Chapter the Third

“I simply must apologise. We don’t get a lot of people passing through. Oh, here let me get your cloak for you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, come on in, come on in!”

Keirn waited for her to turn before stepping from the schlammraum. It was awkward walking with a bit of a stoop so his cloak dragged on the ground. He looked back at the discarded shoes and hoped that perhaps she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t added to the collection.

He followed the lady into the adjoining sitting room. A small fire crackled in its stone pit. A pot rested over it and the scent of cooked pork and turnip made both his mouth salivate and his stomach roll. The matron waved towards a chair around the fire and puttered into the kitchen.

“I simply must know what is happening in the world,” she called, a few dishes clattering. Keirn gave his arms another anxious examination but nothing about him seemed too peculiar. He fell into the seat with a long, well deserved exhalation. He let his cloak drape over the back of his chair as he rested his eyes and held his feet close to the flame. “We’re so reliant on foreigners in these parts to bring us the word. But with the cold winds blowing off Freyr’s spine, few make the journey. Can hardly blame them. We don’t have much to offer off the season and we’ve already sent the hertig our share of the tax. Ygrimm was rolling out the last we could put to market and without any good forest we can’t even grow moss like some other villages to supplement our season.”

“Perhaps for the best,” Keirn said. “I’ve heard those make hardly palatable dishes.”

Dolmen in the Snow by Caspar David Friedrich (1807).

The lady – Helbera by name which seemed a touch too fitting giving the encroaching season – returned with a small bowl balanced on the edge of a long, curved wooden plate. In her other hand she held a steaming cup and she presented both to Keirn in her calloused fingers. He licked lips at the sight of the dried meat and even drier bread beside the stew. But he took the cup, politely waving the rest off.

She looked at him with that practised motherly eye of reproach.

“Not right for a wanderer to turn down a warm meal. I swear with Freyra as my witness that it’s the best thing you’ll find within a thousand leagues of Skaneling’s Hollow.”

Keirn raised a brow. “And what’s in the Hollow?”

“Oh, a juniper and cranberry pie to die for!” Helbera sighed. She finally accepted Keirn’s neglect and sat across from him to eat the meal. “Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to reject a host’s food?”

“She did. She was a wonderful caregiver. I’m afraid it will upset my stomach is all. I had a big meal before departing.”

“Thought there’d be nothing in the Hinterlands, eh? Get lots of folk like that,” Helbera said, dropping her bread in the broth and watching it sink. “Course, we also get the rare soul come out that’s been higher than Wotan’s watcher’s looking to find some Arrowcup mushrooms.”

The matron looked Keirn hard in the eye. It took a second for him to catch her meaning.

“Ah,” he said, adverting his yellow pupils to his drink. “I understand if you have no wish to entreat me.”

He stood but she clucked her tongue and motioned towards the chair. “So many folk think we are a bunch of know-nothings. Couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re just kindly souls. I noticed the signs the moment we spoke. I was willing to take you when you had no coin to your name, I’ll still accept you and your failings.”

“I appreciate that, Mum.”

“Oh, hush with that. You sleep off that dreadful haze as long as you want. And you get that pile of wood out back split and we’ll call ourselves even, you hear.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, what’s the word out there,” she asked, picking into her broth and fishing long, soggy strings of bread from its murky depths. She raised dripping pieces to her mouth and slurped them down.

“Truthfully, I haven’t spent much time in this land,” Keirn said.

“Good. We can get old Rangvaldrsun’s movements when Torben comes through selling his pots and bad advice. What this old caribou wants is word of the world. That alone is worth a night’s stay in the world’s emptiest inn!”

“If it’s the movement of the spheres and the petty dealings of the wider nations that interests then I have much to say but little flair with which to say it. I’m afraid I’m no bard, though I travelled with one for a spell.”

“You think I can afford a storyweaver out here?” Helbera laughed. “You could list off some petty lord’s tax collection and it’d be far more interesting than listening to Snolla recount to me one more time about her old sheep’s pregnancy with twins.”

“Well, I wouldn’t rightly know where to begin,” Keirn said. “Nations war. People suffer. And the gods play out their genocide beyond the wishes of us mere mortals.” He heard a snicker but not from the matron. “There’s crime and death and pain. But still people push on in their petty little plots with hope things will change though they fear any that truly comes.”

Helbera snorted. “You’re right. You do not have an entertainer’s spirit. If I wanted to hear about the world’s end, I’d listen to Geirren. And no one wants to listen to that cracked pot. From where did you come for surely you can share that even if you’re reluctant to say where you’re headed.”

