The Heart of the Thief: The Aerodactyl

Previous Chapter: The Forming of a Company


The Aerodactyl
Silas Amaro stood at the prow of the Aerodactyl and surveyed the quiet ocean blue that surrounded him. The vast emptiness of the water gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach, as though such emptiness were but a veil hiding something huge and horrible that could emerge from the depths at any moment to drag them down into nothingness. Having lived his life in the city, he had an innate fear of wide, open spaces. The last time he’d been on a ship, it had been during the brief conflict with Galvania, and the sea then had been full of hundreds of vessels, but he’d still felt the feeling he had now, that deep distrust of the rolling waves that lapped against the ship like the tremors of a monster stirring from slumber. Like a monster, you couldn’t reason with it, you couldn’t fight it, you simply were either destroyed or spared. If the sea wished to swallow them at that moment, then there was nothing that could be done. It was an inexorable force, one that rendered all things powerless. The sea was like death in all the ways that mattered.
    He had dealt with death all his life, and although he was familiar with it daily, it still occupied his thoughts to the extent that he saw it in all things. He saw it on the face of the baker who was one hand short because he’d lost a son to the pox. He saw it in the awkward gaits of the alley urchins abandoned by their parents who had either succumbed to debt, drink, or disease. It was on the tongue of the man who had tried to steal from him as he had made his way to the harbor with a platoon of warriors. Curses had flown from the thief’s lips after Silas had had him beaten and left in the street writhing in agony. “May you die like a dog,” he’d shouted, and though his back had remained turned, Silas heard him. Sometimes he felt as though he was death’s harbinger, a role he’d never desired. Indeed, he took no pride in the number of men he’d maimed or killed over the years. He was pragmatic about it—to live was to experience death; to fear it, to despise it, to accept it, to yearn for it. That was why he stood on the prow of the Aerodactyl instead of cowering in the hold with a bucket in between his legs.
    He couldn’t stay in the hold anyway, not with that wizard prowling about, muttering gibberish and staring at corners as though he saw things moving in the shadows. The second day at sea he had asked Firenze if Dazbog was insane. The assassin had thought about the question for much longer than Silas liked before answering in the negative. “At least, not entirely,” he’d added a second later. The thought had occurred to him that it could all be an act designed to drive away anyone who lingered—the man certainly desired his privacy, though Silas sent Firenze to question him from time to time, a task which the man clearly did not relish, for Dazbog was rude and dismissive, considering the mercenary to be beneath him.
    “No sign of the thieves,” said a voice behind him. It was Firenze.
    “They have at least a week on us, and who knows what sort of vessel they possess,” responded Silas, continuing to stare at the waters.
    “Barbarian raiders are common in this area, says the captain. Perhaps they found our mysterious sorceress.”
    “Bad luck for them if they did. Tell me, has Dazbog formed any theories as to what she wants with the Heart?” asked Silas.
    “If he has, he does not share them. He becomes more abrasive by the day, I swear. He lets me into his quarters only after lengthy protests. Strange mushrooms blossom on the floorboards while shadows move from corner to corner, searching for dark space. It smells of death in there. The crew says we have no rats because Dazbog sucks their blood,” said Firenze, his voice having only a trace of its usual sarcasm.
    “Is it true?” asked Silas, turning towards him.
    “Perhaps. I don’t know. He is a necromancer. Nothing he has done is out of the ordinary for one such as him.”
    “Do we have control?” asked Silas.
    Firenze said nothing, but his silence spoke enough. Silas wanted a drink right then badly, so he left the prow and retreated to his cabin, Firenze in tow. His quarters were spacious, as far as ships went, and he sat at the table and uncorked a bottle of Zanj rum that had been given to him by the captain. Silas took a swig from the bottle and shook his head as the liquid burned down his throat. “Want some?” he asked, offering the bottle to the assassin, who shook his head.
    “It doesn’t agree with me,” said Firenze.
    “I’ve seen you drunk as a skunk on back alley swill, yet you won’t drink rum. I was nine years old when I had my first drink. There was a bar on Hyde Street called the Angry Bear where I used to clean tables for a penny an hour. One of my jobs was to collect all the dirty tankards and pour any leavings into a barrel under the bar marked “backwash.” Old Weaver didn’t charge as much for a pint of backwash. I got fired for drinking beer off the table. Miserly son of a bitch, old Weaver was.”
    “Cheap bastard,” said Firenze.
    “Of course he was. I just remember those days whenever I sip fine rum such as this,” explained Silas.
    “It tastes sweeter,” said Firenze.
    “I think it tastes sweeter. Perception is what we are discussing, I believe. Because of my memory of drinking low quality alcohol, I imagine the good stuff to taste sweeter than it would had I not that memory. However, as I just admitted earlier, I cannot drink rum without remembering drinking backwash, so how do I know the rum really tastes sweeter? Furthermore, taste is but an aspect of perception, and like all aspects of perception it is impossible to come to a universal consensus regarding its interpretation in many instances. For example, we both take a shot from the same bottle of rum, yet I claim the drink is bitter while you say it is sweet. Who is right? Whose opinion do we trust? Can we really define how the rum tastes? One man cannot share another’s perception without becoming that man, and I am not aware of any such magic existing that would facilitate such a process.” Silas paused and stared down at his feet. “Dazbog might answer our question. It is the sort of query that he enjoys.”
