was the village’s mayor, appointed
by Blackpaw. Though the title meant little outside of tribute time.
“He’s been sending and receiving messages from somewhere recently. And
he doesn’t look surprised to see them.”
Nazim followed his father’s gaze down the hill. His uncle stood in the center
of the crowd. To Nazim’s surprise, Leila slouched beside his uncle. Her head was
bowed and from behind her Nazim could not see her face.
Blackpaw climbed up the short hill to stand before Uncle Zulal, who bowed
low. Two of the Anatolian Janissary stood behind Blackpaw. Guards? Escorts?
Nazim couldn’t tell.
 Blackpaw touched a furred paw to Zulal’s shoulder, and he stood up again.
Blackpaw then stepped passed him to address the gathered villagers. Nazim sensed
the anticipation radiate from the crowd. A swirl of impending dread built in him.
“My friends.” Blackpaw shouted, “I bring glad tidings. Our small kingdom
has joined the mighty Anatolian Caliphate. I have seen the light of Malachism and
converted to the true beliefs. This news means peace for our islands.”
Nazim glanced behind Blackpaw to the two Janissary still standing near his
uncle and Leila. His gaze drifted downward to the waiting galleys and noticed many
more of the fearsome looking warriors lining the boat. For the first time he noticed that
there were others as well. Regular looking people. The feeling of dread grew stronger.
“As part of our peace, the Caliph makes only one request of us. We send to
him a Tribute of Blood.” Blackpaw continued. “Lord Zulal, do you have a
volunteer for this great honor?”
Zulal nodded his head, “I do, lord King. This young seal has volunteered.”
Zular gestured to Leila beside him and she turned to face Blackpaw. Now
Nazim saw her face. She kept her big eyes down, refusing to look at him. But he
saw sadness and fear in her.
“What’s the Tribute of Blood?” Nazim asked his father.
“It’s part of a Malachism ritual. The Caliph takes one person from every
village and then sacrifices them. Some say he and the other lords feast on them.
Some say they’re just killed.”
Nazim’s heart dropped, and he dashed forward without conscious thought.
He brushed passed Blackpaw and raced to Leila. She glanced up at him once a
look of hopefulness flashed briefly in her eyes. But then she diverted them again.
“Leila, no.” Nazim said and turned to look back at Zulal, “Uncle, no you
can’t do this.”
“I have done nothing.” Zulal scoffed and then moving close to Nazim so
only he and Leila could hear, “It is you who have done this. Disgracing your
family by consorting with this mammalian filth.”
“I won’t let you send her to die.” Nazim spat.
Behind them, the clink of metal drew their attention. The two Janissary
moved up the hill the rest of the way to join them. One of them, a large powerful
water buffalo, glared down at them through his helmet. Despite his resolve, Nazim
involuntarily flinched backward.
“What is this Blackpaw? Tributes of Blood must be volunteers.” The Janissary said.
“Zulal?” Blackpaw asked.
“It is nothing, Lord King. This seal has volunteered. Isn’t that correct, Leila?”
 Without lifting her head from staring down at the ground, Leila nodded, “It
is Lord Mayor. I volunteer to be a Tribute of Blood.”
“No.” Nazim said, his heart dropping.
The water buffalo frowned but nodded, “Very well. Come child.”
“No, Leila. Don’t go.”
Leila froze in place for a moment. Quietly she said, “I have to, Nazim. Live
your life well. For me.”
Without looking back up she followed the two Janissary back toward the
waiting galleys. Nazim started to follow her, but something caught his arm. He tried
to shake it off, but the grip held firm. Angrily he turned to see his father beside him.
“Don’t son. You can’t save her.” His father’s voice carried a surprising note
of sympathy.
“I love her.” Nazim whispered.
“I know. But she chose this. If you interfere, they’ll kill your too.”
For a moment Nazim wanted to say he didn’t care. But Leila had told him to stay
and to live. He couldn’t ignore her last request. With twangs of hatred flaring in him,
he watched the two galleys sail away. He would live. And he would make everyone
pay. His uncle. Blackpaw. But mostly the Anatolia and their sick blood lust would pay.

The calls of seagulls in the air above reminded Leila of Nazim flying above her.
But Nazim was home, safe, and the seagulls spelled her end rather than her salvation.
Despite knowing what she would see, curiosity still got the better of her. She stepped
up to the ship’s railing and looked out across the choppy sea to their destination.
Uneven crags of coast appeared on the horizon. A towering cliff dominated
a large portion of it. But she followed the slope of the cliff and saw a stretch of flat
coastline. Small regular patterns lined the coast, small tufts of smoke drifted up
from chimneys. A village, no, she thought, something much larger.
For a brief moment, she considered just diving into the sea. It would be a long
swim to shore. She was a seal after all; she felt sure she could make it. But before she
could summon the courage to do it, a rough hand shoved her away from the railing.
The oarsmen took their place along the oar banks, forcing all the Tributes
back to the galley’s central hold. Leila watched her last chance for salvation slip
away, but she decided it was for the best. With that cliff, her choice of destination
was limited. The Anatolians would undoubtedly chase her down. Some of them were
avians. If they didn’t, they might return to her village for another tribute in her place.
 The galley began the arduous task of rowing to shore, leaving Leila and the
other tributes with nothing to do. She found it odd that they were not forced to work
the oars. But perhaps, if the rumors were true, and they were to be eaten, rather than
sacrificed, the Caliph wanted them plump. They had been well fed during the journey.
When Leila finally came ashore, she expected to see some kind of city. Bigger
than her village for sure. But the scale of the place left her speechless. Instead of
pulling up onto sandy banks, the galleys came to rest against massive stone docks.
Buildings two, sometimes even three, stories high spread out around her.
In the distance, up a gentle rise in the land, a massive stone structure
dominated the horizon. Whitewashed stone glistened in the early morning light.
Flags fluttered from the walls. Most of the structure shone with this brightness, but
a full third of it stood in rubble. But not the rubble of decay. This rubble looked
cleared and what remained had the order of deliberate choice.
Unable to contain herself, Leila asked aloud, “What is that?”
A deep chuckle beside her drew her attention to the water buffalo Janissary
who had taken her from her home. She had learned his name to be Tawil. Despite
his massive and scary appearance, she had learned his people were herbivores
and his imposing presence hid a kind essence.
“That, young one, is the Hospital.” Tawil said, pride evident in his voice.
“The Hospital? Like the one on Honey Isle?” Leila asked.
“In a sense.” Tawil chuckled again, “This fortress was once the Hospitallers
stronghold. They built it as part of their invasion of our lands. Under the guise of
peace, they claimed to want to build a hospital. But what they really built was a
fortress. What they brought was not healing but war. Their S’Allumer religion
claims benevolence and charity. But if its charity they offer, why does every
healing coming with servitude and a pledge to obey their Archduke?”
Leila frowned. She had heard about the Hospital of Saint John on the Honey
Isle where great magics were performed to heal the sick. But she also knew these
miracles came at a great cost. If you went to the Hospitallers, you would be healed
but you would also owe a great debt. She knew almost nothing of S’Allumer
except it came from Calabria and was opposed by the Anatolian’s own Malachism.
Unable to resist the urge to stab at her captive’s hypocrisy, she said,
“Doesn’t Malachism demand obedience to the Caliph? You conquered Blackpaw
and demanded he convert.”
Tawil laughed, “Is that what you think happened?”
Leila blinked in confusion, “Yes.”
 Tawil let out a loud guffaw that echoed around them. He looked down at
her with sympathy, “The Caliph went to Blackpaw in peace. He waited three days
for an audience. He spoke to the people of the pirate’s court with respect.
Showing them the light of Malachism. Our way is not to demand conversion.
Blackpaw chose it. As we hope you will as well.”
“What do you mean? I am a Tribute of Blood. Aren’t you going to sacrifice me?”
A heavy sigh escaped Tawil, “These backward islanders…”
“We’re not backward…” Leila stiffened, but without any real conviction.
She had bristled at her people’s stodgy ways many times, especially when it came
to interspecies relationships.
“Child, you are a Tribute of Blood. That does not mean sacrifice. That
means you are a symbol of unity. Individuals from across the Caliphate coming
together to learn. You will be taught the ways of Malachism. You will be educated
in science, art and warfare. If you choose, you may become catechized into
Malachism. If you excel, you may become an elite Janissary like myself.” Tawil said.
Leila tilted her head, “This happened to you?”
“Very similar. Except I was never expecting to be sacrificed. I did not fully
understand the opportunity I had, but I did not fear it. I am sorry child that you
have been misled by your people’s backward ways. When you return to them, you
can enlighten them.”
Leila blinked, “I can return?”
“Of course. After your year of training you can choose to return home for
good or continue to become a full Janissary. But even then, you will be allowed to
go home at times. We are warriors, not slaves.”
The group of Tributes marched through the city and Leila’s mind reeled with
the revelation. She had been expecting to go to her death. She had thought she was
saving Nazim from this horrible fate by volunteering. Instead she found herself with
the chance to learn more than just fishing. A life beyond that of living at the bottom.
When the group came to a stable and began climbing into carts for the
landward journey to Lygos, they fell under the shadow of the great Hospitaler
fortress. The shadow felt like a final sliver of doubt over her. She studied the
rubble for a moment and turned back to Tawil.
“What happened to the hospital?”
Tawil shrugged, “The S’Allumer Penitent came claiming a wish to heal and
preach their religion. Malachism teaches tolerance. We granted them land. Instead
of a hospital, they built a fortress. Instead of preaching their beliefs, they demanded
the sick convert. They housed criminals and spread unrest. The Caliph was forced to
expel them. It turned into a fight, but as you know, they run a new Hospital of Saint
John on Honey Isle. Once they were gone from our shores, we left them in peace.
Now their fortress serves as a true hospital where the sick and infirm can come for
healing. But without any dark magic. We heal with science, nature and compassion.”
The sun broke over the top of the broken fortress and cast light down upon
Leila. She smiled for the first time since leaving home.