“I… don’t rightly know,” Keirn confessed. He shifted awkwardly on his chair as such a truth was uncomfortable for him to bear. The implications were unsettling and he felt his nape tingle with unwanted glee. “I’ve been through New Vannin, walked the mountain paths of the mysterious Far Wa, delved the dungeons of Norigr and been lost along the streets of the City of Doors. I’ve wandered through untold petty counties and kingdoms and seen far more between.”

“Quite the treasure,” Helbera said. When Keirn shrugged, she gave him a light chuckle. “I too was a bit of a wanderer myself in my prime. Oh, don’t look so surprised. You are hardly the first soul to be unsatisfied with their tiny village prospects and struck out on their own. Truthfully, I miss it though the quiet life on this frozen teet of land has treated me well. And my knees would hardly support such travels anymore.

“But I know a thing or two about distant fortunes. I’ve tasted the succulent peaches of T’dm. I’ve carried the undying flames of the Malla between sanctuaries and wrapped myself up in the multicoloured weaves of the Parsa peoples.” Helbera’s eyes twinkled with memories. “I’ve looked upon a field of glittering diamonds and seen the fabled Caverns of Silver full of their brilliant wheat. You speak of misery and war while ignoring the beauty which balances it.”

“And here you are.”

“Here we both are,” Helbera corrected. “I’ve also seen my fair share of refugees. So which are you? Plunderer or exile?”

Keirn watched the cinders crackle. “Perhaps both.”

Helbera lifted the cup to her mouth and slurped at the broth. “I suppose we all are.” She finished the last of her bowl and pulled at her meat. “I fear the Hinterlands aren’t particularly welcoming to either. Been many that come out here to lose themselves. Can’t help but think that more are found than not.”

“Perhaps they simply aren’t trying hard enough.”

Keirn bowed his head but did not confiscate his smile.

“Let an old thief steal some of your secrets then. It’s hardly like I’ve a market to sell them here, regardless, and it would make an old timer happy to try her hand one last time at the trade.”

“I was not being coy when I said I know not from where I come,” Keirn replied. “Directly, I mean. You cross enough roads and they all blur together. You stumble into inns typically in worse wear than not. After awhile, the uncomfortable beds are indistinguishable. There is little meaning in distinguishing between languages when all seem meaningless. Faces are unrecognisable. I rest my head in Dzakar and I awake in Ys. I speak to the shades of people no longer here or others I have yet to meet. I’m lost on the road that I mapped. Any one of those lands I may have set out from to come here. Or perhaps I have yet to leave them in the first place.”

“It’s the arrowcup,” Helbera clucked. Keirn was silent. “If these memories are a plague upon you then surely exorcising them would be the cure.”

“They are not a plague,” Keirn said. “They are my stolen treasure. But how typical is it for plundered loot to be cursed?”

“Far too common.”

“Had it not, however, I wouldn’t be here now,” Keirn said. “I had… friends, at a time. They were with me for many of my travels. They are not now. They had their fun and quit while they were ahead. Not unlike you, I’d imagine.”

Part of the reason I enjoy my little D&D series is the enjoyment of crafting an expansive narrative of events and developments that occur “off page.” The stories revolve around a rather core group of individuals and follows them on their journeys. But quite frequently, the stories that are told are small personal affairs wedged between major occurrences. One technique I try and use to date and chronicle the narrative is through certain “key events.” I envision these as rather epic narratives that could encapsulate a full novel but ones that likely won’t ever happen because I don’t have the time to write them. Instead, they’re used as time landmarks to keep track of where a short story occurs in respect to others.

So, often when I start into one of these stories, the first question I ask myself is usually “When does this occur?” This particular piece I wanted to throw further in the future than anything else I’ve done. That’s why I was toying with all the comments on age in the first chapter. It also means that I typically need to establish quickly what has happened recently as well as lampshade any prominent absences.

And if the tone didn’t give it away in the first chapter, the D&D stories are usually aimed at being bittersweet.

The one thing that stuck out to me when envisioning this project as a realistic examination of fantasy tropes and structures was that all the fun elements of the heroic quest were simply unsustainable. There’s really no way an individual could commit to a life of an adventurer. The whole genre is predicated on an unsustainable lifestyle. Thus, the motivation for the adventurers to strike out on their quests was always one of selfishness and avoidance. They were looking to escape their problems rather than address them. But the problem with ignoring is a fire is that it doesn’t make it go away. So invariably the problems they wished to avoid would rear their ugly heads.

Course, even with this overarching idea of chronology I have no assurances that I’ll keep my original plans so things end up being vague anyway.

Country Road with Cypresses by Giuseppe Abbati (1860).

Chapter the Second

“Where do you see this heading?”

Keirn paused, taking a moment to look at his feet. Even with the coarse hair, they were turning a disquieting shade of blue. He took a moment to climb upon the face of the sheer slate jutting from the cracked earth like a nail of a buried giant. He bent his knee, inspecting the soles of his feet. The skin was cracked but leathery: not unlike the pad of a hound’s paw.

