Royce and Esrahaddon left at first light, following a small trail out of the village. Ever since they arrived in Dahlgren, Royce had noticed a distant sound, a dull, constant noise. As they approached the river, the sound grew into a roar. The Nidwalden was massive-an expanse of tumultuous green water flowing swiftly, racing by and bursting against rocks. Royce stood for a moment just staring. He spotted a branch out in the middle, a black and gray fist of leaves bobbing helplessly against the current. It sped along, riding through gaps in the boulders, ripping over rocks until it vanished into a cloud of white. In the center, he saw something tall rising up, most of it lost in the mist and tree branches that extended over the water.
“We need to go farther down river,” Esrahaddon explained as he led Royce to a narrower trail that hugged the bank. River grass grew along the edge, glistening with dew and songbirds sang shrill melodies in the soft morning breeze. Even with the thundering river, and the vivid memory of a roofless home and bloodstained walls, the place felt tranquil.
“There she is,” Esrahaddon said reverently as they reached a rocky clearing that afforded them an unobstructed view of the river. It was wide and the water rushed by with a furious strength then disappeared over the edge of a sudden fall.
They stood very near the ridge of the cataract and could see the white mist rising from the abrupt drop like a fog. Out in the middle of the river, at the edge of the falls, a massive shelf of bedrock jutted out like the prow of a mighty ship that ran aground just before toppling over the precipice. On this fearsome pedestal rose the citadel of Avempartha. Formed entirely of stone, the tower burst skyward from the rock shelf. A bouquet of tall, slender shards stretched upward like splinters of crystal or slivers of ice, its base lost in the billowing white clouds of mist and foam. At first sight it looked to be a natural stone formation, but a more careful study revealed windows, walkways and stairs carefully integrated into the architecture.
“How am I suppose to get out there?” Royce asked yelling over the roar, his cloak whipping and snapping like a snake.
“That would be problem number one,” Esrahaddon shouted back, offering nothing more.
Was this some kind of test, or does he really not know?
Royce followed the river over the bare rocks to the drop. Here the land plummeted more than two thousand feet to the valley below. What stood before him was a vision of unsurpassed beauty. The falls were magnificent. The sheer power of the titanic surge was hypnotizing. The massive torrent of blue-green water spilled and sparkled into the billowing white bejeweled mist, the voice of the river thundering in his ears, rattling his chest. Beyond it, to the south, was an equally breathtaking vision. Royce could see for miles and marked the remaining passage of the river as it wound like a long shiny snake through the lush green landscape to the Goblin Sea.
Esrahaddon moved to a more sheltered escarpment farther inland and behind a brace of upward thrust granite that blocked him from the gusting wind and spray. Royce climbed toward him when he noticed a depressed line in the trees running away from the river. A course of trees stood shorter than those around them, creating a trench in the otherwise uniform canopy. He made his way down to the forest floor and found that what he thought might be a gully was instead a section of younger growth. More importantly, the line was perfectly straight. Old vines and thorn bushes masked unnatural mounds. He dug away some of the undergrowth and swept layers of dirt and dead leaves back until he touched on flat stone.
“Looks like there might have been a road here,” he shouted up to the wizard.
“There was. A great bridge once reached out across the river to Avempartha.”
“What happened to it?”
“The river,” the wizard told him. “The Nidwalden does not abide the efforts of man for long. Most of it likely washed away, leaving the remains to fall.”
Royce followed the buried road to the river’s edge where he stood looking at the tower across the violent expanse. A vast gray volume rushed by him, its speed concealed by its size. The dark gray became a swirling translucent green as it reached the edge. The moment it fell, the water burst into white foam, billions of flying droplets, and all he could hear was the thundering roar.
“Impossible,” he muttered.
He returned to where the wizard stood and sat down on the sun-warmed rock, looking at the distant tower that rose up in the haze where rainbows played.
“Do you want me to open that thing?” the thief asked with all seriousness. “Or is this some kind of game?”
“It’s no game,” Esrahaddon replied as he sat leaning against a rock, folding his arms and closed his eyes.
It irritated Royce how comfortable he looked. “Then you’d better start saying more than you have so far.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything-everything you know about it.”
“Well, let’s see, I was here once a very long time ago. It looked different then, of course. For one thing Novron’s bridge was still up and you could walk right out to the tower.”
“So the bridge was the only way to reach it?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. At least it wouldn’t make any sense if that were the case. You see the elves built Avempartha before mankind walked on the face of Elan. No one-well, no human-knows why or what for. Its location here on the falls facing south toward what we call the Goblin Sea suggests perhaps the elves might have employed it as a defense against the Children of Uberlin-I believe you call them by the dwarven name, the Ba Ran Ghazel-goblins of the sea. But that seems unlikely, as the tower predates them as well. There might have even been a city here at one time. So little is left of their achievements in Apeladorn, but the elves had a fabulous culture rich in beauty, music, and The Art.”
“When you say The Art, you mean magic?”
The wizard opened a single eye and frowned at him. “Yes, and don’t give me that look, as if magic is dirty or vile. I have seen that too many times since I escaped.”
“Well, magic isn’t something people consider a good thing.”
Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head with a stern look. “It is demoralizing to see what has happened to the world during my years of incarceration. I stayed alive and sane because I knew that one day I would be able to do my part to protect humanity, but now I discover it’s almost no longer worth the effort. When I was young, the world was an incredible place. Cities were magnificent. Your Colnora wouldn’t even rank as a slum in the smallest city of my time. We had indoor plumbing-spigots would pump water right into people’s homes. There were extensive, well-maintained sewer systems that kept the streets from smelling like cesspools. Buildings were eight and nine stories tall, and some reached as high as twelve. We had hospitals where the sick were treated and actually got better. We had libraries, museums, temples, and schools of every kind.