Stone towered up before Nazim. He had heard the stories about the New
Hospital of Saint John. In his mind he had pictured something like Grot’s Rock on
the southern coast of his home island. It was an imposing rock. But the hospital
was something else entirely.
The awe of the stonework had momentarily distracted him from the
throbbing pain of his left wing. He held it cradled against his body. It had been
nearly a week since injuring it and the pain had only grown worse. His feathers
had begun to fall out around the wound two days before. Now, instead of just the
concern of the pain, his mind wondered if he’d ever be able to fly again.
Nazim joined the throng of petitioners hoping for access to the great fortress
hospital. Some looked worse off than Nazim, being carried on liters by others. But
many appeared perfectly healthy aside from some minor deformity.
Once inside the walls of the fortress, the petitioners formed a queue and stood
in hopeful anticipation. One of the Hospitallers, a falcon radiant in white robes over
shining armor, walked the line, examining each of the petitioners. Occasionally he
would gesture to one and they would be escorted inside by some attendants.
When Nazim’s turn came, the falcon studied his arm and clicked his beak,
“How long has it been like this?”
“A week, sir. But the feathers only started falling out yesterday.” Nazim said
hopefully.
The Hospitaler nodded, “You arrived just in time then. Another day and
there would be nothing we could do for you. Another three days and you’d be
dead. Follow this gentleman.”
Nazim nodded his thanks to the Hospitaler and followed the orderly into the
stonework of the hospital. He passed by a large room filled with rows of beds, all
filled with wailing and coughing people. Hospitallers moved about the room with
masks over their faces and leather gloves on their wing tips.
 “Plague ward.” The orderly said gesturing Nazim forward, “You don’t want
to go in there.”
“I really don’t.” Nazim agreed.
They walked a further way and then up some stairs. Nazim found himself in
a small room in one of the fortress’ towers. A narrow window gave him a sliver
view of a wildflower filled field beyond the fortress walls.
“They will be with you shortly. Wait here.” The orderly said and then
promptly disappeared again.
Nazim sat on the room’s cot and gazed out the window. The tranquil field
mesmerized him, distracting him from his pain, both physical and emotional. The
trauma of the last few months melted away. For a moment he forgot Leila and
what he had done to his uncle.
He didn’t know how long he stared out the window, but the sun shifted an
appreciable distance across the sky while he did. When he turned away, his
stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten well since fleeing home. Now he had sat for
hours in a small room with no prospect of food in his near future.
Nazim continued to wait and felt the hours drag on. The peaceful tranquility
of the meadow no longer captivated him, and he could no longer ignore the pain
in his wing. Nor could he forget the sight of his uncle lying dead at his feet. His
revenge had come, and it hadn’t brought him peace. But it was unfinished. The
Anatolians still remained unscarred.
When another white robed Hospitaler appeared in the room, Nazim moved
quickly, startled at the sudden change. He grimaced at the pain he caused himself
as he jostled his wing. The old falcon clicked his beak in disapproval.
“Sit down young one. I can’t tend to you if you go and hurt yourself further.”
Nazim gingerly sat back down on the cot. The Hospitaler picked up a stool and
set it next to the cot. He reached out for Nazim’s wing and gently drew it toward him.
“My name is Healer Amir. I will do my best to tend this injury. It looks like
we still have a chance of saving the wing. If you agree, you understand that you
will owe the Hospital a Debt and that you consent to my use of magic.”
Nazim flinched involuntarily. His mind flashed back to the stories his old
gran had told about when their family fled the Delta city of Heliopolis. There had
been a riot against dark magic. Ibis, who all believed to be conjurers of magic,
had been attacked. His family had fled to the Angel’s Teeth. He had never seen
magic before, but part of him feared it because of this story.
He steeled himself and nodded. Amir took the wing and finished unwrapping
the blood-soaked bandage. Once the bandage was gone, Amir’s feather tips began
to glow with a soft white light. A sense of power radiated out and into Nazim’s
wing. He felt intense pain side by side with intense relief. Then he passed out.
When he came too, he awoke to darkness. Flickers of light shone through
the open doorway and moonlight shone outside. But beyond that he saw very
little of his surroundings.
Nazim sat up and it wasn’t until he had finished that he realized he had used
his injured wing to pull himself up. He looked down at a clean fresh bandage
wrapping it. A throb in his wing intensified as he put weight on it. But that felt
wonderful after the unending pain it had been under.
As his empty stomach now became the most urgent sensation, Nazim wandered
into the corridor. He followed the sound of voices and came to a well-lit room.
Several Hospitallers sat around a table eating. He recognized Amir among them.
Amir stood up from the table and came over to him, “I see you are recovering
well. You must have a strong constitution to be awake so soon after the healing.”
“In truth, I think I woke up because I’m starving.” Nazim said, unable to
take his gaze from the table laden with food.
“Yes, you did look a bit famished. And the healing takes a lot out of a
person.” Amir stepped back to the table and picked up a roll, “Here, eat this and I
will have an orderly bring you some soup.”
“Thank you.” Nazim said and greedily tore into the roll, savoring the chunks
of fish meat baked into it.
“Have a seat young one. We can discuss what happened to you while you
await your soup.” Amir said.
Nazim flinched. He looked down at the ground, “I’m afraid it’s not an
exciting story.”
Amir chuckled, “I do not need the details. Only the story. I sense something
dark happened to lead to a sword gash such as that.”
“That would be an excellent way of describing it.” Nazim said, amazed that
Amir had been able to identify the wound so precisely.
“You do not need to share what you do not wish. But know you are safe
here in the light of S’Allumer.”
“Thank you.” Nazim stammered. His mind wandered back to the stories he
had heard about the Hospitallers and what Amir had told him before the healing.
“You spoke of a Debt before?”
“Yes, S’Allumer teaches of charity and healing. The strong have a duty to
care for the weak and injured. But we cannot do it alone. Those that have been
healed, and are now strong again, owe charity to others as well. A Debt to those
less fortunate. The easiest way to pay this debt is tithe to the hospital.”
Nazim gulped, “I do not have much money, sir.”
“Money is only one way to tithe. Service is another. All the orderlies here
were once in need of our service or are serving in place of an infirmed relative. All
of our food comes from farmers grateful for our aid and protection.”
“Protection?” Nazim asked.
“Yes, the Hospitallers do more than just heal the sick. We also spread the
truth of S’Allumer. We protect those who have found the true faith. Especially
from the heathen pirates of Tearspring or the Malachites of Anatolia.”
At the mention of the Anatolians, Nazim looked up, “You fight the Anatolians?”
Amir shrugged, “Only when necessary. To protect our believers.”
Eagerly, Nazim leaned forward, “Can a Debt be paid with service as a
Hospitaler? Can you teach me to fight, and magic?”
Amir smiled, “We can.”
 Leila looked down the length of the sword point that dominated her vision.
She followed it up and stared in amazement at the white-feathered ibis standing
over. His wide-eyed expression matched her own.
“Nazim?” Leila asked meekly, “You’re alive?”
“Of course, I’m alive. But you…” Nazim stammered.
Despite the sword still in her face, Leila laughed. It started as an uncontrollable
giggle that boiled over. The sword dropped as Nazim was overcome with the same
sensation. Soon they were both giggling and crying in heaps on the ground.
When the laughing faded, Nazim crawled over and spread out his wings in
an effort to embrace her. Leila flinched and backed away without thinking. This
left Nazim kneeling on the wooden deck with his wings awkwardly outstretched.
Leila shook her head as Nazim stared at her. He managed to stammer,
“You’re not dead. But you’re one of them now. They corrupted you.”
“We had the Anatolians all wrong.” Leila began to explain but Nazim cut her off.
“Brainwashed.” He snarled.
“No!” Leila spat back, “We were wrong about the Tribute of Blood. It’s not
anything malicious. It’s a way of uniting the empire. Bringing people from all over
together to learn. They educated me in arts and science.”
“You were their prisoner.” Nazim said.
“I was your uncle’s prisoner. The Janissary guard who looked out for me,
Tawil, he was aghast when he learned what had happened. Tributes are supposed
to be volunteers. True volunteers. I was offered the chance to return home.
Because of the distance it would be several months before I could, so I joined
their training. And I learned so much.”
“So much you forgot about where you came from?” Nazim wings slumped.
Leila shook her head, “No. When I completed the training, I did return
home. But you were gone.”
She closed her eyes and steeled herself before she continued. “I was told
you were outcast. Fled for murdering your uncle.”
Nazim’s feathers fluffed and Leila knew then that it was true. She had tried
to pretend otherwise. That something else had happened and Nazim had become
a scapegoat. But she couldn’t ignore it.
“How could you? He was arrogant and cruel sometimes. But he was your
uncle. Murder?” Leila said, unable to keep her scorn from her voice.
 “I thought he had murdered you.” Nazim shot back.
“That’s something you nearly did yourself. Have you fallen so far that you
murder random people on the street?” Leila said.
“Just Janissary.” Nazim said darkly, “I vowed revenge against all who had
caused your death.”
Leila stared at him. Her once lover. But what was he now? An enemy? He
had tried to kill her only moments before. If she had been any other Janissary, she
would be dead right now.
A series of thuds in the darkness reminded her that they weren’t alone here on
Tearspring. Her mission tonight did not involve long lost lovers. She had to refocus.
“I cannot do this right now.” Leila admitted reluctantly, “Come to me in
Lygos. Find me there and I can show you what the Anatolians are really about.”
She stood up and dusted off as much of the sea scum from her armor as she could.
She had been forced to remove her armored leggings and helmet when she dove in the
water. But her breastplate would still offer some protection. As it had from Nazim’s blade.
“What are you doing here? The Caliphate has no power in Tearspring. And
you’ve recently been pushed back by the Oyo.” Nazim said.
“None of your business.” Leila said, unable to come up with a good excuse.
She had an official story, but she had no wish to lie to Nazim. He had lived
through enough lies.
Nazim smiled, “You’re here about the weapon, aren’t you?”
Leila froze, her back stiff. She swallowed but said nothing, still not wanting
to lie. She couldn’t admit the truth either.
“The Caliph wants Queen Khadija al-Dalal’s new weapon. The magical missiles
that rain unquenching fire from the air. Setting ships ablaze better than cannons.
Destroying whole villages in horrid, fiery death.” Nazim pressed.
“It’s not magic. This is science. It’s a rocket and a set of chemicals mixed together
to burn. Nothing more. No, I am not after the weapon. It’s horrid.” Leila said forcefully.
“What then?”
“The ship.” Leila admitted, “The ship that carries the weapon is new and
sails better than anything anyone has seen before. It’s not a galley. I was here to
buy it or persuade Queen Khadija al-Dalal to join us. But she is instead going to
use the ship and its terrible weapon for piracy. So, I must destroy it.”
Nazim smiled at her and laughed, “And here I thought I was in for a wild
night just by seeing a Janissary here. But to find out it’s you. And then to learn
we’re here for the same thing.”
Leila turned back to Nazim and blinked, “You’ve come to destroy this ship?”
 He nodded, “The Hospitallers cannot let such a weapon be in the hands of
pirates. Our hospital is full of burn victims that are beyond even our ability to
heal. Nor can it fall into the hands of the Anatolians. They refuse to use magic.
But this, as you say, isn’t magic.”
Leila’s mouth dropped in shock, “The Hospitallers? You’ve joined the S’Allumer?”
“The true faith yes.” Nazim said, “We don’t force people to convert or be
occupied.”
“No, you slither in and hold their lives hostage. Either convert and serve
you or die of disease or injure.”
“We heal the sick.” Nazim shouted, “But we can’t cure everyone. Not
without more followers.”
Leila shook her head and stared up at the sky. She had never thought
Nazim capable of such ignorance. She reminded herself he hadn’t had the
opportunity she had. He had only what others told him. Others using him. And
unfortunately, she had to become one of those.
“Nazim, if we’re both here for the same thing, we should work together.
Destroy this ship and the Queen’s ability to make her rockets. Then no one has
access to the weapon.”
Nazim considered her in silence for a minute. She felt the echo of bootsteps
in the distance through the wood decking. Soon they would have to move, either
as friends or enemies.
“If you were any other Janissary, I would assume you were trying to trick
me.” Nazim’s words slashed an icy spike of regret through Leila. “But I trust you.
Let’s work together. And let’s start by getting off this street before whoever is
approaching finds us here.”
Leila forced herself to smile, “Good idea.”
 Nazim flared with conflicting emotions. He sat cramped in between some
crates, observing the dockyard that housed Queen Khadija al-Dalal’s new warship.
Wedged beside him, her arm resting against his wing was Leila. Elation, betrayal,
love, desire, suspicion, fear, confusion. They all rippled through him like the
waves crashing against the dock.
“I’ve already spotted under water patrols. I can’t get in that way.” Leila said,
bringing Nazim’s attention back to the present, “Were you planning to fly in?”
Nazim shook his head, “No. There’s an owl. Why, what was your plan then?”
“Walk right up and go aboard.” Leila gave a little shrug.
“Walk right up?” Nazim said, his mouth left gaping, “That’s idiotic.”
“You’d be amazed how many places you can go if you look like you belong.”
Nazim said and tapped her breastplate, “No one wants to argue with a Janissary.”
Nazim shook his head, “They’re not going to just let you onboard.”
“No, but they won’t attack me on the approach. They’ll let me walk right up
to them and they’ll bow nervously.”
“Then what?” Nazim asked, “Ask nicely?”
Leila shrugged, “I hadn’t gotten that far yet. I’m still coming up with a way
to destroy the ship.”
“That parts easy. But your plan has merit. When they bow and scrape in
fear of you, we strike the guards.”
“More murder?” Leila said, but it lacked much reproach.
Nazim shrugged again but couldn’t meet her eyes, “You’re planning to destroy
a ship crammed with fire weapons. You really think no one’s going to get hurt?”
“I suppose you’re right. Okay, we’ll try it your way.” Leila sighed and
straightened up. She rubbed at a smudge on her breast plate and then strode
forward toward the light of the dockyard.
Nazim hurried to get to his feet and follow her. Mosal croaked on his
shoulder and he scratched the Sahin’s throat. He gulped nervously but kept his
sword sheathed. Careful to look straight ahead but remain as hidden behind Leila
as possible, he followed her to the two crocodile guards.
“Halt!” One of the guards said, his expression nervous.
“I am here at the behest of Queen Khadija al-Dalal to see her great ship.
Stand aside.” Leila said in a commanding tone and sent a chill through Nazim.
For a moment he had started to forget what she had become, remembering the
old Leila. But she truly was a Janissary.
“Um… uh…” The guard stammered, glancing to his compatriot.
While they stood there unsure how to respond, Nazim gave a mighty flap of his
wings and flew up over Leila’s head and landed on the two guards. They fell over
more from shock than his efforts as the two crocodiles were much heavier than he was.
On their backs they floundered, trying to roll over and stand up. Nazim ripped
at them with his talons as he struggled to draw his sword. He managed to slash
one’s throat, but the other sent him spinning with a powerful snap of tail. Nazim’s
head range when it collided against a pylon and he almost fell into the icy black sea.
He thought for sure he should be dead by now, but when his senses
returned to him, Leila stood over the two dead crocodiles. Her sword dripped with
blood. She had even hacked the one he had injured. A cold shiver ran through
him. She may pretend to balk at murder, but his Leila was a killer now.
“Help me prop them up. Quickly. I haven’t heard a hoot so that owl must
not be watching at the moment. But eventually it will look this way.” Leila hissed.
Nazim clamored to his feet. He looked to Mosal who had rested on one of
the pylons, “Keep a look out for anyone approaching.”
The pair of them lifted the dead crocodiles and leaned them against each other.
They wouldn’t hold long and if anyone came into the light, they’d see the blood. But
from a distance it might reassure anyone watching that their guards were still there.
They raced down the pier toward the great ship. It stretched up out of the
water looking like no ship Nazim had ever seen. It towered over the dock, its
masts stretching into the night.
The other side of the pier held an equally massive warehouse. Likely where
the special weapon was made. He glanced between the two, unsure where to
focus. Leila showed no such hesitation.
“Go aboard the ship. Get to the magazine in the lower decks. Use your
magic to set a fire. And then get out of there quickly.”
“How do you know I can do magic?” Nazim asked uneasily.
“You’re a Hospitaler. They can all do magic.”
Nazim narrowed his eyes but accepted her answer, “What will you do?”
“I’ll do the same in the warehouse.” She said though Nazim felt an edge of
suspicion. But he didn’t have time to think on it. They did not have a lot a time
before someone would discover them.
“Okay. Five minutes. No more. Then meet back here.” Nazim said.
 Leila nodded and turned toward the warehouse. He wanted to say
something else. This might be, again, the last time he saw her. But she was gone
into the night and he didn’t want to shout after her.
Carefully, Nazim crept up the gangplank onto the mighty warship. He saw figures
on the quarterdeck shuffling about. The watch, he judged. He took a page from Leila
and straightened up and walked confidently onboard. He glanced around quickly to find
access to the hold and then gave a casual wave toward the watch, hoping they weren’t
actually looking in his direction, before pulling open the doors and climbing down.
It was slow going once below. The ship’s lower deck was littered with crates,
cannons, and tools. The ship must still be under construction given the state of things.
For a moment he worried that it wouldn’t have any of the weapons onboard yet.
To his relief, he found a well-marked door with warning signs showing a
slash through an image of a flame. Another guard slumped against the door,
asleep at his post. Nazim sighed, almost feeling bad as he slit the antelopes throat.
But better to die in your sleep then be blown to bits he supposed.
Nazim involuntarily shivered when he opened the door to the magazine. His
eyes had started to adjust to the darkness of the hold, but the magazine was pitch
black. He moved carefully until something brushed his outstretched feathers.
A crate about five feet long and one wide rested against the ship’s outer hull.
Gingerly he tried to lift it, but it proved too heavy. Reluctantly, he strained to drag
it and managed to get it moving slowly. It made a tremendous noise to his ears, but
no one seemed to notice. Maybe the dead guard was the only other one onboard?
Once Nazim had dragged the crate back through the door, he snapped his
feathers and lit a lantern a short distance away. In the flickering light he opened
the crate and found a strange cylindrical object. He had never seen a rocket
before and hoped this was it.
Fortunately, he had seen a wick on canons. This one was longer and trailed
from out of the rocket. He shrugged and hoped it wouldn’t detonate immediately. He
carefully rested the rocket on the deck, pointed toward the open door to the magazine.
Then he snapped a spark of fire to the wood near the wick. It caught immediately
and started burning away. It wouldn’t be long before the wick got caught in the flame.
Nazim stammered over away, back toward the stairs up to the deck. He
made no pretense toward silence now. Speed was all that mattered. He burst onto
the deck and immediately took flight, owl bedamned.
Desperately, he looked over the docks, trying to find a sign of Leila. The
clash of a sword told him where to look and he swooped down and around the
corner of the building. Mosal fluttered in beside him and they swooped over Leila
and another pair of crocodiles.
He dove at one of them, raking his talons across the crocodiles armored back.
He didn’t think he did much damage, but the guard did turn away from Leila for a
moment. She took the opening to skewer the guard through the belly with her sword.
Nazim swirled around for another pass. The remaining guard ducked from
his talon attack but was forced to retreat from Leila. Now outnumbered, the guard
turned and ran back inside the warehouse.
With a flutter, Nazim landed beside Leila. “We need to go. Right now.”
Leila nodded her agreement and then bent to pick up a leather satchel.
Nazim gestured to it, “What’s that?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
Realization hit him, “You didn’t come here to destroy the weapon. You
came here to steal it. That’s the formula to create it!”
“The deck plans for the ship, actually.” Leila admitted, “And I did want to
destroy it. Which you said is going to happen very soon.”
Nazim felt the betrayal deep in his gut. He stood there frozen battling the
different emotions. Then a distance bang felt like his insides exploding.
The pair of them turned and saw a bright rush of light from around the
corner of the building. Nazim felt Leila’s body smack into him and then the cold
water of the ocean. Then nothing.
He awoke the next day to find himself in a tavern on the opposite side of
Tearspring from the dockyard. Smoke still billowed into the air as fires were still being
fought. He would learn that the entire dock the great ship had been anchored too had
been destroyed and the nearby warehouse leveled. Half the city had caught on fire, some
by the unquenchable sticky napalm. But most had been contained, and the city survived.
When he asked the tavern keeper how he had arrived, the otter handed him a
letter and said the seal who had brought him in had left it for him. Then he claimed
to owe ten denarii for the room Nazim had used. Nazim stared the tavern owner
down, knowing he never would have gotten a room if Leila had not paid in advance.
When the tavern keeper backed off, Nazim tore open the letter.
Nazim,
I am sorry to leave you like this. There is so much I want to say to you. But this scrap of
paper won’t be enough. If you can forgive me, come to Lygos. I would very much like that.
All my love
Leila
PS Mosal found you in the night. I sent him hunting while you rested.