It was a little strange but, as he picked stones from the folds of his skin, he could hardly deny its usefulness now that he lacked good boots.

“I’d rather hoped to come across a helpful cobbler or peddler but that, mayhaps, was a tad optimistic.”

He leaned against the stone, exhaling a slow breath and taking a moment to drink in the scenery.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I expect it’ll be at the Alfather’s Cradle. But there’s an intersection in Shorweld that we can’t miss.”

Keirn’s leg began to shake impatiently. He tried to hold it steady so rest could last a little longer.

“That’s not it either.”

“For being the Unquenchable Scholar, you don’t really seem to know much.”

Keirn felt a cold tingle run down his spine. He frowned at the weak attempt at showmanship.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve had to do this.”

“If you’re looking to address any perceived concerns weighing my conscious, you’re about five years too late.”

Keirn’s leg dropped to the ground and tried to propel forward but he simply leaned back and kicked his feet into the air.

“I know you, Keirn of Gault. I have peered inside your mind and seen the doubts that fester in the darkest corners of your soul.”

“Oh? And they are?”

“Predominantly hunger.”

Keirn grinned. “And how does that make you feel?”

“It sickens me.”

Keirn’s body convulsed in protest and with a long sigh he finally slid of the rock. His feet were happy to return to the road, padding along the short grass. Keirn pulled the cloak tighter around him as he saw a small caravan rolling in the distance.

“But I have also seen your kin and colleagues. I know your straying thoughts. Even you must recognise this would be easier with them.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I never am.”

“You don’t know them,” Keirn said. “You know my perception of them. And that’s as flawed a judgment one can ever have.”

“Are you to say you don’t have a measured view of those closest to you?”

“They’re not here now, are they?” Keirn asked. His feet slowed as he turned his nose to the air. He closed his eyes, smelling scents invisible to all man. He craned his neck, looking over the shattered rock and clinging scrub. He bent to the ground, running a hand across the dirt. He couldn’t see it but it smelled as clear as a roasting hog.

He stepped from the path.

“So why are you?”

“You already know that answer,” Keirn said, tapping his temple. He needn’t travel far. The remains of the campfire were near suffocating in the air. He approach with such wary steps that he expected to find them still resting in their cots.

He rounded a small ridge of raised earth. It provided just enough cover from the road that a small party behind it could remain unseen. There wasn’t anything there. They had broken camp some time ago. But he could smell them. The heavy scent of sweat and alcohol lingered in the air and clung like a bad memory to the stones. As he sniffed, he caught more though. There was the hint of passion amongst the rock and he made a short circle of the overhang. With each step came a shift in odours and he leaned close, pressing the earthy aromas from his mind as he took in the rest.

A man and a woman had spent an intimate moment. But they were not the only lovers. That could serve his purpose should they meet. Sentimentality was always an easy wedge to drive between a group. Especially one that was clearly as clandestine as what he sensed here.

“But they have each other.”

“I am hardly alone,” Keirn said, adjusting his cloak. “I have you.”

“I’m touched.”

“And the Hound. And a half dozen others. Forgotten all and desperate for that which they barely recall. I know, oh Tattered King, how solitude can drive one mad. It can even turn a fearsome figure into… well… a dotting father.”

“Perhaps even a surrogate to one that was never had?”

Keirn laughed. “Feeble. I have no need for such misplaced sentiments.”

“You must have wondered. Even when your sister found hers.”

“The one thing you never understood was trust.” Keirn poked amongst the ashes of the camp. The cinders were long cooled. They likely left at daybreak. Only some charred bones of their meal remained. “And I trust my mother had good reason to never share the information.”

“I could learn it for you.”

“Ah, and now comes the bargaining? This is hardly my first dance at the ball and that shouldn’t surprise, Eventide Stranger, for very few attempt to look behind the pale mask anymore. Very few indeed.”

Keirn stood and turned towards the road.

“It must gnaw at you. Like worms.”

“Not especially.”

“Did you never once question why you stood out from others? Why you alone never felt like you belonged?”

“Terribly,” Keirn said. “Then I realised many felt that way. I can’t even be remarkable in my loneliness.”

“But yours was different.”

“Everyone’s is different.”

Unfortunately, he had forgotten his feet.

“Hold, traveller!”

Keirn kept walking until he was called again. Reluctantly he turned.

“How fare thee?”

“Adequately,” Keirn replied, still not meeting the driver with his eyes. He could hear the huskiness of the man’s voice. This was one of those weathered locals that had spent their entire life within a few safe, comfortable villages. He was one of those good, Aenir fearing men with a small home, unhappy wife and despondent children that wished to see the world but were instead locked into raising their own families a mere league or so away from where they were born.