“Mankind has squandered its inheritance from Novron. It’s like having gone to sleep a rich man and waking up a pauper.” He paused. “Then there’s what you so feebly call magic. The Art separated us from the animals. It was the greatest achievement of our civilization. Not only has it been forgotten, it is now reviled. In my day, those who could weave The Art, and summon the natural powers of the world to their bidding, were considered agents of the gods-sacrosanct. Today they burn you if you accidentally guess tomorrow’s weather.
“It was very different then. People were happy. There were no poor families living on the streets. No destitute hopeless peasants struggling to find a meal, or forced to live in hovels with three children, four pigs, two sheep, and a goat, where the flies in the afternoon are thicker than the family’s evening stew.”
Esrahaddon looked around sadly. “As a wizard, my life was devoted to the study of truth and the application of it in the service of the Emperor. Never had I managed to find more truth or serve him more profoundly than when I came here. And yet, in many ways I regret it. Oh, if only I had stayed home. I would be long dead, having lived a happy, wonderful life.”
Royce smiled at him. “Wizards aren’t a font, I thought.”
Esrahaddon scowled.
“Now, what about the tower?”
The wizard looked back at the elegant spires rising above the mist. “Avempartha was the site of the last battle of the Great Elven Wars. Novron drove the elves back to the Nidwalden, but they held on by fortifying their position in the tower. Novron was not about to be stopped by a little water and ordered the building of the bridge. It took eight years and cost the lives of hundreds, most of whom went over the falls, but in the end, the bridge was completed. It took Novron another five years after that to take the citadel. The act was as much symbolic as it was strategic and it forced the elves to accept that nothing would stop Novron from wiping them off the face of Elan. A very curious thing happened then, something that is still unclear. Novron is said to have obtained the Horn of Gylindora and with it forced the unconditional surrender of the elves. He ordered them to destroy their war agents and machines and to retreat across the river-never to cross it again.”
“So there was no bridge until Novron built one? Not on either side?”
“No, that was the problem. There was no way to reach the tower.”
“How did the elves get there?”
“Exactly.” The wizard nodded.
“So you don’t know?”
“I’m old, but not that old. Novron is farther in the past for me, than my day is to you.”
“So there is an answer to this puzzle. It’s just not obvious.”
“Do you think Novron would have spent eight years building a bridge if it was?”
“And what makes you think I can find the answer?”
“Call it a bunch.”
Royce looked at him curiously. “You mean hunch?”
The wizard look irritated. “Still a few holes in my vocabulary, I suppose.”
Royce stared out at the tower in the middle of the river and considered why jobs involving stealing swords were never simple.
The service they held for Mae Drundel was somber and respectful, although to Hadrian it felt rehearsed. There were no awkward moments, no stumbling over words or miscues. Everyone was well versed in his or her role. Indeed, the remaining residents of Dahlgren were about as professional about funerals as mourners could be without being paid.
Deacon Tomas said the only customized portion of the service where he mentioned her devotion to her late family and her church. Mae was the last of them to pass. Her sons died of sickness before their sixth year and her husband was killed by the beast less than five months ago. In his eulogy, Tomas publicly shared what nearly everyone was thinking, that as awful a thing as her death was, perhaps for Mae it was not so terrible. Some even reported that she had left an inviting candle in her window for the last two nights.
As usual, there was nobody to bury so they merely drove a whitewashed stake into the ground with her name burned into it. It stood next to the stakes marked Davie, Firth, and Went Drundel.
Everyone turned out for the service except Royce and Esrahaddon. Even Theron Wood made a showing to pay his respects. The old farmer looked even more haggard and miserable than he had the day before and Hadrian suspected he had been awake all night.
After the service ended, the village shared their midday dinner. The men placed a row of tables, end to end across the village common, and each family brought a dish. Smoked fish, black pudding (a sausage made from pig’s blood, milk, animal fat, onions, and oatmeal), and mutton were the most popular.
Hadrian stood back, leaning against a cedar tree, watching the others form lines.
“Help yourself,” Lena told him.
“There doesn’t look like there is a lot here. I have provisions in my bag,” he assured her.
“Nonsense-we’ll have none of that-everyone eats at a wake. Mae would want it that way, and what else is a funeral for if not to pay respects to the dead.”
She glared at him until he nodded and began looking about the tables for a plate.
“So those are your horses I have up in the castle stables?” a voice said and he turned to see a plump man in a cleric frock. He was the first person who did not look in desperate need of a meal. His cheeks were rosy and large and when he smiled his eyes squinted nearly shut. He did not look terribly old, but his hair was pure white, including his short beard.
“If you are Deacon Tomas, then yes,” Hadrian replied.
“I am indeed, and think nothing of it. I get rather lonely up on the hill at night all by myself with all those empty rooms. You hear every sound at night, you know. The wind slapping a shutter, the creak of rafters-it can be quite unnerving. Now at least I can blame the noises I hear on your horses. Being way down in the stables, I doubt I could hear them, but I can pretend, can’t I?” The deacon chuckled to himself. “But honestly, it can be miserable up there. I’m used to being with people, and the isolation of the manor house is such a burden,” he said while heaping his plate full of mutton.
“It must be awful for you. But I’ll bet there is good food. Those nobles really know how to fill a store house, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, of course,” the deacon replied. “As a matter of fact, the margrave had put by a remarkable amount of smoked meats, not to mention ale and wine, but I only take what I need of course.”
“Of course,” Hadrian agreed. “Just looking at you I can tell that you’re not the kind of man to take advantage of a situation. Did you supply the ale for the funeral?”
“Oh no,” the deacon replied, aghast. “I wouldn’t dare pillage the manor house like that. Like you just said, I am not the kind of man to take advantage of a situation and it’s not my stores to give, now is it?”
“I see.”
“Oh my, look at the cheese,” said the deacon, scooping up a wedge and shoving it in his mouth. “Have to admit one thing,” he spoke with his mouth full, “Dahlgren can really throw a funeral.”
When they reached the end of the tables, Hadrian looked for a place to sit. The few benches were filled with folks eating off their laps.