Nazim looked at the brief words, unsure what to think. Leila had been dead
but now wasn’t. But what most bothered him were the words; if you can forgive me.
He turned to the tavern keeper again, “What happened last night? My heads
still foggy.”
The tavern keeper shrugged, “The Hospitallers attacked the Queen’s dock
yard. Nearly destroyed the city. The bastards killed a lot of people.”
A sense of dread welled up in Nazim. He fumbled with his pouch and dug
through it. His badge of office as a Hospitaler was gone. Stolen, no doubt, by
Leila and used to frame him for the attack. He almost laughed.
Nazim wasted no more time in the tavern. The queen would be looking for
him. If he managed to escape Tearspring alive, he didn’t know where he would
head next. Home to the Honey Isle? Or onto Lygos? No, not Lygos. If he went
there, he didn’t know if he would embrace Leila or kill her.
 Faora Meridian has also been a writer of anthropomorphic
fiction for over a decade and a half, with multiple short
stories published across several anthology projects.

Unification

It had started out a good day. Reports told of record sales. New workers at
the docks meant coin saved on bribery. The last week’s worth of rain had dried out
at last; it no longer soaked the earth and turned the streets of Triskellian into slippery,
shallow rivers of filth. Even the staff seemed to be in unusually good moods. As he’d
walked the halls of the House of Bao Lei, one hyena had allowed himself a tight smile.
It hadn’t even slipped when out of one of the side corridors and right into his
chest darted one of the finicky, nervous rabbit-folk of Calabria. The small male had
all but bounced off the hyena’s chest, and his smile only tightened as the rabbit dusted
himself off and quickly bowed his head. “Beg pardon, Shi Shaiming,” he’d stammered
in that unpleasant local accent, and he’d bowed again as the hyena had waved him off.
His mood soured considerably upon the discovery of the dead body in his
office, however.
Shaiming had paused in his doorway as he drank in the scene. The figure
was an almost-familiar rat, black of fur and red of throat, thanks to whatever
blade had left the slit below his chin. He’d been stripped naked and dropped into
the chair at Shaiming’s desk, and the hyena perked an eyebrow at the lack of
blood across the papers before the body. Whomsoever had delivered this body
had gone to a lot of trouble to make a very pointed statement.
The sight of the hyena stock still outside his office door only took a minute
to attract the attention of a member of the House’s staff. It was a young cat, not
yet even a woman, who came up to the hyena. “Shi Shaiming? Are you alright?”
“Summon the lady of the house,” he replied, his voice slow as he formed his
muzzle around those strange Calabrian words. “She will need to see this.” With
that, Shaiming stepped into his office and to the side.
He heard the cat’s gasp when she laid eyes on the dead rat, and the sound
was followed with her footsteps as she ran. Shaiming paid her no more mind as
he moved slowly around his desk, his eyes alert as they scanned the office. Not a
paper seemed out of place. Not a scroll disturbed. His cabinet remained locked.
Nothing missing. Only one thing added.
 Two things, he corrected himself, as he looked over the body of the rat
again. Hidden by the desk had been a sealed letter in the murdered creature’s lap,
equally untouched by the blood that stained the rat’s throat and chest. Shaiming
daintily reached out to pluck the letter from the rat, and he tapped it against his
other paw as he stood back to lean against the wall.
He stared at the rat for a few more moments as he tried to place him. There
was something about the shape of the muzzle that stirred a memory somewhere
within Shaiming. Nostrils flared as the hyena finally latched onto it; the rat was
one of theirs. Not staff, certainly, but one of the dockworkers in Triskellian’s
harbor. One of those bland, soulless Calabrian names, too. There was no sense
naming him anymore, though. Now he was just meat.
“Sh-shi Shaiming?” The voice came from the cat he’d sent away, but the
hyena didn’t bother to look away. “I, uh… the lady is here for you.”
“Thank you. You may go.” He still didn’t bother to glance over, though he
was gratified to hear the door click closed a moment later. Silence filled the room,
broken only by the muted bustle of the city beyond the window.
Finally, the quiet foot-falls of soft paws fell upon the wooden floorboards. Their
owner all but drifted across them as she approached Shaiming’s desk. The hyena bowed
his head and allowed his eyes to fall closed for a moment. [My lady,] he said, grateful to
shift back to his native Zhonggese tongue. [It seems that our enterprise has drawn ire.]
He waited with head low for a moment longer before he opened his eyes. A
white-furred paw waved him up, and the hyena straightened as he lifted his head
once more. There in all her resplendent glory was the lady of the House of Bao
Lei. The tigress’ beauty struck him again; the Calabrian savages looked upon any
of Lei’s breed as examples of such, but not a one of them possessed the experience
to know how she stood leagues above them all. Even with her stripes concealed
from the neck down by a sheer, silken white gown, she was the picture of grace.
Shaiming’s breath caught in his throat as she turned to face him. Those two
brilliant pools of blue pierced him with their stare, and he nodded once as he
lifted the letter in his paw. [They sent this along with the rat. He was one of the
dockworkers who would oversee our… spice shipments.]
Lei’s expression didn’t change as she tilted her head up. A wave of her paw
bade him continue, and Shaiming nodded as he considered the letter again. The
wax seal bore an emblem unknown to him. It resembled the mark of the city of
Triskellian — one he would be all too happy to put behind him, should they
return to Zhongguo — but for a key difference. In place of the three spirals of the
emblem lay three curled tails. Vulpine, if he had to guess. One seemed solid, one
seemed to drip, and one bore no fur or flesh halfway up from the tip. The artistry
of the seal itself was impressive. Such detail was rare in this uncivilized land.
With only a glance spared at the rat, Shaiming broke the seal and opened the
letter. He bit back a growl at the sight of those ugly Calabrian letters as he cleared his
throat. [To the most exalted lady of the House of Bao Lei,] he read, [Your indulgence
and presence are begged for a matter most urgent this eve. As a provider of delights
for the senses and a mistress of darker desires, one who- this does go on for some
time, my lady…] Shaiming skimmed his way down the letter as quickly as he dared.
When he finally reached the bottom, he worked his jaw from side to side and
glared at the letter through squinting, angry eyes. Surely, they couldn’t mean for
him to… [It is intended to be a meeting of… similar enterprises,] he summarized
for her, his voice curt. [A gathering for the purposes of shared information and
resources. They are polite… for Calabrese.] He almost spat the word. [I see no
reason to entertain these people, my lady, whosoever they may be.]
As he lifted his head, the anger Shaiming felt began to slip away. The
expression on Lei’s face was patient, her eyes soft as she stared him down. The
hyena bowed his head instinctively as he took a slow breath. [My lady, we are strong.
We are disciplined in a way that the thugs of this city are not. We are order amid
the chaos of Triskellian. We need not sully ourselves by laying with common filth.]
A glance up showed that the patient look from Lei had turned. Her brow
began to furrow as her eyes sharpened, and Shaiming had to dig deep to hold her
stare. Her other paw flicked out, and her gown rippled as she gestured toward the
dead rat. Her eyes never left Shaiming as he sank down to one knee.
With clenched jaw, the hyena could only offer a slow nod. [Of course, my
lady,] he replied. Of course. If they could slip in with a dead body and slip out again
undetected, how long would it be before theirs were the throats slit in the dark? This
was not just a message delivered, but a warning issued: your defenses are insufficient
to stop us. It shamed Shaiming directly, and Lei knew it. [If this is your will, I am
yours to command. The letter details a location, and we are to be there at midnight
tonight. It asks your presence, and that of your second. I make no presumptions.]
Still, he was gratified to see that sliver of Lei’s anger melt into a soft smile as
she turned back to face him. She turned and made her way toward the door, but
she stopped long enough to grace Shaiming’s cheek with a gentle touch of her
paw. The hyena shuddered as he bowed his head low. [It is my honor to serve,]
he said, his voice little more than a whisper. The paw slipped from his cheek,
though her warmth remained even as Lei herself slipped from the room.
 Only when she had left did Shaiming rise once again. His eyes lingered on
the door for a moment before he turned back to his desk. The hyena rounded it
with a couple of quick steps and strode to the cabinet in the far corner. A paw
dipped into his pocket for the key that he kept always on his person, and with it
he unlocked the cabinet and swung the doors open wide.
The armor within didn’t gleam like the often-ornate pieces kept by the
knights of the Calabrian ‘noble’ houses. The laced leather plates were the same
dull brown as the hyena’s fur, and a claw-tip traced down the seams between the
leather sections. He would want the armor that evening, if everything went as the
letter suggested that it would go. As he glanced once more at the last lines of the
letter — of the instructions there — he felt a new growl rumble in his throat.
Should the evening not go as the letter suggested, then the presence of his
armor would only be all the more welcome.