His greatest trial was to keep food on the table and tend the crops as best he could during their growing season. He had seen his own hertig’s men but twice in his life. He always remembered how their metal had gleamed beneath their tunics and how he had filled with a sense of pride to see his hertig’s forces marching boldly through his village.

But more swam beneath those thoughts. Dark waters gathered even in the clearest ponds. But before Keirn could explore those, he shifted on his feet and turned to leave.

“Need you a lift, stranger? Don’t get many coming out this way so close to coming winter.”

“I shall manage,” Keirn replied, his legs twitching in protest to the thought of inactivity.

“Awful lot of road.”

“Wouldn’t wish to inconvenience.”

“It’s no bother.” The driver leaned in his seat. “Alfather’s mercy, where are your shoes?!”

Keirn tried to pull his cloak in the way. “I should really be going.”

“Now hold up…!”

Keirn hastened his steps as laughter rang in his ears. “It is useless.”

Keirn could hear the cart turning behind him. His heart beat and he could feel the muscles of his legs tighten. He had to consciously hold himself back and struggle against his body from entering full flight. He had no doubt that he could outrun the man in his waggon but leaving such a disturbance wasn’t his aim.

It was better to leave a story behind of a queer man with no shoes than one possessed.

He turned off the road, deftly scaling over the cracked land that the cart could not follow. Once he’d put good distance between him and the farmer, he found a patch of dirt to squat behind and wait for the man to give up.

“You could have dealt with him.”

Keirn frowned. “Not even once.”

“I’d be willing to indulge the Hound just this time.”

Keirn’s foot twitched. Obstinately, Keirn grabbed a fistful of dirt and shoved it in his mouth. His body shuddered in protest to the filth but he forced it down through sheer will. He was panting and sweating by the time he finished.

“How could you?!”

“Don’t forget who is in control here,” Keirn warned. “You are a guest and little else. Your time has passed.”

“This is why you have no friends,” the ground hissed.

“You would never be one,” Keirn replied. “Not that I’d expect you to understand the word anyway.”

“And you would?”

“I have friends.”

“While you fail to be one?”

“Yes,” Keirn said after a moment. “Perhaps you think I unwilling to acknowledge my flaws but I am a bare soul. There is nowhere for you to hide. It is why I won’t succumb like others before me. Go on with your whispers, they are nothing just like you.”

“Or you some day.”

“I have courted death long enough to know it does not want me,” Keirn said.

“Such hubris. If only you believed that.”

Keirn peeked from his cover. He did not see the waggon or its driver. He stood, brushing himself off as well as he could.

“Worrying over the Frozen Queen’s heralds is a futile past time. They will come when they are ready and no later. Even you with all your knowledge and sight do not know their passage. So what does that speak of your abilities… or obsession?”

Silence, for once, was Keirn’s companion and he relished it as he returned to the road. He knew, then, that darkness would be his friend. Its shadow would conceal him from eyes and ensure he wouldn’t have any further complications. He could rely on the Hound’s strength and easily cover the distance of his quarry in time that would make even the most wizened magus scratch his head. He needn’t worry so much about maintaining appearances or normalcy.

“It won’t work.” When he received no response, Keirn continued. “I know full well that my prudence keeps the chains in place. One measure restraint can reel in twice its value.”

Still he walked in silence.

“Now you’re being childish,” Keirn chided. But when he was denied a response, he shrugged. “Have it your way. My loneliness is self enforced. Yours is not. I can at any time seek her out and reconnect. I could scamper back for that idyllic life with a squat farmstead and my own little patch of dirt constantly interrupted by the simple prodding of tired neighbours. But when our pact ends you will have nothing but long waiting with the ever gnawing doubt that no other will make contact. I did not struggle with the rites due to difficulty. Contrary to your belief, some things can be truly lost.”

Petulance persisted. So Keirn continued on his way, whistling a merry tune while contemplating all the lovely meals that his sister could cook.

I suppose this is part of the “fun” for seeing a first draft. I’m not particularly happy with this section. Nor the next chapter. In fact, considering what I’ve written so far, I’d probably cut most of it and tie it into the story later. But since I’m the type of person who doesn’t plan out the structure of my stories, I don’t really know what works or not until I’ve done it and seen it in the grander scheme of things.

So what don’t I like about this? Well, for one, I feel it’s a bit too much of a tonal shift from what I’d like the story to cover. I’ve got to great lengths before about magic systems in fantasy work and I wanted to relay that in the D&D shorts that I write, magic does work slightly differently than a high fantasy setting. In particular, wizards (or sorcerers) are far less prominent due to the inherent difficulty of working magic. See the Balls story for an indication of the work required to pull of a spell.