“Up you kids!” the deacon shouted at Tad and Pearl, “you don’t need to be taking up a bench. Go sit on the grass.” They frowned but got up. “You there, Hadrian is it? Come sit here and tell me what brings a man who owns a horse and three swords to Dahlgren. I trust you aren’t noble or you’d have knocked on my door last night.”
“No, I’m not a noble, but that brings up a question. How did you inherit the manor house?”
“Hmm? Inherit? Oh, I didn’t inherit anything. It is merely my station as a public servant to help in a crisis like this. When the margrave and his men died, I knew I had to administer to this troubled flock and watch after the king’s interests. So I endure the hardships and do what I can.”
“Like what?”
“What’s that?” the deacon asked, tearing into a piece of mutton that left his lips and cheeks shiny with grease.
“What have you done to help?”
“Oh-well, let’s see…I keep the house clean, the yard maintained, and the garden watered. You really have to keep after those weeds you know, or the whole garden would be swallowed up and not a single vegetable would survive. And oh-the toll it takes on my back. I’ve never had what you would call a good back as it is.”
“I meant about the attacks. What steps have you taken to safeguard the village?”
“Well now,” the deacon chuckled, “I’m a cleric, not a knight. I don’t even know how to hold a sword properly and I don’t have an army of knights at my disposal, do I? So aside from diligent prayer, I’m not in a position where I can really do anything about that.”
“Have you considered letting the villagers stay in the manor at night? Whatever this creature is, it doesn’t have much trouble with thatched roofs, but the manor has what looks to be a sturdy roof and some thick walls.”
The deacon shook his head, still smiling at Hadrian as an adult might look at a child who just asked why there must be poor people in the world. “No, no that wouldn’t do at all. I am quite certain the next lord of the house would not appreciate having a whole village taking over his home.”
“But you are aware that the responsibility of a lord is to protect his subjects? That is why his subjects pay him a tax. If the lord isn’t willing to protect them, why should they honor him with money, crops, or even respect?”
“You might not have noticed,” the deacon replied, “but we are between lords at the moment.”
“So then, you don’t intend to continue taxing these people for the time they are without protection?”
“Well, I didn’t mean that-”
“So, you do intend to uphold the responsibility of a steward?”
“Well, I-”
“Now I can understand your hesitation to overstep your authority and open the manor house to the village, so I am certain you will want to take the other option.”
“Other option?” The cleric was holding another slice of mutton to his mouth, but sat too distracted to bite.
“Yes, as steward and acting lord it falls on you to protect this village in his stead, and since inviting them into the house at night is out of the question then I presume you will be taking to the field to fight the beast.”
“Fight it?” He dropped the mutton on his lap. “I don’t think-”
Before he could say any more, Hadrian went on. “The good news is that I can help you there. I have an extra sword if you are missing one, and since you have been so kind as to let me board my horse at the stable I think the least I can do is lend her to you for the fight. Now I have heard that some people have determined where the lair of the beast is so it really seems a simple matter of-”
“I-I don’t recall saying that lodging the people in the manor at night was out of the question,” the deacon said loudly enough to interrupt Hadrian, so loud that several heads turned. He lowered his voice and added. “I was merely stating that it was something I had to consider carefully. You see, the mantle of leadership is a heavy one indeed, and I need to weigh the consequences of every act I make as they can break as well as mend. No, no, you can’t rush into these things.”
“That is very understandable and very wise, I might add,” Hadrian agreed, keeping his voice loud enough for others to hear him. “But the margrave was killed well over two weeks ago, so I am certain you have come to a decision by now?”
The deacon caught the interested looks of several of the villagers. Those who had finished their meals wandered over. One was Dillon McDern, who was taller than the rest and stood watching them.
“I-ah.”
“Everyone!” Hadrian shouted. “Gather round, the deacon wants to talk with us about the defense of the village.”
The crowd of mourners, plates in hand, turned and gathered in a circle around the well. All eyes turned to Deacon Tomas who suddenly looked like a defenseless rabbit caught in a trap.
“I-um,” the deacon started to say then slumped his shoulders and said in a loud voice, “in light of the recent attacks on houses, everyone is invited to spend nights in the protection of the castle.”
The crowd murmured to each other and then Russell Bothwick called out, “Will there be enough room for everyone?”
The deacon looked as if he was about to reconsider when Hadrian stood up. “I’m sure there’s plenty of room in the house for all the women and children and most of the married men. Those single men, thirteen or older, can spend the night in the stables, smokehouse, and other outbuildings. Each of them has stronger walls and roofs than any of the village homes.”
The inhabitants of the village began to cluster now in earnest.
“And our livestock? Do we abandon them to the beast?” another farmer asked. Hadrian did not recognize him. “Without the livestock we’ll have no meat, no wool, or field animals for work.”
“I’ve got Amble and Ramble to think of,” McDern said. “Dahlgren would be in a sorry state if ’n I let sumpin’ happen to those oxen.”
Hadrian jumped to the rim of the well where he stood above them with one arm on the windlass. “There’s plenty of room inside the stockade walls for all the animals where they will be safer than they have been in your homes. Remember there is safety in numbers. If you sit alone in the dark it is easy for anything to kill you, but the creature will not be so bold as to enter a fenced castle with the entire village watching. We can also build bonfires outside the walls for light.”
This brought gasps. “But light draws the creature!”
“Well, from what I can see. It doesn’t have difficulty finding you in the dark.”
The villagers looked from Hadrian to Deacon Tomas and back again.
“How do you know?” Someone asked from the crowd. “How do you know any of this? You’re not from here. How do you know anything?”
“It’s a demon from Uberlin!” Someone Hadrian did not recognize shouted.
“You can’t stop it!” A woman on the right yelled. “Grouping together could just make killing us that much easier.”
“It doesn’t want to kill you all at once and it isn’t a demon,” Hadrian assured the villagers.
“How do you know?”