The rest of the day passed mercifully without incident. The entirety of the
house was abuzz with the news of the body found in Shaiming’s office, but no one
had the curiosity sufficient to dare ask him about it. All the better, too. Had they
tried, Shaiming would have punished that curiosity harshly.
It had been an embarrassment. That Lei had not punished him for the
infiltration of their house by whatever conspirator had left a rat at Shaiming’s desk
was a mercy, but the hyena did not allow that to relax him. The thugs that served
as his mistress’ vanguard had been reprimanded. One who had dared suggest that
the failure might lie with foreigners who didn’t know how things worked in Triskellian
had found himself relieved of his duties when Shaiming had knocked him to the floor.
Much of his duties for the day he offloaded to underlings. Instead he spent
his time in preparation and meditation. The letter had been clear in its words and
instructions. Come here. Bring this. Do that. The method of delivery promised
retribution should those instructions not be met. His training had been broken
only by particular events that required his specific attendance. Coin to exchange
hands, certain wealthy clients that begged a personal touch, and so on.
When at last the time had come for he and Lei to make for the meeting, Shaiming
had achieved full mastery of himself. Where there had been shame, nervousness, and
even a small amount of concern, the hyena instead faced the evening with a resolute
heart and a sharp, focused mind. He had gone to Lei’s room in his armor, the leathers
equally prepared as the rest of him. Lei retained her gown but accented it with a crimson
sash about her middle and a brilliant ruby on a golden chain about her neck. A pair of
simple sandals adorned her foot-paws, though Shaiming had no doubt they would only
be present as long as they had to be. Silently, she nodded to him. Their journey began.
The letter had been clear in its instructions, but still they had surprised the hyena.
As they drew up to the guild-houses that peppered the area just off the Triskellian
markets, Shaiming couldn’t help but wonder at the wisdom of such a public meeting
place. Certainly, it was all the worse for himself and for Lei; they rather stood out.
He’d never heard of the Calabrian Exotics Trade Company before he’d read
the letter, and Shaiming suspected that the company only truly existed on the
scrolls hoarded by the merchant guilds. Nevertheless, a large pair of equines stood
beside the door to the merchant guild hall, all stoic and silent as the warriors of
their kind always seemed to be. Lei barely offered them a glance as she swept
past them, and a growl threatened to slip from Shaiming’s muzzle at their lack of
deference to her. Lei must have noticed, for she glanced back long enough to
assuage his concerns with the most minuscule shake of her head.
The offense was forgotten as Shaiming and Lei strode through the guild hall,
only to be stopped at an intersection of hallways by a russet-furred fox dressed in an
elaborate, black suit. “Ah, and what a pleasure,” he said, and smiled broadly up at
Lei as he stepped forward. “It is an honor to have you join us tonight, Lady Bow.”
Shaiming bristled, but he still waited for the tigress to wave him forward
before he spoke. “You have the honor to stand in the presence of Bao Lei;
mistress of the smoke; lady of intoxicants; purveyor of the exotic and she who
provides the drops of eternity.” The hyena’s eyes narrowed. “Given this, you
ought not dishonor her by mispronouncing her name.”
By the time Shaiming had fallen silent again, a trio of panthers had emerged
from one of the corridors at the intersection and lined up behind the still-smiling
fox. “Yes, of course,” he said as he turned back to Lei. “A thousand pardons, my
lady. No offense was meant. I beg you forgive me this inelegant Calabrese tongue.”
Lei’s gaze lingered on the fox for a moment before she leaned ever so slightly
toward Shaiming. [He begs poorly for your forgiveness and expects his charm to disarm
us,] he told her in their native language. As he spoke, the fox waved the panthers toward
them. Shaiming straightened immediately as he stared down the fox. “And what is this?”
At that, the fox could only give a cool smile that completely set aside his
earlier contrition. “Begging your pardon, good sir, but no weapons are permitted
at the meeting. You and your lady must be checked, to ensure that you have no
intention to smuggle anything inside and cause any… let us say undue fuss.”
 Unfortunately for the panther at the fox’s right, he’d not given Shaiming a
chance to translate the request before he moved in with a paw outstretched
toward Lei. His cry of surprise and pain certainly spoke volumes however, as Lei
flicked her own paw out to grasp and wrench aside the offending limb. The
panther went with his arm as it twisted back, and within a moment he was flat on
his back with one of Lei’s sandals pressed to his throat.
Shaiming didn’t move a muscle as the other two panthers quickly drew swords, but
his eyes did lock on the fox. The little vulpine only smiled on as if nothing had happened,
and he made no attempt to arm himself. “I’m terribly sorry about that, my good
fellow,” he said as he glanced from the panther to Shaiming again. “My boys here are
unfortunately very enthusiastic with their work, perhaps even to the death of decorum.
Would the lady kindly release him, once you have explained the circumstances for us?”
The hyena kept his eyes on the fox for a moment longer before he turned at
last to face Lei’s expectant gaze. [Their intention is to search us for weapons,] he told
her, and he couldn’t help but mirror the small smirk that played across her muzzle. [I
suggest we allow it, my lady. However…] Shaiming nodded down to the panther under
Lei’s sandal and said, [Perhaps this one might do with a broken paw first, for his hubris.]
Lei considered his words as Shaiming turned back to the fox. A second later
there was the crack of bone as Lei snapped her captive panther’s wrist back far
enough to break, and a scream rang out and echoed down the corridors. Both of
the panthers flinched back from the agonized sound.
Not the fox, though. His smile never wavered; he didn’t even blink as he
held Shaiming’s stare. “I do sincerely apologize for any offense caused,” he said.
“A pity that Nicoli had to suffer to learn a fundamental lesson about civility.”
“Lessons purchased with pain are seldom forgotten with haste,” countered
the hyena. “Your other guards may now proceed. And they will proceed,” he
added as he began to growl, “with all respect.”
“Of course,” agreed the fox as he bowed deeply before Shaiming. When he
rose once again, he waved the panthers forward. They sheathed their swords even
as they only nervously stepped up to their tasks. “Oh, and where are my manners,
after all of this? Deepest apologies, my good fellow.” The fox flourished as he
bowed low. “I have the pleasure to be called Ceasario, and it is my duty this
evening to escort you and the good lady down to the others.”
Shaiming turned the name over and over in his mind for a moment. It seemed
familiar… yes. “There is a price on your head,” he told the fox. “A considerable one.”
Ceasario’s smile, once more, never wavered as the nearest panther began to
pat Shaiming down. “An assassin is only respected by the size of the bounty upon
their head; be it either large and their name known, or be it nothing and their
name but whispered. I assure you, my good fellow, that my name is quite known.
Though you rather seem to have me at a disadvantage, master…?”
“Chiu Shaiming,” the hyena replied, “Shi to the exalted Lady Bao Lei.”
“Chiu Shaiming,” repeated Ceasario. He turned the words over within his
muzzle as though he were tasting wine. His eyes flicked up as if wary that he’d
drawn the hyena’s ire with his pronunciation, but it was a passable enough
imitation that Shaiming gave him a single nod.
“They’re both clean, master Ceasario,” the panther nearest to Shaiming
announced as he stepped back. His companion all but darted away from Lei, and
glance at her showed Shaiming that her eyes were ablaze with indignation.
Shaiming glanced over at that panther and seared that face into his mind. When
the time came, the way he had dishonored Lei would be paid back.
Perhaps ignorant of the improper way Lei had been handled, Ceasario clapped
his paws together and smiled all the wider. “This is excellent to hear,” he announced,
though his smile faltered for a brief moment as he glanced down at the feline under Lei’s
sandal. “Oh, Nicoli. Whatever are we going to do with you, mmm? My dear master…
Shaiming it was, yes? Would your lovely lady be so kind as to release poor Nicoli?”
Shaiming gave a derisive sniff as he glanced down at the writhing, groaning
form beneath his mistress. [The fox asks that the imbecile be let up now,] he told
her. Without even looking to him, Lei lifted an eyebrow and a smile slipped across
the hyena’s face. [My lady, this fox is a killer of men and even he is given pause
by you. I believe they respect you now… if perhaps not as much as they should.]
Lei seemed to consider his words, before she gave a slow nod and stepped
back off her captive’s throat. The panther gasped as he grabbed his neck in both
paws, and Ceasario even began to chuckle as the feline scrabbled back. “Go run
along now, Nicoli. Find the physician and beg aid.” The fox shook his head as the
panther nodded and ran off. “Oh, always a troublemaker, that one.”
“You said you were here to escort us to the others.” Shaiming glanced from side
to side as the remaining two panthers slunk off down different hallways. “If you would?”
“Oh, it would be my pleasure, Master Shaiming. Pray follow.” With that, the
fox turned and started off down the corridor the panthers hadn’t taken. “I take it
you have questions.”
Once he was able to see the fox’s back however, one of them was answered
for Shaiming. No sooner had he and Lei fallen into step behind him than he
caught a hint of silver embroidered just under the collar of the fox’s suit. As the
fabric shifted with his steps, there was just enough light to make out the shape of
a curled fox tail. There was no telling if it was alone or if it came with the other
two from the wax seal on the rat’s letter, but it was a fair association. “The
answers will be revealed soon enough,” he replied as he stood straight.
A chuckle came from Ceasario as the fox paused beside a door and began to
unlock it. “Might I offer you a few words of advice, Master Shaiming, before you
meet with the others?” As the door swung open and Shaiming remained silent, the smile
slipped ever so slightly from Ceasario’s muzzle. “The men and women you and your most
exalted Lady Bao are about to meet are not, in the strictest sense, men and women of
culture. Theirs is a rough life for the most part, and they are… unaccustomed to custom.”
Shaiming perked an eyebrow at the fox as he stepped into the room. It
resembled his office in size and furnishing if not in purpose; a large bookshelf off
to the side had been slid from the wall to reveal a hidden passage. “And you tell
me this why?” he asked as he made for the bookshelf and the passage beyond it.
“Because my good fellow, you and your ravishing charge and I are versed in
the language of civility, and you react most unkindly to a lack thereof.” Ceasario
shrugged easily and flicked an ear as he closed the door behind Lei and made for
the open passage. “Should you make it your mission to punish any further
breeches of civil conduct — of which I offer fair warning that there may be quite
many — then our gracious hosts might decide that your attempts to… reeducate
them? Might construe threats upon the offer they are here to present. You
understand how such a thing might prove dangerous, I presume?”
“A house in disarray is no house at all,” Shaiming replied as he peered into
the hidden passageway. It was dimly lit by small lanterns within, barely large
enough for the three of them to walk in single file. It seemed to have been built
right into the space between the walls inside the guild house, and Shaiming’s eyes
narrowed as he stepped back. “You are here to lead us to your masters. Please do.”
Ceasario offered another little bow, and his smile returned in full as he stepped into
the shadows behind the wall. “Very well, Master Shaiming,” he replied. “Pray, follow.
“And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The hidden passage, it turned out, was laced through what had to be the
entirety of the guild house. For more than a few minutes did Ceasario lead Shaiming
and Lei up and down stairs, around numerous corners and below low-hanging
protrusions. At first Shaiming thought that the fox intended to make certain they
could not remember the way back through the myriad of passages behind the guild
hall’s walls; a futile gesture with the hyena’s mind set to remember every single turn.
After the second time they doubled back across their own path though, he
figured it out. Set in the base of the little lamps that illuminated their way were small
stones of varying shapes and sizes. While he didn’t know how many he hadn’t seen
Ceasario’s quick little paws pilfer, there were at least three he saw before the fox led
them to a doorway below a long staircase. The hyena even dared to smile as he saw
the lock on the door. It was not the conventional sort that required a key, but instead