However, I knew I wanted to have a magical element and this gave rise to binding subset of magic. It’s based on demonology from the Lesser Key of Solomon of Christian mysticism because, really, all fantasy works are explorations of ideas and thoughts from our past given new spins. I kind of like the whole bargaining imagery of medieval sorcery where mystics were required to enter pacts and negotiations with otherworldly beings in order to obtain their power. Course, for this to work, the mystic would need something to bargain in my world. While souls work for a Christian based mysticism, the flavouring for my D&D world has always been unapologetically Norse. Thus, the actual body and reliving of life for these otherworldly entities seemed more appropriate.

Unfortunately, the nature of these pacts is bit too edgy for my tastes and while communicating how much is required to even obtain this “shortcut” to using sorcery, it wasn’t really the direction I wanted to roll the story. So, if I were to clean this up, I’m sure this entire portion would be hacked. Also, it does have a lot of passive voice which was done to keep the piece feeling mysterious but I’m sure it just comes across as annoying more than anything else.

But that’s the thing with writing. Sometimes you’ll just write whole sections that you need to ultimately sever for the good of the piece as a whole. It’ll be maintained here for posterity I suppose.

Nativity by Albrecht Altdorfer (1513).

He made for the stables. The horses were gone, naturally. The door hung loose on its rusty hinge. The heat wafting from its interior hinted at the bodies it once stored. He pulled the door wider, stepping into the dung and sweat choked shedding. The stones were still cold to his steps but they were a relief from the frigid ground outside. He proceeded past each stall. His steed was gone, naturally. Only the keeper’s old mare remained.

Keirn had a mind to take it.

“But you won’t.”

“I’m better than them.”

“You’re truly not.”

“I’m smarter than them.”

“That’s more likely.”

The creature stirred at his approach. She raised her head, nostrils flaring. Her large, almond eyes fell on him. For a moment, they were still like a rustic portrait for decorating the mantel.

Her nostrils flared again and she cried. Her hooves stamped the ground and she retreated from her door. Her rump butted against the wall as her head snapped in her building frenzy.

“She knows.”

He raised a hand and the horse kicked the stable wall. “They always do.”

“She’s lame.”

“You weren’t riding her anyway.”

The was a reason his steed was blind. He wondered how far the thieves would get before they made that realisation.

Fully in her stall now, Keirn closed the door behind him. He stared at her, placid, while the beast nearly threw herself through the wall to get away from him. It would make quite the sight. There, the tall, lanky man in garb that draped loose and heavy over his buckled shoulders and stooped form while she, the formidable animal more than twice his gaunt size, near injured herself to keep as much space from him as physically possible in the stall that could nary accommodate the pair.

It probably would have been comical had it not occurred in the stretching dark before daybreak. Or had his worn clothes and pale flesh not given him the horrible aspect of a Pale Herald come to collect the frigid queen her charges. It was always the same in these northern settlements. The icon of death was one of endless winter.

It was a fate that didn’t terrify Keirn. He’d never cared much for summer.

With methodical precision, he removed his hood. A thinning crop of dusky walnut hair clung to his scalp. He pulled the strap through the buckle, removing his belt and leaving it to clatter against the floor. His shoulders twisted like tight knots beneath his skin as he shucked his shirt and folded it neatly on the ground. In the dim lighting, steam rose from his bare flesh to give the skin stretched over taut muscles a truly spectral quality. Here the pink of the cuts and scars glowed with their own life. Lines crossed his trunk in chaotic patterns. A whole history of pain was charted in the flesh but the destination it mapped was unreadable to most.

And those who could identify the markings beneath the wounds would have recoiled from the sight and fled the small stable.

The mare was not afforded such mercy.

His trousers and loincloth joined the last of his belongings on the ground. For a moment he stared at the animal in his nakedness. The vaguely human form beneath all the wounds afforded the creature a fleeting sense of familiarity and she paused at this miraculous transformation.

In that moment of vulnerability he approached.

“What are you doing?”

The stables shook with the impact of the mare’s body. Her cries were deafening as she thrashed. Her hooves raised, kicking the air before her. But she dared not touch him. She dared not bring a limb against the thing that now stood with her blood crawling down its long fingers. She would not be aware of the wound on her flank. All she would know was the pain and fear.

And his nose widened to drink it in.

“Stop! You can’t do it!”

The man hunched over. His spine jutted grotesquely as though it would pop right from his body. He kept his sanguine hand in the air, the warm blood rolling down his forearm and dripping in thick drops from the crooked elbow. With his other arm, he brushed a patch of the floor clean of the hay and horse manure.

“You’ve made your contract!”

A red finger extended and scratched across the boards.

“You promised me!”