“It kills only one or two, why? If it can tear apart Theron Wood’s house, or rip the roof off Mae Drundel’s home in seconds, it could easily destroy this whole village in one night, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t because it isn’t trying to kill you all. It’s killing for food. The beast isn’t a demon; it’s a predator.” The villagers considered this and while they paused, Hadrian continued, “What I have heard about this creature is that no one has ever seen it and no victim has survived. Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. How do you expect to survive when you sit alone in the dark just waiting to be eaten? No one has ever seen it because it doesn’t want to be seen. Like any predator, it conceals itself until it springs and like a predator, it hunts the weakest prey; it looks for the stray, the young, the old, or the sick. All of you have been dividing yourselves up into tidy little meals. You’ve made yourselves too convenient to resist. If we group together it might prefer to hunt a deer or a wolf that night instead of us.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if no one has seen it because it is a demon and can’t be seen? It could be an invisible spirit that feeds on terror. Isn’t that right, deacon?”
“Ah-well-” the deacon began.
“It could be, but it isn’t,” Hadrian assured them.
“How do you know?”
“Because my partner saw it last night.”
This caught the group by surprise and several conversations broke out at once. Hadrian spotted Pearl sitting on the grass staring at him. Several asked questions at once and Hadrian waved at them to quiet down.
“What did it look like?” a woman with a sunburned face and a white kerchief over her head asked.
“Since I didn’t see it, I would prefer Royce tell you himself. He’ll be back before dark.”
“How could he have seen anything in the dark?” one of the older farmers asked skeptically. “I looked outside when I heard the scream and it was as black as the bottom of that well ’yer standing on. There’s no way he could have seen anything.”
“He saw the pig!” Tad Bothwick shouted.
“What’s that, boy?” Dillon McDern asked.
“The pig, in our house last night,” Tad said excitedly. “It was all dark and the pig ran, but he saw it and caught him.”
“That’s right,” Russell Bothwick recalled. “We had just put the fire out and I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, but this fellow caught a running pig. Maybe he did see something.”
“The point is,” Hadrian went on, “we’ll all stand a better chance of survival if we stick together. Now the deacon has graciously invited all of us to join him behind the protection of walls and a solid roof. I think we should listen to his wisdom and start making plans to resettle and gather wood before the evening arrives. We still have plenty of time to build up strong bonfires.”
They were looking at Hadrian now and nodding. There were still those that looked unconvinced, but even the skeptics appeared hopeful. Small groups were forming, talking, planning.
Hadrian sat back down and ate. He was not a fan of blood pudding and stayed with the smoked fish, which was wonderful.
“I’ll bring the oxen over,” he heard McDern say. “Brent, you go bring ’yer wagon and fetch ’yer axe too.”
“We’ll need shovels and Went’s saw,” Vince Griffin said. “He always kept it sharp.”
“I’ll send Tad to fetch it,” Russell announced.
“Is it true?” Hadrian looked up from his plate to see Pearl standing before him. Her face was just as dirty as the day before. “Did ’yer friend-did he really catch a pig in the dark?”
“If you don’t believe me, you can ask him tonight.”
Looking over the little girl’s head, he spotted Thrace. She was sitting alone on the ground down the trail past the Caswell’s graves. He noticed her hands wiping her cheeks. He set his empty plate on the table, smiled at Pearl and walked over. Thrace did not look up so he crouched down beside her. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she shook her head, hiding her face with her hair.
Hadrian glanced around the trail and then back up at the villagers. The women were putting away the uneaten food as the men gathered tools, all of them chattering quickly.
“Where’s your father. I saw him earlier.”
“He went back home,” she said sniffling.
“What did he say to you?”
“I told you it’s alright.” She stood up, brushed off her dress, and wiped her eyes. “I should help with the cleaning, excuse me.”
Hadrian entered the clearing and once more faced the remains of the Wood’s farmhouse. The roofing poles listed to one side, framing splintered, thatch scattered-this is what shattered dreams look like. The farm felt cursed, haunted by ghosts, only one of the ghosts was not at home. There was no sign of the old farmer and the scythe rested, abandoned, up against the ruined wall. Hadrian took the opportunity to peer inside at the shattered furniture, broken cupboards, torn clothes, and blood stains. A single chair stood in the center of the debris beside a wooden cradle.
Theron Wood came up from the river a few moments later carrying a shoulder yoke with two buckets full of water hanging from the ends. He did not hesitate when he spotted Hadrian standing before the ruins of his house. He walked right by. He set the buckets down and began pouring them into three large jugs.
“You back again?” he asked without looking up. “She told me she paid you silver to come here. Is that what you do? Take advantage of simple girls? Steal their hard-earned money, then eat their village’s food? If you came here to see if you can squeeze more coins out of me you’re gonna be disappointed.”
“I didn’t come here for money.”
“No? Then why did you?” he asked, tipping the second bucket. “If you really are here to get that club or sword or whatever that crazy cripple thinks is in the tower, shouldn’t you be trying to swim the river right now?”
“My partner is working on that as we speak.”
“Uh-huh, he’s the swimmer, is he? And what are you, the guy that squeezes the money out of poor miserable farmers? I’ve seen your kind before, highwaymen and cheats-you scare people into paying you just to live. Well, that’s not gonna work this time, my friend.”
“I told you I didn’t come here for money.”
Theron dropped the bucket at his feet and turned. “So why did you come here?”
“You left the wake early and I was concerned you might not have heard the news that everyone in the village is going to spend the night inside the castle walls.”
“Thanks for the notice,” he said and turning back corked the jugs. When he finished he looked up, annoyed. “Why are you still here?”
“What exactly do you know about combat?” Hadrian asked.
The farmer glared at him. “What business is it of yours?”
“As you pointed out, your daughter paid my partner and me good money to help you kill this monster. He’s working on providing you with a proper weapon. I am here to ensure you know how to use it when it gets here.”
Theron Wood ran his tongue along his teeth. “You’re fixin’ to educate me, are you?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t need any training.” He picked up his buckets and yoke and began walking away.