had holes in seemingly small, random shapes through which he could see tumblers.
Even if someone stole every stone from every lamp behind the walls, they
would be unable to open the door at the end of the passages. He even complemented
Ceasario on the elaborate mechanism, but the fox had only nodded his thanks and
continued to wear that implacable smile. While the compliment was given freely,
Shaiming kept to himself his concerns as to the stability of the fox’s mind. Instead he
followed Ceasario through the door and into a much more natural-looking cave system.
When at last his ears perked to the sound of other voices in the distance, Ceasario
finally paused and turned back toward them again. “And here we are. Arrived at last.”
Lei glanced from the fox to Shaiming, and he nodded back to her. “You are
to come no further?” he asked the fox.
Ceasario’s smile twitched. “Flattered as I am that you have already grown so
fond of my company, my good fellow, this meeting is not for such as I. My master
has asked me here in a… purely advisory capacity, to the one you are here to see.
My role and my place is right where I am.” He threw Shaiming a quick wink.
“However I shall still be here to take you back to the surface when all is said and
done, have no fear.” Shaiming gave him a nod as he started forward again.
The fox bowed in turn to him and to Lei, and the hyena steeled himself as
he rounded a rocky corner and emerged into a much larger cavern. Larger was
relative of course; it was little more than twice the size of Shaiming’s office, but it
was taller by far and more full of people than his office ever was. They stood
separate from one another in eight pairs, and they all looked up as one when
Shaiming and Lei entered the space from one of the two passages out of it.
For the vast majority of them, their faces were filled with confusion, or
anger, or scorn. It remained until they laid eyes on Lei, and then the anger and
scorn at least were transformed into wonder. That much was all the respect that
Shaiming could expect from the brutes arrayed before him.
All but one. “Well now, ain’t this a treat,” muttered a thickset boar from
across the cavern. Lei’s eyes zeroed in on him immediately as Shaiming turned a
glare on the figure. He grinned broadly at Lei and didn’t even bother to meet
Shaiming. “Our host even brought us the best entertainment in the whole city!
Why don’t you come over here, love? Give us a kiss.”
“That’s not your entertainment you moron,” groaned a dog with his face in
one paw. “That’s the lady of the House of Bao Lei.”
The boar snorted as he finally turned his lecherous gaze on Shaiming, and
his muzzle parted to show an array of teeth so hideous that even the disciplined
hyena almost curled his lips in disgust. “You’d know, eh? Someone’s gotta teach
all the whores in that house what goes where, huh?”
Near the middle of the room, a pair of dholes quickly skirted back against
the cavern wall to clear a path between Shaiming and the target of his ire.
“Helloise bless Garan with the wisdom to shut his cursed mouth,” one of the
dholes hissed back at the boar.
Even as Garan began to chuckle to himself, Shaiming stepped forward. He strode
right across the middle of the cavern in slow, deliberate steps as everyone but the boar
fell silent. Even then, Garan ceased his chortling as Shaiming stood right in his face and
stared the boar down. “You do not show respect,” he said, his voice cool and even.
Once again the boar gave a cocky smile and leaned in closer. “Nah,” he
whispered back. “I don’t respect whores.”
“Then know this,” Shaiming said as his eyes began to narrow and his fists
clenched tight. “My lady does not speak your insipid tongue. She would not
pollute her mouth with the foul words of this ruinous excuse for a nation. She
does not comprehend the filth you speak, and this is most fortunate for you.”
“Oh, she knows what I said,” Garan insisted as he glanced past Shaiming
and to Lei once more. “Don’tcha, darling? You know what I want. Bet the queen-
whore knows all the tricks her little ones learn, huh? You wanna show me some?”
“Here we go,” muttered the dog.
Shaiming paused and took a step back from the boar. He turned ever so
slightly to bring his mistress back into his view and lifted his head in question. The
little nod he received in turn was all he needed, and he faced Garan again with a
fresh smile on your face. “Fortunate indeed. You appear to be correct. It seems
she understood precisely what you meant.” And then, what happened next
happened in the space of a mere three seconds.
In the first, Shaiming pivoted back fully toward Garan. His left fist swung in
faster that the fat lecher could see and it cracked against the side of his muzzle
hard enough to shatter bone.
 In the second, the hyena launched a second punch into Garan’s gut. The
boar doubled over under the force of the blow as all the air rushed out of him.
In the third and final second, Shaiming’s knee rocketed up into the bent-
forward boar’s face. His head snapped back as blood fountained from his muzzle
high enough to streak the ceiling of the cavern.
It took another second of course for Garan’s body to hit the ground and lay
still, but by that point the hyena had resumed his easy stance from before his first
strike. He might as well not have moved at all as the bloody and stunned Garan
twitched and groaned on the floor, and his eyes slowly turned their gaze on the
badger that had stood behind him. That gaze remained fixed until the badger raised
both paws and took a step back. Silence once more reigned within the cavern.
At least until a quiet clapping sounded from the second passage. Shaiming
turned toward it as a shape began to appear from the darkness. “Well aren’t you
an impressive one?” came a deep, male voice from the shadows. The form that
followed it was large for a vulpine, muscled enough that the definition was clear
even through his gray fur, and clad in black leathers that left his thick arms bared.
“Don’t think Garan’s gonna try that sorta thing again, is he?”
Again the badger shook his head as Shaiming stepped back and began to make
his way over to Lei once again. “You’re the one who sent the letter,” he said as he
nodded to the fox. Those leathers were marked; painted with a curled fox tail of brilliant
crimson. It looked to drip as if soaked in blood, just as had one of the tails in the letter’s
seal. The fox seemed unarmed, but Shaiming knew first-hand how little that was worth.
“Not directly,” their host corrected him as he stepped into the middle of the
cavern and started to look around himself. “No, I had a little help from some friends
for that one. For some of you, you’ve already met one of them on the way in.” The
fox turned to the dhole pair and smirked. “I hear Ceasario gave you a bit of a fright.”
They offered no response, but the dog who had seemed embarrassed just to
hear Garan speak lifted his head. “So you went to a lot of trouble and killed some
of the people working for us in order to get us here. Well done. Who are you and
what do you want from us?”
Shaiming began to translate the words of both the host and guests into
Zhonggese for Lei as the fox gave a broad smile. “My name doesn’t matter. Not
yet. But with all of you helping me, maybe I’ll be able to claim it after all.”
A snort rang out from one of a pair of rats against one of the walls. “Well we
gotta call you somethin’ now, don’t we?”
With that, the fox patted his chest. “You can call me the Bloodtail. And you
can also call me your boss. You all work for me now.”
 “Fat chance,” the same rat muttered.
Even as he translated, Shaiming’s ears perked up. This Bloodtail was a bold
one indeed. “You’re all here because you represent the biggest gangs in
Triskellian. The roughest thugs. The most brutal enforcers. The cruelest assassins.
The dirtiest thieves.” He turned to smile thinly at Shaiming. “And the dealers of
the most addictive substances in all Calabria.
“You’re here because you’ve yet to be brought into my fold, and that’s going
to come to an end. You’ve all had plenty of time to operate all by yourselves.
Carve out your little empires inside this city. That stops tonight. Tonight, you
unify.” His smile turned toothy and cruel. “This is your chance to do just that.”
Shaiming tilted his head up even as one of the rats began to chuckle. “You
speak of rule but offer no reason to follow. What do you provide in exchange for
this surrender of independence?”
“Pretty sure it’s his threats what’s gonna put us in line,” said the badger that
had been behind Garan. “That’s where all this’s goin’ in the end, innit?”
The Bloodtail turned his smile on the badger as he spread his arms out
wide. “You got me. But that’s not all I’m offering. There are benefits, as our
foreign guest asked after.” He turned back to Shaiming as the smile slipped from
his face. “The Constabulary harass your house for the services you provide. What
if I could make this harassment stop? What if you never had to bribe another
worker down at the docks when your shipments came in?”
The hyena’s face remained impassive. “My lady would wish to know what is
desired in exchange for such a service.”
“Service is the right word.” Once more the Bloodtail cast his gaze around as
Shaiming resumed his translations. “I don’t want your coin. I don’t want a cut of
your takes. I don’t want anything you steal. What I want from you all is service.
Favors given. Favors taken. You serve me, and I serve your collective interests. A
network of criminal enterprise, all working to help each other to thrive.”
“You don’t want any of our coin?” asked a lynx who had remained silent
until that point. She sounded disbelieving as she folded her arms. “Sorry, but I
ain’t about to trust a fox who ain’t got no interest in denarii. Everyone wants coin.
That who don’t are just lyin’ about it.”
The Bloodtail’s friendliness evaporated in an instant, but his voice remained
relatively even. “Oh, I want coin. I’m just not looking to take yours.” He tilted his
head to the side, one ear perked. “And you’re telling me you don’t have any of
your little cutpurses being chased by the Constabulary, Nora? You got no little
guttersnipes that’ve run afoul of the captains?”
 But the lynx shook her head as Shaiming frowned. The fox’s tone changed
instantly to match the feline’s. More than just bold; this Bloodtail knew what he
needed to say and how to say it to make his point. He might have looked the brute,
but Shaiming could see through that. “None that I need your help with,” she told the
fox. “You think we gotta run with you if we want to be safe? This is Triskellian, mate.
Constabulary’s never gonna keep up with all the laws getting broke around here.”
“The Constabulary are tools,” the Bloodtail growled. “That’s all. Tools of the
Guild Council. A Guild Council that wants nothing more than to stamp out each and
every one of us for their own purposes. They can’t control us the way they control the
Rinaldi. You’ve seen it! More and more deputies on the streets. More and more captains
barking orders at the common folk, like they think they’re better than the rest of us!”
The fox only grew more animated as he spoke, and his eyes swept around to
focus on each of the gathered people in turn. “The Guild Council aims to take the
city itself. Then the Rinaldi demesne. And why stop there? Why not go further?
Why not spread their reach across all Calabria? The Guild Council aren’t like the high-
born. They weren’t born to rule. They’re just like us. They just got some power is all,
and now they’re using that power and that coin to press into the dirt anyone who won’t
follow their rules. You wanted to know what I wanted out of this?” The Bloodtail’s eyes
blazed. “I want to break the Guild Council. I want to break them before they break us.
“So we unite. We stand together and help each other. I split the city up for us
all, and you keep your territories. When there’s something I need, you do it. When there’s
something you need, I get it done. You keep your coin. You bear my mark. Together
we don’t just survive.” Once more the fox’s smile turned cruel as he fixed his gaze on the
lynx. “Together, we shatter the Guild Council. Together we take Triskellian for ourselves.”
Shaiming glanced around at the other gathered criminal minds in the cavern,
but it was clear that the Bloodtail’s words had done little to sway them. Some
looked irritated. A couple looked amused. Only the badger who’d stood with Garan
nodded along. “You must be joking,” muttered the dog who’d spoken earlier.
“The Guild Council’s too busy with all that posturing and planning and coin-
counting to care about little ol’ us,” added the rat. “They might got the men, but
those men ain’t got no sense.”
“I don’t see any reason to throw in my lot with any of you,” chimed in the
lynx as she eyed up the Bloodtail. “Not least of all some fox what’s got it in his
head he wants to rule us.”
Around the cavern the voices of dissent came, until at last all eyes fell on
Shaiming and Lei. The hyena folded his arms and stepped back as he looked up
to Lei. She didn’t meet his gaze, but instead she stared the Bloodtail down and
gave the tiniest shake of her head.
The gray fox’s ears began to fold back as he drew himself up taller. His lips
curled into a smile that bordered on a snarl. “I’m sorry,” he began to growl. “Maybe
you didn’t hear me, so I’ll give you one last chance. You can kneel, or you can die.”