    “Is so, he is full of shit,” said Firenze. “Why waste your time thinking of such trivial matters?”
    “Speak to me like that again, and I shall have your tongue ripped out,” said Silas. “Practical men are needed now, yet bullshitters have their uses. Let us see our man. It has been a while since I spoke with him.”
    The two men left the cabin and ventured below deck to the hold, passing two Medjay who stood at the bottom of the stairs, their forms ridged as statues, faces expressionless as death masks. Silas ignored them as his mentor had instructed, an old Durn named Imul who had served so long at court that he’d outlived three Dukes before a fit of madness caused his death. Medjay, the old Durn had informed him, were not individuals and did not warrant treatment as such, and any attempts to relate to them as fellow human beings would undermine their very purpose. “They are tools, not people,” Imul had said, “mutated to be little more than husks; soulless, without desire, unflappable. You’ll never lose one to drink or a bribe, and you’ll never find one wandering the streets, searching for women. From the start of their training they are forced to divide themselves into two entities, one pure and egoless, a vessel for the desires of the Duke, and another to serve as a depository for their selves. Over time, that depository is eliminated, leaving only the tool for us to wield.” Though he had passed over a decade ago, Imul lived on in Silas’s head, giving advice in his gravelly drawl. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to say regarding the theft of the Heart, perhaps because the occurrence of such an unthinkable thing had finally driven him to speechlessness.
    They ducked under a low beam and came upon a thick black curtain drawn across the length of the hold, its density being such that it looked as though the curtain was made of obsidian. “Interesting,” murmured Firenze, stopping before the veil and slowly extending a hand. As his fingers reached the darkness, they were enveloped and disappeared. “Cold,” said the assassin, pulling his hand from the curtain. “As I said, he values his privacy.”
    “I’m putting a stop to this,” growled Silas. “We will not let this devilry take over the ship.” Without hesitation, he went through the curtain, yet instead of a ship’s hold, he found himself in a cave.

  
Gone was the sound of the waves and the rocking motion beneath his feet; there was no smell of salt, only the damp, wet odor of mold. Water dripped somewhere in the depths. He heard the faint echo of bare feet slapping against moist stone, the steps slow, inconsistent, barely perceptible. Only a few feet in front of him was visible, the pale illumination outlining a patch of stalagmites resembling the worn teeth of a dead giant. Stranger said a voice, directionless, seemingly coming from his mind. Stranger. Thing. Interloper. Uninvited. From behind the stalagmites he saw it emerge, an alabaster creature, its skin like the dead flesh of a fish. Where. Where. Stranger. A meatless hand clutched his leg, sending cold through his body, freezing his tongue, leaving ice on his lips. He heard a command uttered in Firenze’s voice, and suddenly the image of the cave wavered, the creature and the stalagmites flickering in and out of existence, until the whole scene vanished, replaced by a dark ship’s hold and the craggy, unsmiling visage of Dazbog.
    “How can I be of service, Amaro?” muttered the wizard, glaring with saggy eyes. “I hope it is a matter of importance, seeing how you have interrupted my work.”
    Silas looked down at his leg, expecting to see the creature’s hand still fastened around his limb.
    “What is wrong, Amaro? Do you not participate in the court magicians’ spells? Have you never seen an illusion?” taunted the necromancer.
    Silas had, of course, witnessed illusions and fanciful spells performed during festivals and celebratory functions, usually consisting of mythical creatures or scenes enacted in artificial colors designed to impress and startle the audience. The cave had been no illusion; he had been there, he was sure of it. His leg still ached with coldness, and the smell of the place hung in his nostrils like the reek of carrion.
    “What are you doing down here? The crew has become alarmed and claim you are eating rats and conjuring demons. Let me remind you that this ship is chartered under the Duke’s authority, and he is your master to whom you shall answer. Many evil things must be done for the good of the state, yet I would have you refrain from practicing the black arts unless asked to do so, for the good of morale as well as the preservation of our sovereign’s name,” stated Silas, a scowl forming on his hard face.
    “What is a name?” snapped the wizard. “A name is a word, a word with variable meaning. Say the Duke’s name to a Galvanian, and he will tell you how little it means. Say it to the Capetian Captain of the Guard, and he will give you a dissertation on honor and responsibility. The Duke’s name means nothing. It is just a trigger for nationalistic feelings of loyalty in either case, and this is due to the nature of his office rather than any doings of the individual. There is no ideal to sully, Amaro. We travel beneath the banner of meaninglessness.”
    “You avoid an explanation by launching into one of your nihilistic digressions. You wizards are full of shit,” responded Silas.