“You don’t know the first thing about combat. Have you ever even held a sword?”
Theron whirled on him. “No, but I plowed five acres in one day. I bucked half a cord of wood before noon. I survived being caught eight miles from shelter in a blizzard and I lost my whole damn family in a single night! Have you done any of that?”
“Not your whole family,” Hadrian reminded him.
“The ones that mattered.”
Hadrian drew his sword and advanced on Theron. The old farmer watched his approach with indifference.
“This is a bastard sword,” Hadrian told him and dropped it at the farmer’s feet and walked half a dozen steps away. “I think it suits you rather well. Pick it up and swing at me.”
“I have more important things to do than play games with you,” Theron said.
“Just like you had more important things to do than take care of your family that night?”
“Watch ’yer mouth boy.”
“Like you were watching that poor defenseless grandson of yours? What was it really, Theron? Why were you really working so late that night, and don’t give me this bull about benefitting your son. You were trying to get some extra money this year for something you wanted. Something you felt you needed so badly you let your family die.”
The farmer picked up the sword. His breath hissing through his teeth, puffing his cheeks and rocking his shoulders back. “I didn’t let them die. It wasn’t me!”
“What did you trade them for, Theron? Some fool’s dream? You didn’t give a damn about your son; it was all about you. You wanted to be the grandfather of a magistrate. You wanted to be the big man, didn’t you? And you’d do anything to make that dream come true. You worked late. You weren’t there. You were out in the field when it came, because of your dream, your desires. Is that why you let your son die? You never cared about them at all. Did you? All you care about is yourself.”
The farmer charged Hadrian with the sword in both hands and swung at him. Hadrian stepped aside and the wild swing missed, but the momentum carried the farmer around and he fell to the dirt.
“You let them die Theron. You weren’t there like a man is supposed to be. A man is supposed to protect his family, but what were you doing? You were out in the fields working on what you wanted. What you had to have.”
Theron got up and charged again. Once more Hadrian stepped aside. This time Theron managed to remain standing and delivered more wild swings. Hadrian drew his short sword and deflected the blows. The old farmer was in a rage now and struck out maniacally, swinging the sword like an axe with single, hacking strokes that stole his balance. Soon Hadrian did not need to parry anymore and merely sidestepped out of the way. Theron’s face grew redder with each miss. Tears filled his eyes. At last, the old man collapsed to the dirt, frustrated and exhausted.
“It wasn’t me that killed them,” he yelled. “It was her! She left the light on. She left the door open.”
“No, Theron,” Hadrian took the sword from the farmer’s limp hands, “Thrace didn’t kill your family and neither did you-the beast did.” He slipped his sword back in its sheath. “You can’t blame her for leaving a door open. She didn’t know what was coming. None of you did. Had you known, you would have been there. Had your family known, they would have put out the light. The sooner you stop blaming innocent people and start trying to fix the problem the better off everyone will be.
“Theron, that weapon of yours may be mighty sharp, but what good is a sharp weapon when you can’t hit anything, or worse, hit the wrong target. You don’t win battles with hate. Anger and hate can make you brave, make you strong, but they also make you stupid. You end up tripping over your own two feet.” The fighter stared down at the old man. “I think that’s enough for today’s lesson.”
Royce and Esrahaddon returned less than an hour before sunset and found a parade of animals driving up the road. It looked like every animal in the village was on the move and most of the people were out along the edges with sticks and bells, pots and spoons banging away, herding the animals up the hill toward the manor house. Sheep and cows followed each other fine enough, but the pigs were a problem and Royce spotted Pearl with her stick, masterfully bringing up the rear.
Rose McDern, the smithy’s wife, was the first to spot them and suddenly Royce heard the words, “He’s back!” excitedly repeated amongst the villagers.
“What’s going on?” Royce asked Pearl, purposely avoiding the adults.
“Mov’n the critters to the castle. We all stay’n there tonight they says.”
“Do you know where Hadrian is?” You remember, the man I arrived with? Thrace was riding with him?”
“The castle,” Pearl told him and narrowed her eyes at the thief. “You really catch a pig in the dark?”
Royce looked at her, puzzled. Just then, a pig darted up the road and the girl was off after it, waving her long switch in the air.
The castle of the lord of Westbank was a typical motte and bailey fortress with the great manor house built on a steep man-made hill, surrounded by a wall of sharp tipped wooden logs that enclosed the outbuildings. A heavy gate barred the entrance. A half-hearted attempt at a moat ringed it, but amounted to nothing more than a shallow ditch. Cut trees left about forty yards of sharpened stumps in all directions.
A group of men worked at the tree line cutting pines. Royce was still a bit vague on names but he recognized Vince Griffin and Russell Bothwick working a dual handled saw. Tad Bothwick along with a few other boys raced around, trimming branches with axes and hatches. Three girls tied the branches into bundles and stacked them on a wagon. Dillon McDern and his sons used his oxen to haul the logs up the hill to the castle where more men labored to cut and split the wood.
He found Hadrian splitting logs near the stockade gate. He was naked to the waist except for the small silver medallion that dangled from his neck as he bent forward to place another wedge. He had a solid sweat worked up along with a sizeable pile of wood.
“Been meddling, have you?” Royce asked, looking around at the hive of activity.
“You must admit they didn’t have much in the way of a defense plan,” the fighter said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Royce smiled at him, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“And you? Did you find the doorknob?”
Hadrian picked up a jug and quickly downed several swallows, drinking so quickly some of the water dripped down his chin. He poured some in his palm and rinsed his face, running his fingers through his hair.
“I didn’t even get close enough to see a door.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Hadrian smiled, “at least you weren’t captured and condemned to death this time.”
“That’s the bright side?”
“What can I say? I’m a glass half-full kinda guy.”
“There he is,” Russell Bothwick shouted, pointing, “that’s Royce over there.”