Shaiming glanced aside as he heard the lynx begin to laugh again. “Yeah,
you get right on that. C’mon, Josie; we’re leaving.”
The lynx managed a single step before an arm that belonged to her second
grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. The lynx gasped as she
reached out to her companion, only for the other feline to hitch her arm up against
the lynx and shove her off. She fell back and to the floor, a bloody stab wound in
her chest and shaky paws desperate in their attempt to hold the hole closed.
All around Shaiming, the seconds that had followed their leaders to the
meeting turned as one on their masters. The rat never managed to turn at all before
the point of his lieutenant’s shiv protruded through his throat. The dog’s head was
wrenched to the side by the jackal at his back. The badger simply pulled a pistol
from behind his back and pressed it to the top of Garan’s head before he pulled the
trigger. Chaos and blood erupted all around the cavern as loyalties were shattered.
And through it all, neither Shaiming nor Lei moved an inch.
The Bloodtail watched them both, almost as though he was oblivious to the
carnage on display for him. His jaw clenched as he looked almost expectantly to
Shaiming, but the hyena only gave him the small shake of the head that Lei had.
His lady had spoken. They would not serve him.
One by one the bloody lieutenants stood tall over the bodies of their former
masters. Their eyes all inevitably fell on Shaiming and Lei. Neither met their stare.
Their focus instead was wholly on the Bloodtail as he trembled with rage, and
Shaiming turned his eyes away from the fox as Lei leaned in toward him. He met
her gaze; studied her features. Nodded.
A smile touched his muzzle as he turned back to the Bloodtail and offered
the barest bow of his head. “The House of Bao Lei thanks you for your time, but
we have no interest in your proposal.”
“The invitation was clear,” snarled the Bloodtail. “You come, and if your master
does not serve me, you may take over for them in exchange for that same service.”
An ear flicked. “Or maybe you foreign bastards don’t know how to read so good.”
“Your offer was most clear,” Shaiming agreed as he stepped in front of Lei
and lowered himself into a combat stance. “The fault though is yours, and you
will learn this in time. He who lies with betrayers only awakens to a knife in his
back. My loyalty is not for sale, and my lady will take her leave of you now.”
The snarl on the Bloodtail’s muzzle faded into a smirk. “I have eight killers in
front of you now. Any of them could rip your heart out for me with a single order.”
“You have eight killers beside you now,” Shaiming agreed as his fingers curled
into fists. “They will be eight corpses piled before you, should you give the order.”
His breathing slowed as his body became almost statuesque. The hyena might have
seemed frozen in place, were it not for the rise and fall of his chest. He stood. He waited.
When the Bloodtail’s eyes flicked to look behind the hyena, Shaiming half
expected Ceasario at his back with a knife. He pivoted his body sharply and kept Lei at
his back as he kept the Bloodtail in his periphery. There however at the other edge of
his vision was the fox he’d expected, though Ceasario’s paws were raised and empty.
A twinge of confusion broke through Shaiming’s concentration as he began to frown.
“That will be all, now,” the red fox said as he kept his paws harmlessly
raised. “We like these ones. We’ll take them off your paws, if you don’t mind.”
A growl rumbled out of the Bloodtail that would have been more at home on
a wolf, or perhaps even a dragon. “Oh no,” he replied as he turned his stare back on
Shaiming. “They didn’t have to come. He could have told his mistress what I planned.”
“I did tell her what you planned,” Shaiming said. “There was never an intention to
betray my lady. I would sooner slit my own throat. We are here because we were curious
as to what you would offer.” He allowed himself a small smile. “We are not impressed.”
“And that is why I will be taking them now,” Ceasario added, and he
continued forward until he stood at Shaiming’s side. “Surely a man of your
considerable prowess can see how killing these two would be such a waste. Yes?
And we do so hate waste, don’t we?” The red fox’s eyes glittered as his ears
perked forward. “You know why I’m here.”
Once again the Bloodtail’s eyes flicked to Ceasario, and when they returned to
Shaiming they were full of fury. “We won’t protect them,” he said. “If the Constabulary
come for their precious House, don’t expect me to lift a damn finger for them.”
Ceasario’s own smile broadened as he gave another of those theatrical bows.
“I am certain that the good lady will do just fine, even without your generosity.
Thank you for your graciousness, my lord.” As he rose from the bow, the fox
turned to Shaiming and gave a quick nod. His eyes sparkled mischievously. 「
Come along now, my lady. The Bloodtail’s patience runs as thin as his intellect.」
The Zhonggese words were smooth and delivered perfectly; Ceasario
sounded like a native speaker. Shaiming had to reign in his surprise as he stepped
back to Lei to invite her to follow him. If Lei herself was surprised, not a trace of it
showed on her face. If anything, she favored Ceasario with a soft smile as she
followed him back the way they had come.
They remained silent until they reached the door that the fox had opened
earlier with the stones. 「A thousand pardons for the Bloodtail’s manners,」 he
said, again in that impeccable Zhonggese tongue. 「That said however, I must
express my radiant joy that my measure of you both was not mistaken.」
A particular cadence to the fox’s words caught in Shaiming’s ears as they
perked up. 「The accent. You learned the tongue in Sung, yes?」
Ceasario practically beamed in response. 「Why, yes. I spent rather a
pleasant few years in the region. I picked up the language while there, and a not
inconsiderable improvement to my skills. Time well spent.」
「And now, suitably ingratiated, you intend to present us an alternative
offer of service,」 Shaiming said. 「Your collar. It bears a similar mark to that on
the Bloodtail’s armor, but the seal of the letter showed three. If his tail is blood,
then what master do you serve?」
As he led them back up the passage, Ceasario reached back to peel up the
collar of his suit. The coiled tail there was a brilliant white, but the tail’s ‘fur’ was
fully intact. 「He styles himself the Silvertail, my friend. Cousin to the Bloodtail
and the, ah… third of their little Triumvirate. The Bonetail.」
Shaiming glanced over at Lei, but he needn’t have bothered. She had
definitely caught the hitch in Ceasario’s voice. Even the name of this Bonetail
caused him fear, and now his lady studied the fox all the closer. 「And why do
you serve this master?」 Shaiming asked. 「And more pointedly, why would we
give ourselves over to him after what we have seen this evening?」
「Because, regrettably, you have no choice in the matter.」 Ceasario turned
his head back to regard Lei. 「All respect, my lady, but I only speak truth with
your best interests at heart. The Triumvirate moves in the shadows, and the power
they gain only grows by the day. The Bloodtail organizes the petty thugs. My
master pulls on the city’s purse strings and engenders himself with its more
legitimate enterprise. And the Bonetail, well…」 Ceasario’s ears twitched as they
tried to lay flat. His unflappable smile faltered. 「Well, she would say she’s the
one with the real power, and let us leave such things at that, yes? Yes.」
A necromancer then, Shaiming reasoned, or at least some powerful dealer
of arcane death. Whomsoever this Bonetail was, she terrified Ceasario right to his
core at even her mere mention. That enough told Shaiming that they would have
to tread carefully. 「And why we have no choice in the matter?」 he asked.
 The smile returned slowly to Ceasario’s face as the subject shifted to
something obviously more palatable. 「The Triumvirate are on the move, as I said.
As more and more power comes under their sway, those who stand on the outside
are left as either obstacles to overcome or allies to support. The Triumvirate, as
my master is fond of saying, protects. And I am sorry to say that means that if you
continue to turn your noses up at us, we will need to protect ourselves from you.」
He held up a paw as he turned back to face Shaiming and Lei. 「I recognize you
have issued us no threat and bear my master no ill will. I respect this, as does he. But
lines are being drawn in a battle for this city’s very soul, and the Triumvirate has grand
plans.」 The fox’s smile turned lopsided for a moment. 「Well, my master has grand
plans. The Bloodtail, alas, is flush with ambition but no true vision to see it done.」
No word then on what the Bonetail wanted, but all that talk of ambition and
vision failed to answer the key question. 「Why would we involve ourselves in this
enterprise, then?」 he asked. 「I am not convinced that we would be so easy an
obstacle to surmount, if our submission is required.」
「Oh, I fully expect that the House of Bao Lei would be one of the last to
fall to us,」 Ceasario replied with another little bow of his head. 「As I said to the
Bloodtail however, this would be a terrible waste. Your house is worthy of respect,
and my master places a great value on loyalty.」 His eyes flicked up to Lei. 「The
loyalty that you have instilled in Chiu Shaiming is that which my master has
instilled in me. And far more than just a commander of brute thugs like the
Bloodtail, I assure you that my master knows the value of respect.」
「You were here to scout for valuable opportunities for your master,」
Shaiming said with a nod. The fox’s purpose at last became completely clear. 「
This Triumvirate is not as solid as it seems.」
The fox’s smile turned toothy, but it never became malicious like the
Bloodtail’s. 「Do not be fooled, my friend; family bicker and may even snap at
one another, but the Triumvirate strive to a common goal. The Bloodtail, the
Silvertail and even the Bonetail all have a shared vision for Triskellian. It will be a
better city when they are done, and your house will stand through it all and far,
far beyond that victory… if you honor us by standing at our side.」
Shaiming looked up to his mistress, and for once he found her expression
completely unreadable. She was deep in thought, her eyes not on him but on the fox
before her. He must have captured her attention as so few individuals did. Did perhaps
she see something like Shaiming within this assassin? Was Ceasario right, in that their
loyalties were of equal strength? The hyena doubted it; he had yet to meet a Calabrian
who would do for their master what he had done for his. What he would do for his.
 And yet she was interested all the same. Shaiming couldn’t blame her, of
course. The writing was, as they said, on the wall. The Bloodtail had made it clear
that a war was about to be declared on their house. He had amassed enough
thugs to make their lives very difficult indeed, and he had not been wrong about
the Constabulary’s ongoing interest in Lei’s exotic and less-than-legal offerings.
The Triumvirate might be their only means of staving off both threats, and the
Bonetail was too unpredictable an element to throw in with. That left only the
Silvertail as an option, and a fox most enthusiastic about his master.
As Lei turned slowly to face him, Shaiming began to see the subtle changes
in her face that only years in her service allowed him to read. She had reached
the same conclusion as he. Triskellian was indeed on a tipping point, and they
would have to consider their position carefully in the times to come. She gave
Shaiming a little nod, and he returned it.
「You have reached a decision, then?」 Ceasario asked. He seemed to
address Shaiming, but his eyes never left Lei.
「We have,」 the hyena said at last as Lei offered her paw to the fox. He
was gratified to see Ceasario take it gently into his own paws and press a gentle
kiss to it. 「You make an interesting case, and we would like to hear more. Might
we meet this Silvertail to discuss matters further?」
Lei gently withdrew her paw from his kiss as Ceasario straightened up again.
The fox’s smile turned coy. 「I have no doubt he would be more than happy to
do so. If you will only follow me, I am quite certain he will have all the answers
you seek.」 He bowed his head once more before he turned back around and
started further along the hidden corridors of the guild house.
A look was exchanged between Lei and Shaiming that spoke more than any
words. A shared concern mingled with a steely determination. Lei’s paw came to
rest on Shaiming’s shoulder, and he placed one of his own atop it to give a gentle
squeeze. Yes, the city was on a tipping point. An enterprise — a life — could be made
or broken at such a time. Perhaps this Silvertail could help Lei ascend to heights worthy
of her talents. Perhaps he would seek to take advantage of her success, like so many
other men had tried and failed to do. They would have to wait, and watch, and see.
He nodded to his lady as they followed Ceasario into the new, uncertain future
together, and the smile on her muzzle spoke all the words he would ever need.
 Joel Kreissman is an author of assorted speculative fiction who
hails from the frozen wastes of Madison, Wisconsin. Trained in an
eclectic mix of Cellular Biology and Philosophy, he applied that
knowledge to the construction of his Para-Imperium universe.