Slowly the symbols took wretched shape. They were twisted things completely alien to the runes in common use by the holy Gothi. They bore no semblance to the learned letters of the scholars in their secluded towers. They weren’t even the queer symbols of the secretive Oathstealers or even the coded language of the Forbearers from Kiga though none this far north would have heard of that latter group.

No, these perverted things were far more profane. Such were their loathsome curves that the mere sight of them caused the mare to shake before collapsing. She sprawled upon the ground, convulsing as he worked, pausing long enough to gently remove her leg from his circle.

“I shall not be denied!”

His flesh flared. He gritted teeth into lips, drawing his own ichor from darkly blue veins that pumped slow beneath his prickling skin. He pressed on, ignoring the brightening of his flesh. Beneath the curled lips of age old scars glimmered lines and shapes horrifyingly similar to those scratching themselves upon the floor.

Only once did he need to dabble in the mare’s fresh wound to complete his work but when he was finished, he stood. He panted short bursts of icy breath. His skin sweated despite the cold. But even the mare had grown silent now, her sides rising in the shallowest of breaths.

Feeble was the reply to the sight of the thing drawn on the floor. “The Hounds-master is gone.”

“But yet the Hound still bays.”

He stepped into the centre of the thing on the floor. He peered around uselessly for an implement. Drawing up short, he drew his cracked fingers to his chest. The nails turned inward, digging deep into the frail skin. He pulled across. Red ridges charted the path. It was hard work as the old scars were the most unyielding but finding flesh unmarred was near a treasure on its own. With enough of his own blood mixing with the mare’s, he held up a hand and squeezed what drops he could upon that most obscene construct.

“Be still,” Keirn said, cracking a grin amongst that macabre scene. “You will not be upset from your post.”

“You don’t mean-“

The mare jolted at the howl which shook the very shingles of the roof. The creature stirred itself to consciousness amongst that otherworldly sound. She knew it as surely as any creature knew the sound of a predator on the hunt. It was the sound of impending finality. It was the sound of inevitability.

The stables shuddered upon their flimsy holdings. It was as though some unseen giant were attempting to wrestle the structure from its foundation. The mare stared wide-eyed at that which could not be there. She was paralysed by a grip far stronger than simple fear. Only instinct could make sense of the shadows that twisted in the corners of her stall. Only that primal spark could prickle at the presence which arrived unannounced and not through any door or window. But it was assuredly there just as much as that dreadful howl that clawed at the boards.

“You can’t bear two. It’s never been done?”

“Perhaps there is knowledge beyond even your ken,” Keirn said. “After all, yours has been a long exile.”

He smirked as he looked upon that bloody swathe across the floor. His pupils enlarged at the sight of the etchings that now bubbled and boiled. The howling grew louder, if such a thing were possible. In the gloom of the stables, the man nearly glowed with abyssal light.

And in that light, the mare could see another. It was as though it were transposed over the hunched form of the naked man with the maniac grin. There was something of tattered robes and a dented crown that took shape as though it and the man were in the same spot. The darkness seemed repulsed by this intruder, peeling from its faded glory and the crumbling tome clutched achingly in one hand. But for all its fearful fleetingness, this other recoiled at the scrawled iconography. It drew within itself, shrinking far smaller than that scarred man it had once towered. And, nipping at its tatters were hundreds of thousands of sharp teeth.

Heavy was the smell of carrion that welled from the stall, washing like a fetid wave over the only two living things in its midst. The man’s smile faltered as he turned, retching a meagre stream of bile upon the hay. Amongst his wracking coughs, sounds emerged but they were not the tongue of man. He raised a puffy and swollen wrist to wipe his mouth. When he turned, his eyes were not his own.

Bright and yellow were they. He raised his nose to the air, nostrils flaring. In that whiff, he smelled it all. He could smell the fear of the mare. He could smell the stench of her unkempt stall. He could even smell the growing tangle of rotted cells in her lungs that would claim her fading health.

Even more impossible was the seeming change to the man’s body. He seemed less pale. His skin was somehow less sickly. A more healthy red flush returned to his body and even his frame was a little fuller. It was as though he had turned and slipped on a mask but one that covered his whole body. The twist of muscles were grander, set like springs ready to uncoil. There was a frightfully muzzled energy to him now, tinged as it were by that old worn and faded skein that wrapped him prior. Even the hair on his head was thicker and the sprigs along his arms and legs were darker and longer.

He turned, stumbling from the stall. But he made hardly a few feet before stopping.

“Aren’t you… forgetting something…”

He turned, reaching for his clothes. His eyes fell upon the mare’s and a dreadful hunger filled them. His lips peeled back to reveal savage canines.

“No! I… forbid it!”

Nails scratched against the wood, leaving long and deep gouges. But at last the Hound was reined and the man turned, stumbling out of the stable into the cold morning.