“What’s going on?” Royce asked as throngs of people suddenly moved toward him from the field and the castle interior.
“I mentioned that you saw the thing and now they want to know what it looks like,” Hadrian explained. “What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass half-empty kinda guy.”
“Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled, “was there ever any drink in that glass?”
Royce was still scowling at Hadrian when the villagers crowded around them. The women wore kerchiefs over their hair, dark and damp where they crossed their foreheads, their sleeves rolled up, faces smudged with dirt. Most of the men, like Hadrian, were topless, wood shavings and pine needles sticking to their skin.
“Did you see it?” Dillon asked. “Did you really get a look at it?”
“Yes,” Royce replied and several people murmured.
“What did it look like?” Deacon Tomas asked. The priest stood out from the crowd looking fresh, clean, and rested.
“Did it have wings?” Russell asked.
“Did it have claws?” Tad asked.
“How big was it?” Vince Griffin asked.
“Let the man answer!” Dillon thundered and the rest quieted.
“It does have wings and claws. I saw it only briefly because it was flying above the trees. I caught sight of it through a small opening in the leaves, but what I saw was long, like a snake, or lizard, with wings and two legs that-that were still clutching Mae Drundel.”
“A lizard with wings?” Dillon repeated.
“A dragon.” A woman declared. “That’s what it is. It’s a dragon!”
“That’s right,” Russell said. “That’s what a winged lizard is.”
“There’s suppose to be a weak spot in their armor near the armpit, or whatever a dragon has for an armpit,” a woman with a particularly dirty nose explained. “I heard an archer once killed a dragon in mid-flight by hitting him there.”
“I heard you weaken a dragon by stealing its treasure horde,” a bald-headed man told them all. “There was a tale where this prince was trapped in the lair of a dragon and he threw all the treasure into the sea and it weakened the beast so much the prince was able to kill him by stabbing him in the eye.”
“I heard that dragons were immortal and couldn’t be killed,” Rose McDern said.
“It’s not a dragon,” Esrahaddon said with a tone of disgust. He stepped out from the crowd and they turned to face him.
“Why do you say that?” Vince Griffin asked.
“Because it isn’t,” he replied confidently. “If it was a dragon whose wrath you had incurred, this village would have been wiped from the face of Elan months ago. Dragons are very intelligent beings, far more than you or even I and more powerful than we can begin to comprehend. No, Mrs. Brockton, no archer ever killed a dragon by shooting him in a soft spot with an arrow. And no, Mr. Goodman stealing a dragon’s treasure doesn’t weaken it. In fact, dragons don’t have treasures. What exactly would a dragon do with gold or gems? Do you think there is a dragon store somewhere? Dragons don’t believe in possessions, unless you count memories, strength, and honor as possessions.”
“But that’s what he said he saw,” Vince countered.
The wizard sighed. “He said he saw a snake or lizard with long dark wings and two legs. That should have been your first clue.” The wizard turned to Pearl who had finished driving the last of the pigs into the courtyard of the castle and had run back out to join the crowd. “Tell me, Pearl, how many legs does a dragon have?”
“Four,” the child said without thinking.
“Exactly, this is not a dragon.”
“Then what is it?” Russell asked.
“A Gilarabrywn,” Esrahaddon replied casually.
“A-a what?”
“Gil…lar…ah…brin,” the wizard pronounced slowly, mouthing the syllables carefully. “Gilarabrywn, a magical creature.”
“What does that mean? Does it cast spells like a witch?”
“No, it means it’s unnatural. It wasn’t born-it was created, conjured if you will.”
“That’s just crazy,” Russell said. “How gullible do you think we are? This thingamabob-whatever you called it-killed dozens of people. It ain’t no made up thing.”
“No, wait,” Deacon Tomas intervened, waving to them from deep in the sea of villagers. They backed away to reveal the cleric standing with his hand still up in the air, his eyes thoughtful. “There was a beast known as the Gilarabrywn. I learned about it in seminary. In the Great Elven Wars they were tools of the Erivan Empire, beasts of war, terrible things that devastated the landscape and slaughtered thousands. There are accounts of them laying waste to cities and whole armies. No weapon could harm them.”
“You know your history well, deacon,” Esrahaddon complimented. “The Gilarabrywn were devastating instruments of war-intelligent, powerful, silent killers from the sky.”
“How could such a thing still be alive after so long?” Russell asked.
“They aren’t natural. They can’t die a normal death because they really aren’t alive as we understand living to be.”
“I think we’re going to need more wood,” Hadrian muttered.
As the sun set, the farmers provisioned the castle for the night. The children and women gathered beneath the great beams of the manor house while the men worked to the last light of day building the woodpiles. Hadrian had organized effective teams for cutting, dragging, and tying the stacks such that by nightfall they had six great piles surrounding the walls and one in the center of the yard itself. They doused the piles in oil and animal fat to make the lighting faster. It was going to be a long night and they did not want the fires to burn out, nor would it do to have them lit too late.
“Hadrian!” Thrace yelled as she ran frantically through the courtyard.
“Thrace,” Hadrian said, working to the last minute on the courtyard woodpile. “It’s dark. You should be in the house.”
“My father’s not here,” she cried. “I’ve looked everywhere around the castle. No one saw him come in. He must still be at home. He’s out there alone, and if he’s the only one alone tonight-”
“Royce!” Hadrian shouted, but it was unnecessary as Royce was already leading their saddled horses out of the stable.
“She found me first,” the thief said, handing him Millie’s reins.
“That damn fool,” Hadrian said grabbing his shirt and weapons and pulling himself up on the horse. “I told him about coming to the castle.”
“So did I,” she said, her face a mask of fear.
“Don’t worry Thrace. We’ll bring him back safe.”
They spurred the animals and rode out the gate at a gallop.