A Case of Exchange Rates and Sorcery

Bái Xing straightened his filigree robes with one stubby-fingered hand,
prompting a reflection on how the Zhou caste system had not prevented this
humble moneychanger from attaining great wealth and privilege. The horse reached
for the stack of foreign silver on his desk as he recalled how much that one barbarian had
complained about his rate. A clopping sound of hooves on floorboards drew his attention
for a moment, but upon recognizing the newcomer he turned back to his counting.
The last thing he knew was a blazing hot blade jutting between his ribs.

Rén Guan-cai sighed in disbelief as his Yan Wei guards led the foreign
criminal into his office. The lithe rat hung from the arms of the two burly tigers, a
sneer showing on her face. The vulpine magistrate considered once again whether
her information would be worth the trouble.
Rén lifted the sheet listing the criminal’s name and deeds. “Lelia Fiumano,” he
carefully pronounced. “Do you speak Zhonggese?” At the rat’s sharp nod, he continued.
“You’ve been charged with agitation in the state of Yen, what do you say to this?”
Lelia’s whiskers began to twitch in confusion and annoyance. “All I did was
pay that spice trader in denarii instead of your coins. I don’t see what he had to
complain about.”
The magistrate weathered her insolence with measured stoicism. He had to
remember that these barbarians still lived in a state of anarchy and could not be expected
to understand the value of the rule of law. “The use of foreign currencies undermines the
authority of the imperial state. Without that authority we return to the chaos of civil war.”
He glared at her across the desk. “You are lucky you are not being charged with treason.”
The rat snorted. “Silver is silver. Tell me, what might the penalty be for the
crime of using coins without holes?”
Rén pulled a thin bamboo cane from the vase resting beside his desk and
handed it to the nearest Yan Wei. He took it and rapped it hard across Lelia’s
back. After her yelp of pain, the fox elaborated. “That taste of Wen’s justice was
for your insolence. The law prescribes a Wu punishment for agitation. Your crime
will be tattooed on the interior of your ear.” He grasped his own ear for emphasis.
“While your claws, if not your fingers, will be removed.”
Lelia froze at the realization. “I did not know.” She said, sounding genuinely
apologetic now.
“Yes,” Rén conceded. “I doubt you did. Now, before your actual trial, I was
wondering if you might indulge my curiosity.” He noted the rat’s whiskers perk
up. “There are licensed money changers who will give you nine bù-qián for ten of
your coins. Why did you not visit one of them first?”
“I did.” Lelia responded. “That horse gave me 20 coins on a string for a
gold aureal worth 24 denarii.”
Rén glanced at his scribe, a thin rabbit named Shen. The scribe thought for a
moment before replying. “That should have been an exchange of 21 and a half bù-qián.”
The exasperated judge ran a claw through his fur. It wasn’t much of a cheat,
within the expectations of the mercantile caste. “This horse,” he continued, “did
you perhaps catch his name?”
The rat thought carefully, perhaps realizing that she was being presented a
chance to save her digits. “I think it was… Bay Shing?” She said uncertainly.
Rén stared at her carefully. “Could you mean Bái Xing by any chance?”
“Yes!” She replied enthusiastically. “That sounds just like he said it. Have
you caught him?”
The judge gave a nod. “The moneychanger Bái is dead. He was murdered
last night.”
Fiumano gaped in shock. “I’ve been locked up for two days, I couldn’t have
done it.”
“I know,” Rén replied, calmly. “However, that does not mean you wouldn’t
know who might have done it.” The rat remained silent, listening quite attentively
for his next statement. “For your cooperation, I am willing to reduce your charges to
petty theft, that is merely a Wen punishment. Are you willing to accept this offer?”
The rat glanced at the cane still in the guard’s hand. She turned to examine
her own hands. “Yes.”
“Very well then.” Rén rose from his seat behind the desk. “Now, it may be a
bit conspicuous for me to accompany you on this investigation, but I can’t have
you running off before your trial.” He gestured to the two tigers standing by his
sides. “Guo Minzu will keep watch on you as you ask around. Guo Ying will
escort me while I do my own investigation.”
 One of the Yan Wei, the one holding the bamboo, took a step towards the
magistrate. Lelia turned to examine her assigned guard, she realized after hearing
their shared name that the two looked very similar, aside from gender. “Do I have
a cover story to explain myself to everyone who knows I was arrested?’ She asked.
Rén thought, looking around the room as he formulated a cover. His eye
settled on Shen, dutifully taking notes on their conversation. “You can tell them
you are out on Báil, paid for by a procurer. My scribe can act in that role.” The
rabbit paused in his painting, staring at the judge in surprise. “Now, do you
happen to know any prominent figures in the Calabrese community here who
might be amenable to cooperation with the local authorities?”
Lelia thought. “The priest knows his presence is at the mercy of the
magistrates. And s’Allumer has this practice known as ‘confession’.”
“Very well, I will take your suggestion under consideration.” Rén turned to
Minzu. “Now go, allow her to lead but do not let her out of your sight.”
The tigress bowed and prodded the rat lightly with the end of her spear. The
rabbit followed them a few moments later. “How about we pass you off as an
importer of spirits? That should make you fairly popular.” Lelia said as they left.
After Lelia and her escorts had left his line of sight, Rén started preparing for
his own investigation. He was just packing away the last of his implements when a
young stallion entered his office. “Bái Shoushan,” the fox stated before he had
the chance to say a word. “Checking in on the progress of our inquiry concerning
the death of your uncle, I presume?”
“Yes, honored magistrate.” The horse answered, momentarily caught off guard.
“We would all like this mystery solved so that we may lay our honored uncle to rest.”
“Things are progressing,” Rén replied. “Considering your uncle’s business
with the foreigners I thought it appropriate to inquire amongst them first.”
Bái’s ears shot up in surprise at that statement. “I would have expected your
honor to start with our own criminal element? After all, they are better established
and surely a fox of your position…”
“A fox of my position would what?” The judge cut him off with a dangerous glare.
The horse paused to re-evaluate his next statement. “I just thought, given
your profession, you might have some informants in the criminal underworld.
Your honor.” He added carefully.
“I could ask the same of you, merchant.” Rén emphasized the last word to
remind him of the difference in their caste, regardless of their respective species. “Would
you happen to know any criminals who might offer up clues concerning this case?”
 Bái lowered his gaze submissively. “I am sorry, no. Uncle Xing would not
have involved his family in any uncouth dealings. I am afraid I do not have
anything else to offer.”
“Then you are dismissed.” Rén waved a hand and the horse trotted out.
Something about him seemed suspicious, but without evidence the judge was not
about to arrest the victim’s relatives just yet. He turned to his Yan Wei, “tell me
honestly Guo Ying. Do you harbor any reservations about taking orders from one
not of the Twelve Calendar Houses?”
The tiger thought for a minute before answering. “Everyone has their place
in the Middle Kingdom. No matter their species. Your place is to interpret the laws
of the kingdom, while mine is to enforce them.”
Rén nodded. “The House of the Horse is the most ancient and reverent of
species. But the house of Bái are of the lowest caste. Likewise, our foreign
acquaintance is the same species as our esteemed emperor but is herself a casteless
barbarian. I do not know what status her tribe might hold in her own lands, but I
have heard that their king is a fox like myself.” He let out a remorseful sigh. “Yet
here we are known best for subverting a dynasty and more petty crimes.”
The magistrate hefted his bag and turned towards the door. “Well, like you
said, we all have our purposes. Let us go fulfill them.”

“Of course, I completely neglected to tell him about the confidentiality part.”
Lelia told the innkeeper in Calabrese, while Shen glanced around nervously next to her.
The innkeeper, a portly badger with a bit more grey than usual along his muzzle,
surreptitiously stole a glance towards the front door, where Minzu stood waiting. He
slid a wooden tankard across the counter at the rabbit. “For appearance’s sake.”
He explained. Shen looked apprehensively at the thick brown liquid in the mug.
“Ale,” explained Lelia. “One of the more common drinks in Calabria.”
The rabbit took a small sip of the beverage. He grimaced. “It’s like
somebody let a loaf of bread rot in a barrel of water until it was liquid.”
“Pretty much.” The rat snickered.
The innkeeper turned back towards Lelia. “Do you plan on actually helping
the judge out?”
“What else can I do?” The trader shrugged. “The guy had a dozen enemies.
How should I know which one happened to bump him off first?”
 The badger leaned in towards the rat and began to whisper in her ear.
“Somebody murdered the Alfor brothers, and that knight watching them, a couple
nights ago. You could maybe set him on their trail.”
Lelia blinked in surprise, “seriously? I thought Patrick was a wizard or
something?” At the innkeeper’s nod she started thinking. “Someone who can take
out both a wizard and a knight would be of interest to the authorities.” Her whiskers
twitched up in a bit of a smile. “And who knows, maybe he did kill our guy too.”

Rén found the building with the large eight-pointed star easily enough. As
Ying rapped on the door the magistrate considered his plan of action. It was
unlikely that the priest would volunteer information on the murder easily. But
strong-arming a pillar of the foreign community here would have consequences.
Perhaps there was something he could offer in exchange…
He was still thinking when the door swung open and a rotund raccoon
dressed in white robes stood staring out at them.
“Greetings,” Rén started, keeping his voice neutral for now. “I am Rén
Guan-cai, magistrate for this city. I have some questions to ask of you.”
“Father Alaster, head of this humble temple.” The raccoon replied in halting
Zhonggese. “Is this about the murder?”
“Yes,” Rén’s ears perked up. It was so refreshing when an informant was so
forthcoming.
“Oh thank Helloise!” Alaster exclaimed. “I was starting to think the authorities
would let this great injustice go unanswered. Come in, the bodies are this way.”
Rén was careful not to let his confusion show. Someone else had been killed?
Some Calabrese person? He couldn’t really afford to take on their cases now, but
perhaps the priest might be more amenable to discussing Bái Xing’s death if he looked.
They were led to a large candle-lit hall where three sheet-draped figures lay upon
a long table. “Sir Shamus.” The priest lifted the sheet delicately from the first figure.
“Patrick and Richard Alfor.” He drew the other’s sheets with substantially less reverence.
Rén gasped at the sight of the corpses, three wolves, their fur not only
bloody but scorched by some unknown flames. The one identified as Sir Shamus
had the entire front of his body burnt, down to the bone in some places. Patrick
was still wearing the scraps of a red robe, but his whole upper body had been
seared to be nearly unrecognizable. Richard had only a small scorch mark in the
middle of his blue tunic, it looked strangely familiar.
 Guo Ying examined the first corpse’s arm, pointing out several marks along
the forearm and wrist. “This one was Shi,” the tiger evaluated. “He went down
with a blade in hand.”
“Yes,” Alaster confirmed. “He was a knight-errant of House Bisclavret. They
found him still holding his sword, half-melted by whatever sorcery did this to them.”
“Where were they found?” Rén asked. Foreigners or not, the similarities
could not be ignored.
“They were renting an apartment on the east side of the Calabrese quarter. The
Alfors were dealing in amulets and curiosities, Patrick was a wizard of some ability and,
at first, we thought he’d lost control of some spirit. But it left everything outside the
one room alone. The other wizards claimed a loose salamander would burn down the
whole building.” Alaster tried to explain. “Of course, they all denied any involvement.”
“Can you lead us to their domicile?” The magistrate was not asking.

A nervous male flung open a heavy wooden chest, revealing a long object
wrapped in heavy silk. Tentatively he reached for a small handle by one end of
the object. As soon as his fingers made contact a voice sounded in his head.
Release me.
“We may be found out.” He replied.
I have done what you asked. The voice continued. Let me out now.
“If the magistrate discovers you, he’ll have you killed.”
Then we shall burn everything. A wisp of smoke crept out from under the
silks. Leave nothing to find.
“Yes, that might work.” He lifted the object from the chest and began
carefully unwrapping, revealing a narrow sword and scabbard highlighted with
gold. “We just need to get there before first.”

“Wow,” Lelia exclaimed. The apartment had been ransacked, only a few
upturned chairs and broken cots remained. To be fair, it seemed like most of the
damage had been inflicted by fire-fighters attempting to douse the flames. “Not
much here to look for clues, is there?”
“Were you certain there was a connection here?” Shen looked around the
room with disappointment.
 “It’s a suspicious multiple murder, not dissimilar to what you’re
investigating, right?”
Shen sighed. “The merchant Bái Xing was stabbed in the back repeatedly by
a burning blade. Did these barbarians die that way as well?”
Lelia stared at the rabbit in shocked surprise. “Yes, actually. Their burned
bodies were found here just days ago.”
“Really now, was that before or after I told you the manner of his demise?”
Shen said with skepticism.
“Look,” the rat explained, looking around for scorch marks. “There was a
small fire in here that didn’t damage much besides the three people here. One of
them a knight.” She started turning over chunks of furniture to search for signs of
the truth, when a blackened scrap of paper fluttered out from under a chair.
Shen bent down to pick it up out of reflex. The rabbit’s eyes caught on a partially
melted wax seal on the burnt side of the sheet. “Well, that’s interesting. It looks almost
like a seal from House Bái.” He scanned the rest of the page with more contempt.
“Unfortunately, the rest of this sheet is covered in your barbarian scrawl. But I’m sure we
can find a civilized scholar who can interpret it.” The scribe turned to the door to leave.
There was an abrupt snarl and sound of clanging steel outside as Shen
reached for the handle. He paused, trying to process the situation. Lelia on the
other hand leapt straight for the small window to peer outside.
The foreign merchant was astonished to see their Yan Wei escort in combat
with a tall figure dressed in a concealing grey cloak and wielding a golden scholar’s
sword. As she watched Minzu stabbed at the stranger with her spear, only for his
blade to snake past in a flash of light and strike her on the shoulder. The tigress
roared as her sleeve caught on fire and she scrambled to attempt dousing the flames.
Lelia grabbed a chair leg and tried to break it off. “Come on, she needs our
help!” She shouted as the wood grudgingly cracked.
Shen looked at her in confusion. “Wait, what is…”
The door slammed open behind the scared rabbit and the hooded figure
stood before him, glowing red-hot blade in hand. Shen finally regained some use
of his senses and ran to the far side of the room, madly scrambling along the
walls. The figure turned towards Lelia and she caught sight of a long, square
muzzle poking out from under the hood. At the sight of the heated sword the rat
decided she was better off tossing the whole chair at him.
The figure staggered back as the chair exploded against him. He raised a
hand to protect his face as he found his feet again, only to pause as a pair of
voices shouted down the road. “Stop, in the Emperor’s name!” The stranger
turned to stare at them but a moment, then decided to turn the other way and run.
Lelia dashed out to find Minzu lying prone on the ground, her entire body
smoking. She crouched down next to the tigress and attempted to put out the
remaining flames. Guo Ying slowed as he approached the pair, skidding to a halt
as he recognized his sister. “No!” He called, dropping to his knees and moving to
inspect her. “She’s not breathing!” He exclaimed in dismay. “What happened here?!”
“That one with the sword did this before he ran off.” The rat explained,
almost tripping over some words.
Rén and the priest arrived at the scene, panting from exertion. Alaster
grabbed the octogram around his neck and started chanting in a language neither
the trader nor her captors spoke. A glowing white light began to illuminate the
fallen tigress’s wounds. “What is happening?!” Ying shouted in outrage.
“I think he’s trying to heal her.” Lelia tried to reassure him as the light slowly
faded. Minzu’s breast rose and fell once, after several agonizing seconds it rose again.
The priest wiped some beads of sweat from his brow. “Thank the light we
got here in time.”
Rén stared down at the still-smoking tiger’s body dispassionately. “Yes, it is
fortunate. Lelia Fiumano, I assume this means you learned of the same murders we did?”
The rat took several deep breaths before answering. “Yes!”
Shen’s twitching nose peeked around the side of the door. “Ah,” the
magistrate took note of him. “Scribe, what do you say of this?”
The rabbit scribe took in the burnt tigress, his boss’s mention of other murders,
and the stranger who’s just tried to kill him. “She tells the truth.” He concluded.