Here’s a first for me. I’ve only recently been aware of how little writing I actually put up on what’s ostensibly a writing blog. Je m’excuse. Also, after our spate of related technological and logistical issues I don’t really have anything super special to publish.

Tavern Interior by Cornelis Bega (1631-1664).

“The site lies approximately fourteen days travel hence across the Thorselkin Hinterlands and nestled in the Alfather’s Cradle – a stretch of foothills beneath the Twin Pike Mountains and the traditional hunting grounds of the Walden Sabreclaws. These ferocious critters are nearly the size of two full grown men and capable of splitting a thick cord of wood in half with just one swipe.”

His hand slashed the air, dirty nails catching flickering candlelight in their cracked and stained shell. One such nail landed upon the crinkled and faded map filled with jutting trees shaped more like spears beneath a mountain range as jagged and sharp as the maw of a Low River wingless drake.

“Some of the hills are said to not be mere dirt but ancient burial mounds. Beneath the thin soil jut the remnants of some bygone settlement. Travellers speak of riches lying a mere spoon’s worth of earth beneath one’s foot. Who these ancient people are none can agree. I’ve heard talk that they are lost Pitmen, their cyclopean monoliths and gaping cavern entrances to underground dwellings left untouched for generations. Others swear that it’s the site of the mythical Alfr and the last of the Vaenir’s kinsmen. So ancient are these forgotten hallways that the very land itself has wrapped them in an eternal blanket to shelter them from the ever vigilant eyes of the vengeful Aenir.

“Then there is talk that it is the Forbidden Trelleborg of the High King hidden away near the teeth of the world and the final resting place of the Virgil King’s spirit until the Final Days whence he will rise to strike down the Sunderer of Worlds in the War of Wars.

“Either way, it’s supposed to be really old, really untouched and really ready for some adventuresome spirits to come and plunder. What say you? Are you such a spirit who wishes to hear the bards and skald sing your name in the greatest feast halls until the final nights? Shall you grab fate and fortune by the neck and seize upon your destiny? Will you dare to achieve that from which all others balk? Will you turn the fanciest dreams into the greatest realities?

“What say you?”

Silence greeted him. He looked at each soul gathered about the edges of the round table as shadows played across their faces. He seized upon each in turn, searching for a response to his proposition.

With a crack of ambergum, one spoke.

“Aren’t you a little old for this?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, the whole travel two weeks bit. Digging in the ground bit. Fighting wild creatures bit. Hauling supposed treasure bit. Really, all of it. Isn’t it a little… you know.”

“No.” Teeth ground audibly. “No, I don’t think I am.”

“You sure? You kind of look it.”

His shadow drew long across the table as he stood erect. The others appeared unperturbed.

“You do have a bit of gray up there,” another spoke, raising a hand to her own hair.

“I am more than capable. Look, do any of you want to get filthy rich or not?”

“It kind of sounds like the ramblings of a crazy old man if you ask me.”

“Lors has the right of it,” a third spoke, reaching across to pull the daggers pinning the corners of the map free. “You’d probably have difficulty with the trek. Or break something while there. Like a hip.”

“I can assure you my hips are just fine.” A hand crashed down on the table, preventing the map from being rolled. “I’ve made worse treks than this and in less time. The fourteen nights was to not exhaust you before the real work began.”

“Are you certain? Or do you mostly need us to carry your prune juice?” Her hand plucked the plain wood cup from the table’s edge and gave the liquid on its bottom a gentle slosh.

Dark eyes fluttered amongst the cowls at the edge of the candlelight. This wasn’t a pleading look now but one of cold calculation.

“You’re making a mistake,” came the low growl.

From cloaks emerged the leather garbed hands to wrench his arm from the table. He was pulled back into the shadows, his spine striking hard the central post. He strained against his captors while frayed rope wound around his wrist.

“You’re washed up, old man. You’re outdated. You’re just as much a relic as those you wish to retrieve.” The rolled up map was waved in the candle’s fading glow. “Search him.”

One of their number moved to check his pockets. He pried an arm free, striking knuckle against unsuspecting cheek. Boots stumbled upon the stained wood. A fist greeted his stomach, freeing the wind from his lungs. As he hunched beneath the blow, his arms were wrestled behind the pole. A rope bound them tightly together.

He lashed with knee and boot but several more strikes to his ribs quelled further resistance. Gloves patted down shirt and pant alike while removing a thin leather purse from his belt and two worn but tarnished rings from his fingers. A blunted dagger was also liberated and held up as spoils before the flickering light.

“You will rue this decision.”

Laughter assaulted him.

“Go home, grandpa. Leave the adventures to those capable of them. This rusty junk won’t even fetch a few copper scrapes on the market. Best take his boots too. They look like they have good soles.”