Theron sat in the ruins of his house on a wooden chair. A small fire burned in a shallow pit just outside the doorway. The sky was finally dark and he could see stars. He listened to the night music of the crickets and frogs. A distant owl began its hunt. The fire snapped and popped and beneath it all, the distant roaring of the falls. Mosquitoes entered the undefended house. They swarmed, landed, and bit. The old man let them. He sat as he had every night, staring silently at memories.
His eyes settled on the cradle. Theron remembered building the little rocker for his first son. He and Addie decided to name their firstborn Hickory-a good, strong, durable wood. Theron had hunted the forest for the perfect hickory tree and found it one day on a hill, bathed in sunlight as if the gods had marked it. Each night Theron had carefully crafted the cradle and finished the wood so it would last. All five of his children had slept in it. Hickory died there before his first birthday from a sickness for which there was no name. All of his sons died young, except for Thad, who had grown to be a fine man. He had married a sweet girl named Emma and when she had given birth to his grandson, they had named him Hickory. Theron remembered thinking how it seemed as if the world was finally trying to make up for the hardships in his life, that somehow the unwarranted punishment of his firstborn’s premature death was healed through the life of his first grandson. But it was all gone now. All he had left was the blood-sprayed bed of five dead children.
Behind the cradle lay one of Addie’s two dresses. It was a terrible, ugly thing, stained and torn, but to his watering eyes it looked beautiful. She had been a good wife. For more than thirty years she had followed him from one dismal town to the next as he had tried to find a place he could call his own. They had never had much, and many times, they had gone hungry, and on more than one occasion nearly froze to death. In all that time, he had never heard her complain. She had mended his clothes and his broken bones, made his meals and looked after him when he was sick. She had always been too thin, giving the biggest portions of each meal to him and their children. Her clothes had been the worst in the family. She never found time to mend them. She had been a good wife and Theron could not remember ever having said he loved her. It had never seemed important before. The beast had taken her too, plucked her from the path between the village and the farm. Thad’s Emma had filled the void, making it easy to move on. He had avoided thinking about her by staying focused on the goal, but now the goal was dead, and his house had caved in.
What must it have been like for them when the beast came? Were they alive when it took them? Did they suffer? The thoughts tormented the farmer as the sounds of the crickets died.
He stood up his scythe in his hands, preparing to meet the darkness, when he heard the reason for the interruption of the night noises. Horses thundered up the trail and the two men Thrace hired entered the light of the campfire in a rush.
“Theron!” Hadrian shouted as he and Royce arrived in the yard of the Wood’s farm. The sun was down. The light gone, and the old man had a welcome fire burning-only not for them. “Let’s go. We’ve got to get back to the castle.”
“You go back,” the old man growled. “I didn’t ask you to come here. This is my home and I’m staying.”
“Your daughter needs you. Now get up on this horse. We don’t have much time.”
“I’m not going anywhere. She’s fine. She’s with the Bothwicks. They’ll take good care of her. Now get off my land!”
Hadrian dismounted and marched up to the farmer who stood his ground like a rooted tree.
“My god, you’re a stubborn ass. Now either you’re going to get on that horse or I’ll put you on it.”
“Then you’ll have to put me on it,” he said putting his scythe down and folding his arms across his chest.
Hadrian looked over his shoulder at Royce who sat silently on Mouse. “Why aren’t you helping?”
“It’s really not my area of expertise. Now if you want him dead-that I can do.”
Hadrian sighed. “Please get on the horse. You’re going to get us all killed staying out here.”
“Like I said, I never asked you to come.”
“Damn,” Hadrian cursed as he removed his weapons and hooked them on the saddle of his horse.
“Careful,” Royce leaned over and told him. “He’s old, but he looks tough.”
Hadrian ran full tilt at the old farmer and tackled him to the ground. Theron was larger than Hadrian with powerful arms and hands made strong by years of unending work, but Hadrian was fast and agile. The two grappled in a wrestling match that had them rolling in the dirt grunting as each tried to get the advantage.
“This is so stupid,” Hadrian muttered, getting to his feet. “If you would just get on the horse.”
“You get on the horse. Get out of here and leave me alone!” Theron yelled at them as he struggled to catch his breath, standing bent over, hands resting on his knees.
“Maybe you can help me this time?” Hadrian said to Royce.
Royce rolled his eyes and dismounted. “I didn’t expect you’d have so much trouble.”
“It’s not easy to subdue a person bigger than you and not hurt him in the process.”
“Well, I think I found your problem then. Why don’t we try hurting him?”
When they turned back to face Theron, the farmer had a good size stick in his hand and a determined look in his eyes.
Hadrian sighed, “I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Daddy!” Thrace shouted, running into the ring of firelight, her face streaked with tears. “Daddy,” she cried again and reaching the old man, threw her arms around him.
“Thrace, what are you doing here?” Theron yelled. “It’s not safe.”
“I came to get you.”
“I’m staying here,” he pulled his daughter off and pushed her away. “Now you take your hired thugs and get back to the Bothwicks right now. You hear me?”
“No.” Thrace cried at him, her arms raised, still reaching. “I won’t leave you.”
“Thrace,” he bellowed, his huge frame towering over her, “I am your father and you will do as I say!”
“No!” she shouted back at him, the firelight shining on her wet cheeks. “I won’t leave you to die. You can whip me if you want, but you’ll have to come back to the castle to do it.”
“You stupid little fool,” he cursed. “You’re gonna get yourself killed. Don’t you know that?”
“I DON’T CARE!” her voice ran shrill, her hands crushed into fists, arms punched down at her sides. “What reason do I have to live if my own father-the only person I have left in the world-hates me so much he would rather die than look at me.”
Theron stood stunned.
“At first,” she began in a quivering voice, “I thought you wanted to make sure no one else was killed, and then I thought maybe it was-I don’t know-to put their souls to rest. Then I thought you wanted revenge. Maybe the hate was eating you up. Maybe you had to see it killed-but none of that is true. You just want to die. You hate yourself-you hate me. There’s nothing in this world for you anymore, nothing you care about.”
“I don’t hate you,” Theron said.