“Now, once again, what did you see of the attackers?”

Lelia stared back at Rén across his desk, exasperation growing. “I told you
before. I didn’t get a good look at him, but it sounded like he had hooves and had
a long and wide snout under that hood. Probably a horse or ox.”
Rén carefully painted her words on his report, bemoaning that his scribe was
a witness in this case now. “I see. Now, what can you tell me about Patrick and
Richard Alfor?”
Lelia gave a shrug. “The Alfors were a merchant clan, some relationship
with a branch of House Bisclavret who helped Patrick get into Dunwasser College,
supposedly. All I know for sure is he could do some tricks and sell shiny stuff that
was supposed to be magic.”
The fox nodded, “I am familiar with the scheming of sorcerers. Do you have any
idea what they may have sold that could have inflicted such horrors on our victims?”
“I don’t,” Lelia admitted. “That sword the killer used looked like a
Zhonggese design though.”
“Could he have commissioned an enchantment on a blade he already owned?”
Lelia thought, “I don’t know very much about magic. But I can’t imagine it
was a quick process, or cheap. There must be some records of the transaction, no
self-respecting trader would fail to write it down, especially with all the reading
wizards do.” She remembered the burnt scrap of paper Shen had taken.
“Assuming it hasn’t been burned yet. What happened with that sheet your scribe
found? I’d be glad to translate it; I know how to read.”
Rén waved her offer aside. “There’s no need, we have our own translator. I
sent Guo Ying to retrieve him just before this debriefing began.”
While they went over a few more final details the tiger guard entered leading an
aged monkey carrying a portfolio. He bowed apologetically as he approached the judge’s
desk. “My apologies, honored magistrate. I was able to interpret most of the symbols
with ease, but the barbarians’ attempt to write their customer’s name perplexed me.”
Rén stared down at him curiously. “Explain.”
The interpreter stole a glance at the foreign merchant as he started his
explanation. “The Calabrese system of writing uses symbols to mean the different
sounds of speech. As such a single word is represented by a lengthy string of symbols.”
“At least we have fewer symbols to memorize.” Lelia cut in.
Rén cut her a stern look. “That may or may not be relevant to the case.
What else did the paper say?”
The monkey opened his portfolio and laid the burnt paper out next to his notes.
“It appears to be a bill for services rendered.” He pointed out several small marks
that looked like parts of Zhonggese characters. “The writer appears to have included
translations along one side, unfortunately it was torn off.” He then ran a finger along
the top line and started translating, “for the preparation of a jar provided by the
customer, the Alfor brothers charged 150 bù-qián. For the use of fire, 600 bù-qián…”
“That’s not what it says!” Lelia interjected.
The interpreter shot her a dirty look. “Hold your tongue unless addressed,
you insolent barbarian.”
 Rén held up a hand to silence him and reached for a cane. “Guo, reprimand miss
Lelia.” As the tiger took the bamboo, the fox turned back to stare down the monkey.
“However, we should not dismiss her out of hand. Are you certain that’s what it says?”
“Well,” the scholar admitted. “It is couched in barbarian symbolism and
superstition. I thought it best not to waste your eminence’s time…”
“Every detail is important.” Rén cut him off. “We do not overlook anything.”
The interpreter examined the paper again for a minute before resuming.
“For the capture of an elemental spirit of fire. 600 bù-qián.”
Guo Ying, rearing back to strike Lelia, paused. Rage flickered behind his eyes as
he turned to Rén for approval. The judge gave a minute nod in the interpreter’s direction.
The monkey howled in unexpected pain as the bamboo cracked across his
back. “That,” Rén stated, “was for withholding information relevant to this case.
While you may not have known of the victims’ deaths by sorcerous fire, you
should have known better than to insert your own bias rather than presenting the
simple facts.” Lelia let out a snicker, for which Ying gave her a comparatively soft
whack. “Now, what exactly does the rest of it read?”
The interpreter thought very carefully on what to say next. “For the binding of
said spirit into the prepared jar, no, vessel. 200 bù-qián.” He carefully pointed a finger
at the transliterated name of the customer, and some possible Zhonggese translations
he’d written besides. “My best estimate of this name was By-e Sho-wash-an.”
Rén gave Lelia a hard look, both inviting her to try and warning her against
further cheek. The rat leaned over and carefully read the two words. “I think it
says, maybe, Bye Show-shan?”
Rén’s ears perked up at that name. He pulled out a file from one of his
desk’s drawers and drew out a sheet listing the seals of House Bái’s members in
the city. He picked up the broken seal on the end of the bill and held them side by
side. There were several seals that resembled the intact portions of the bill’s seal,
but one in particular caught his attention. “Bái Shoushan, perhaps?”
---
Rén had gathered a half-dozen Yan Wei, Guo Minzu was still recovering but
her brother was eager to fight, along with five of his colleagues. As they entered
House Bái’s estate in the city the judge hung back, keeping an eye on their
foreign ally. Lelia, loathe as he was to admit it, was the only person still conscious
who had seen anything of their killer.
The party approached a modestly sized by richly adorned house, Rén took
note of several scaffolds recently erected by construction workers for renovations.
The magistrate sighed, not even waiting for the funeral before spending his uncle’s
money, not that he could expect any less disrespect from such a nephew. Guo Ying
stood on the front porch and began rapping the door with the butt of his spear.
The thuds of hooves on floorboards sounded on the far side of the door and
an annoyed voice called out. “What is it? I’m a very busy man you know!”
“Bái Shoushan,” Ying roared in response. “By the order of Magistrate Rén
Guan-cai, you are hereby ordered to report for questioning.”
The door creaked open a tiny crack, allowing one equine eye to peer outside.
A couple moments later it slammed shut again and they could hear the occupant running
back into the house. Ying turned with a snarl to two of the largest Yan Wei in their group,
a massive bear and boar, both carrying heavy maces. “We need to break it down.”
The bear stepped up onto the porch and swung his mace straight at the
door. The wood bent where he struck but did not break. The boar struck at the
point of the bend and there was a cracking sound but little visible damage. Bear
slammed against the same spot and his companion followed suit, each time
producing more cracks and splinters, until finally the bar on the other side came
loose and the door swung open. All six Yan Wei stormed in, weapons at the
ready. Stomping down the hall they came to a bedroom where Bái Shoushan
stood over an open chest, hastily unwrapping a length of silk from a golden long
sword. The young stallion turned to face his would-be captors, fear in his eyes.
But then something shifted, he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly and a fire
blazed in his eyes as he flung the scabbard with its’ covering aside. The exposed blade
burst with the light of the noon sun, searing the approaching guards. Half the Yan Wei
collapsed, rolling on the ground to try to extinguish the flames. Ying, the bear, and
the boar remained standing, slapping at whatever flames caught on their armor and
clothes as they raised their weapons again. The bear slammed his mace straight down
towards Bái, only for the horse to dart to the side at the last minute and slash his red-
shot sword across his assailant’s neck. He then turned and plunged the point of his
blade towards the boar’s armpit as he lifted his mace for his own swing. The porcine
squealed in agony as he let go of the mace with one hand but managed to hang on
with the other as he brought it down on the enchanted weapon. With an awkward
motion that looked more like the sword was pushing his arm back, Bái swung his
blade out of the way of the boar’s swing and then turned back to swing at his face.
Lelia and Rén caught up just in time to watch the boar collapse. They took in the
burning Yan-wei scattered about the hall and the blazing sword in their quarry’s hand.
Bái glanced in their direction as they approached, recognition dawning as he spied
the foreigner. Raising his sword, he brought it down swiftly in her direction, causing
a single flame to break off the blade and streak through the air towards her. At the
moment he released the flame, Ying saw an opening and stabbed at Bái’s wrist, causing
him to aim high. Lelia dropped to the floor just in time to feel the heat on her ears as
the flame sailed over her head and set fire to the wall-hangings. Rén overreached as he
tried to duck and stumbled to the floor. He found himself staring straight at the sword’s
scabbard and silk wrapping where they had landed after Bái had tossed them aside.
He reached for the cloth, felt its’ heavy weave, and then looked around the room.
Ying was carefully dodging the mad horse’s deadly blows while jabbing whenever he
saw an opening with his spear. The other Yan Wei were all dead or dying. Flames had
landed all over the hallway. While Lelia was quickly climbing back to her feet. Rén made
an assessment and threw the cloth at the rat. “Smother those flames!” He shouted.
Lelia caught the silk, confused for a moment, but then she spotted the judge’s
finger pointing towards the two combatants, and she thought she understood.
Leaping to her feet she flung the cloth over the horse’s blade. The silk blackened
where it snagged on the searing sword but did not ignite, yet. She tugged just as
Ying stabbed Bái in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon. As the blade
clattered to the floor Lelia piled the cloth on top of it, but she could still feel the
heat through the wadded fabric and saw smoke creep out from between its’ folds.
His weapon gone, the fight seemed to leave Bái. The young stallion dropped to
his knees, despondent as he realized his sure fate. Rén gathered himself up as Lelia
continued trying to smother the sword, and her hand crept closer to the handle…
The hilt leapt into the rat’s fingers, and before anyone could react, she was
holding it straight up in the air, fire dancing about the edge. Lelia’s eyes widened in
fright and she spoke. “He killed all those people… But he paid them to bind you…” Her
foot lifted off the ground and crept towards the hapless equine. “Yes, I guess he does…”
Guo Ying stood between Lelia and Bái, spear held threatening her if she
came any closer. But the rat, slowly, reluctantly, took another step.
Rén lunged for Lelia’s wrist, but he added little resistance as she continued forward,
pulled along by the sentient weapon. With his free hand the fox grabbed for the hilt itself.
He heard a voice like a crackling fire. He deceived me; I will have justice.
The fox calmly stated his reply. “You will, but not here. We must do it properly.”
He told me he’d avenge my imprisonment if I killed the old one.
“You have been stained with innocent blood because of your rashness.” Rén
insisted with as much authority as he could muster. “Can you afford to suffer more?”
Lelia froze mid-stride, hanging for a moment before the blade issued a
single word. No.
The flames on the sword extinguished themselves, revealing a steel blade marred
with crusty spots of dried blood. Lelia’s grip slackened and the hilt dropped neatly into
Rén’s hand. The fox carefully knelt down to pick up the discarded scabbard and sheathe
the weapon. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as the blade fit neatly into its’ sheath.
Around them furnishings and walls continued to burn, the fires were small
for now, but steadily growing. Lelia took one look around, and declared, “we
should probably leave.”

Months later, the spring sun shone across the execution field, illuminating
the blood seeping from a dozen wounds on the once-proud young merchant.
Magistrate Rén Guan-cai stared at Bái Shoushan’s trembling form dispassionately,
watching patiently as the executioner methodically sliced into the murderer.
“Rather gruesome sight.” Rén turned slightly to spay a somewhat familiar-
looking rat climbing the stands next to him. “I must say, you take crime and
punishments seriously here.”
Guo Ying shifted to place himself between the magistrate and the foreign
trader, but Rén waved him aside. “Lelia Fiumano,” he intoned. “I must say, I
wasn’t expecting you to return to these lands.”
“The guild wrote off my losses, and the new stripes on my back, as the cost
of entering a new market.” She flinched unconsciously at the memory of the
caning she’d received after her trial for using denarii, which Rén had reduced to a
charge of mere corruption. As Lelia took a seat next to them, she spied a golden
hilt hanging from the fox’s side. “Wait, is that…”
“Yes,” he swung the enchanted sword, still in its’ sheath, over for her to see.
“We don’t know how to release the spirit. I’ve consulted both Taoshi and your
mages, but whatever secret rites Patrick Alfor employed were truly arcane.” A wisp
of smoke escaped the scabbard, prompting the judge to turn his gaze back towards
the execution. “It can employ the senses of its’ wielder, apparently.” He watched
the executioner strike off one of Bái’s hands. “And it wanted to watch this.”
The executioner cut a long strip of flesh from the condemned’s arm,
dropping it in a basin along with other parts he’d severed already. Lelia cringed,
“how many cuts is he going to suffer?”
“Some refer to lingchi as the death of a thousand cuts.” Rén explained. “But
in practice, most die after only a few dozen.”
“Truly a brutal way to die.” The rat commented.
 The judge continued to stare, carefully showing none of his discomfort. “The
law is very clear on the matter of kin-slaying. Only the greatest of agonies can
wash away their crimes.”
Bái’s blood slowed its’ flow onto the open ground, his body slumped against
the post to which he’d been tied. Lelia shuddered at the sight. “Guess it’s
fortunate that the law is less clear on the use of foreign coin.”
“Indeed.” The magistrate admitted.