One conspirator turned to the other. “You’re already forgotten to us. What was his name again?”

She said, “Keirn. I think.”

“Fare-thee-well Keirn, I think.”

The lantern was retrieved and only the haunting echo of their laughter stayed for company as the darkness filled in their wake.

Keirn sighed against the post.

Was this to be his morrow? To be found by the tavern keeper bound to his hearth post by cheap rope with not even a copper shave to his name?

“I’m not that old. Am I?”

The question hung about the dark rafters and rattled in the empty fire pit. It kicked about the overturned chairs resting on tables. It hounded the faded footsteps of the brigands and his dearly departed footwear.

When last it bounded back it was with a dry, chthonic chortle. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Who asked you anyway?”

“You’re still a mere mewling babe to me.” The earthy chuckle skittered in the dark. “Not half as cute as one though.”

Keirn thumped his head against the wood with a grimace. His arms worked in pained revolutions, turning muscles too sore and protesting to properly slip his bonds.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

“You still went through with it.”

“What choice had I?” Keirn hissed. His wrist skinned against the coarse fibres. “I alone can only handle one cart.”

“At best.”

“Considering rations for the trip there and back, not accounting the actual excavation, plus tools, tent and supplies – most of which would be needed for the return – I would hardly have any room for transporting a profit in relics. I need two extra carts for a good return in the investment at a bare minimum. And the fewer hands I have at the site, the longer I must invest in renting said supplies.”

“If only you had three dependable souls.”

“Quiet yourself.”

Keirn cried as he twisted his wrist. He heard a distinct pop as joint slipped from proper alignment. The familiar streaks of pain tickled his arm as he twisted to gauge the damage. Darkness clutched his eyes so only a faint outline of a limb was perceptible against its atramental backdrop. Even with such hindrances the unnatural angle of hand to forearm made distinct the separation between the pair. Such damage should have produced a crippling pain to all but the most shock drunk victims. But even still, he felt little more than the slight sparking beneath his flesh.

With a sickening grind of bone and muscle, he wrenched his hand free. Absolved of half its duty, the rope fell limp against his remaining wrist and Keirn stumbled from the post and slumped against the round table. His skin brushed against the wood’s fresh splinters from the many traitorous points of his departed knives. At last elbow tapped against wooden vessel and with his good hand he lifted the cup.

His nostrils flared at the smell.

“It has great restorative properties.”

“You needn’t tell me.”

“Helps keep a healthy lustre to the skin,” Keirn said before shutting his eyes and letting the thick liquid wash down his throat. He then immediately raised the cup in the dark and blindly pounded it against his raised wrist. Each strike stoked a rising fire within his flesh and his heart beat a terrible rhythm while he chewed on his voice. After several violent swings, he finally felt a cracking of realignment and he raised his limb before his unseeing eyes and turned it on the weathered tendons.

He dabbed at the skin. It felt puffy and bloated. But the swelling would certainly be down by the time the sun dared peek the horizon.

“You wouldn’t need such drastic measures if you treated yourself better.”

“It’s not my fault good help is hard to find these days.”

“I meant the drink. I half suspect you do this to torture me.”

“You wished to live again.”

“You needn’t try and make me regret that desire. I bear enough of your pain.”

“I know you relish it,” Keirn said, rolling up his shirt. He prodded at the tender spots no doubt sporting rather garish bruising. His skin was a canvas of horror etched as it were with scars, cuts and contusions. It was more than any corpse would carry on its thin frame. Keirn tucked in his shirt and adjusted his cloak.

He made no effort to navigate the gloom on his way out. Several stubbed toes and banged knees later and he eased the door into the dying twilight.

The air was cold and tinged with regret. It clawed against his bare feet and Keirn wiggled his toes attempting to ward it off. The steps nipped his skin as he stepped down unto the unyielding ground. He searched the abandoned road but no signs of opportunistic turncoats betrayed their path. Only deep gouges of departed carts carved their way through the frozen mud leaving mighty furrows which tripped at the traveller’s steps.

“You know where they are headed.”

“Assuming they decide to act immediately.”

“They will.”

“You say that with certainty.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Keirn did not reply. “They left you alive. They will go in comfortable haste.”

Keirn sucked on the bitter air. It scratched his throat as it scraped its way down to his lungs. He exhaled a long breath. The fog of chill air was a bundle of tiny needles as it climbed his pinking face.

It was as much as he had deduced. It had been hard enough cajoling a group to entertain him in the first place. They were invested enough to investigate his claim. Those that had no interest – those not full of deceit – had already laughed him off. That they had not slain and dumped him suggested they were as inexperienced as they were young. He had hoped to harness that youthful energy.

He had not accounted for youthful foolishness.