“You do. You do because it was my fault. I know what they meant to you-and I wake up every morning with that.” She wiped the tears enough to see. “If it was me, it would have been just like it was with Mom-you would have driven a stick into Stony Hill with my name on it, and the next day gone back to work. You would have driven the plow and thanked Maribor for his kindness in sparing your son. I should have been the one to die, but I can’t change what happened and your death won’t bring him back. Nothing will. Still, if all I can do now-if all that’s left for me-is to die here with you, then that’s what I’ll do. I won’t leave you, Daddy. I can’t. I just can’t.” She fell to her knees exhausted and in a fragile voice said, “We’ll all be together again at least.”
Then as if in response to her words, the wood around them went silent once more. This time the crickets and frogs stopped so abruptly the silence seemed suddenly loud.
“No,” Theron said shaking his head. He looked up at the night sky. “NO!”
The farmer grabbed his daughter and lifted her up. “We’re going.” He turned. “Help us.”
Hadrian pulled Millie around. “Up both of you.” Millie stomped her hooves and started to pull and twist, nostrils flaring, ears twitching. Hadrian gripped her by the bit and held tight.
Theron mounted the horse and pulled Thrace up in front of him then with a swift kick, he sent Millie racing up the trail back toward the village. Royce leapt on the back of Mouse and throwing out a hand, swung Hadrian up behind him even as he sent the horse galloping into the night.
The horses needed no urging as they ran full out with the sweat of fear dampening their coats. Their hooves thundered, pounding the earth like violent drum beats. The path ahead was only slightly lighter than the rest of the wood and for Hadrian it was often a blur as the wind drew tears from his eyes.
“Above us!” Royce shouted. Overhead they heard a rush of movement in the leaves.
The horses made a jarring turn into the thick of the wood. Invisible branches, leaves, and pine boughs slapped them, whipped them, beat them. The animals raced in blind panic. They drove through the underbrush glancing off tree trunks, bouncing by branches. Hadrian felt Royce duck and mimicked him.
Thrump. Thrump. Thrump.
He could hear a slow beating overhead, a dull, deep pumping. A blast of wind came from above, a massive downdraft of air. Along with it came the frightening sound of cracking, snapping, splintering. The treetops shattered and exploded.
“Log!” Royce shouted as the horses jumped.
Hadrian kept his seat only by virtue of Royce’s agile grab. In the darkness, he heard Thrace scream, a grunt, and a sound like an axe handle hitting wood. The thief reined Mouse hard, wrestling with her, pulling the animal’s head around as she reared and snorted. Ahead, Hadrian could hear Millie galloping.
“What’s going on?” Hadrian asked.
“They fell,” Royce growled.
“I can’t see them.” Hadrian leapt down.
“In the thickets, there to your right,” Royce said, climbing off Mouse who was in a panic, thrashing her head back and forth.
“Here,” Theron said, his voice labored, “over here.”
The farmer stood over his daughter. She lay unconscious, sprawled and twisted. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth.
“She hit a branch,” Theron said, his voice was shaking, frightened. “I-I didn’t see the log.”
“Get her on my horse,” Royce commanded. “Move, Theron, take Mouse, both of you ride for the manor. We’re close. You can see the light of the bonfires burning.”
The farmer made no protest. He climbed on Mouse who was still stomping and snorting. Hadrian picked up Thrace. A patch of moonlight showed a dark blemish on her face, a long wide mark. He lifted. Her head fell back limp, her arms and legs dangled free. She felt dead. He handed her to Theron who cradled his daughter to his chest and held her tight. Royce let loose the bit and the horse thundered off racing for the open field, leaving Royce and Hadrian behind.
“Think Millie’s around?” Hadrian whispered.
“I think Millie is already an appetizer.”
“I suppose the good news is that she bought Thrace and Theron safe passage.”
They slowly moved to the edge of the wood. They were very close to where Dillon and his boys were hauling logs earlier that day. They could see three of the six bonfires blazing away, illuminating the field.
“What about us?” Royce asked.
“Do you think the Gilarabrywn knows we’re still in here?”
“Esrahaddon said it was intelligent, so I presume it can count.”
“Then it will come back and find us. We have to reach the castle. The distance across the open is about-what? Two hundred feet?”
“About that,” Royce confirmed.
“I guess we can hope it’s still munching on Millie. Ready?”
“Run spread out so it can’t get both of us. Go.” The grass was slick with dew and filled with stumps and pits. Hadrian only got a dozen yards before falling on his face.
“Stay behind me,” Royce told him.
“I thought we were spreading out?”
“That’s before I remembered you’re blind.”
They ran again, dodging in and out, as Royce picked the path up the hillside. They were nearly halfway across when they heard the bellows again.
Thrump. Thrump. Thrump.
The sound rushed toward them. Looking up, Hadrian saw something dark pass across the face of the rising moon, a serpent with bat-like wings gliding, arcing, circling like a hawk hunting mice in a field.
The bellows stopped.
“It’s diving!” Royce shouted.
A massive burst of wind blew them to the ground. The bonfires instantly snuffed out. A second later, a loud rumble shook the earth and a monolithic wall of green fire exploded in a great ring, surrounding the entire hill. Astounding flames, thirty feet high, flashed up like trees of light spewing intense heat.
No longer having any trouble seeing his way, Hadrian jumped to his feet and sped to the gate, Royce on his heels. Behind them the flames roared. Above them they heard a chilling scream.
Dillon, Vince, and Russell slammed the gate shut the instant they were inside. The bonfire in the courtyard, which had been unlit so far, startled everyone as it exploded into a brilliant blue-green flame, reaching like a pillar into the sky. Once more from the darkness above, the Gilarabrywn screamed at them.
The emerald inferno slowly burned down. The flames lost their green color and diminished until only natural flames remained. The fires crackled and hissed, sending storms of sparks skyward. The men in the courtyard stared upward, but there were no further signs of the beast, only darkness and the distant sound of crickets.