    “I am not the one whose world is built on illusions,” said Dazbog. “I recognized the fallacy of belief. People like you need Dukes and Gods and the concepts they supposedly represent. When you passed through the veil, the cave was real to you, was it not? The nameless things that moved in it seemed real, as did their icy touch. There are some among my number who can materialize objects from nothingness. These objects feel as real as any other—they may vanish in a minute or disintegrate after a thousand years.  What does this tell us about the nature of our reality? If reality can be manipulated in such a manner, we are without a foundation. If the immaterial can become substantial, did the material world ever have any substance? And yet you shake your head and tell me I am insane. I am what I am, Amaro: a rational creature drowning in a sea of ignorance.”
    “All of this stops,” said Silas. “The illusions. The rumors. Your obtuse excuses. I want results, wizard, or I shall toss you in the sea.”
    “Your captain plots his course using my information. Do you doubt my ability?” He took out a jade stone and put it before Silas’s nose. “I cannot, unfortunately, make this vessel travel any faster. I cannot open a portal and pull the courtesan and the troubadour through to toss at your feet. There are limits to my powers, yet rest assured that without out my wizardry, you will never find the Heart of Rankar.”
    Silas quickly snatched the jade stone out of Dazbog’s hands and tossed it to Firenze.
    “Can you guide us with that totem?” he asked.
    “Perhaps,” said the mercenary, though he looked uncertain.
    “He is a good killer, that is true, but a poor excuse for a magician,” said Dazbog. “You cannot trust him to ensnare a sorceress with his feeble abilities.”
    “I’d be willing to risk disappointment. I don’t like the way you boss us around and act as though this is your ship and you are running the operation. You’re hired help, necromancer. Start acting like it. Or I’ll dispose of you in a way that is fitting.”
    Dazbog shrugged, turned away from Silas and picked up a vial full of red liquid from a small table he'd thrown against the hold wall. He held the vial to his nose, shook his head, and put it back down, one hand stroking his beard, as though any further conversation with his company would only be a bother to him. Silas's nails dug into his palms, but he mastered his temper enough to make good on his threat.
    “Firenze,” said quietly. “Call the Medjay and tell them to fetch a weight and some rope.”
    “What does my death accomplish besides giving you satisfaction?” asked Dazbog, still busying himself with objects on his table. “It will be yet another life on your long list of lives taken. Who is at the top of that list, Amaro? Old Imul? Now that death accomplished something for you. The head of the Secret Service attempting to strangle the Duke, only to be saved by a lesser guardsman, who dutifully plunged his sword into his superior's heart in service to his country. One of the great poets couldn't have written a better romance. Let me ask you something, Amaro: Why did your predecessor try to strangle the Duke when he could have decapitated him with one swing of his sword? If he was intent on killing the man by suffocation, why did he not sneak into the Duke's bedchamber at night instead of attacking him at court in front of all? What did your investigation uncover? Oh yes; you concluded that a fit of madness seized old Imul, who had served three Dukes with not so much as a reprimand until you took his life. And why did you take that life, Amaro, when you could have easily torn Imul from the Duke and preserved him for questioning? Did you not want the Inquisitors to hear his answers? Perhaps he was pressured into attacking the Duke by forces desiring to replace him. Perhaps someone he trusted threatened someone he cared for, for even an old warhorse like Imul loved. In fact, it was said that he loved in ways not condoned by the Priesthood as well as Capetian law. Durn is a faraway land with many strange customs. They do not have the prejudices that we do. Are you aware of that, my lord?”
    “You speak nonsense,” said Silas, though he had turned pale.
    “I'm not the only one who has figured it out, I assure you. There are others who have amassed evidence, who are waiting only for you to lose favor with the Duke before bringing the charges. But I don't want to see a proud man brought down like old Imul. I know their names. I know where they can be found and what their vices are. Don't ask how I know these things; it is my art to know. This information can be yours at the end of our journey. Or you can throw me into the sea.”
    Silas said nothing. Firenze did not call the Medjay to come forth but stared at his superior.
    “You must think long-term rather than sacrifice wisdom for profit. Now, if that will be all, I have some experiments I must conduct in order to further our goal. Please leave the stone on the table before you go. I wish you a good day.”
    Were it not for the appearance of the ship's captain, Silas knew he would have killed Dazbog—he was already moving towards the wizard, his hands clenched—but the seaman's piercing voice broke his rage and redirected his attention.
    “My lord, we have spotted barbarian raiders. We can take evasive actions and avoid them, which I would recommend. They can be skilled fighters, though they tend to concentrate their attention on weaker, unarmed vessels.”
    “Hail them,” responded Silas, forcing himself to walk away from Dazbog, pushing his insolence out of his mind. As he climbed the stairs, he felt Firenze's stare, sensed the questions he wanted to ask but wouldn't dare. Amaro, is it true? Did you resort to blackmail like a common lowlife? They didn't understand that Imul had already picked his successor, an agent named Thenias, who was comely yet terribly unsuited for the position. The Durn's wits had degenerated so much that he began thinking with his dick and not his head. Rewarding sycophants instead of recognizing ability was a sign of weakness, and the Duke had many enemies skilled in probing their defenses. So he had taken the initiative before someone else had. You could even say that he did it out of love for his sovereign, for the good of the country. Despite Dazbog's threats, nothing could be proven, for those that had mattered so much to the Durn had been placed on a ship and taken to a land across the ocean from whence they would never return. Yet how had the necromancer known? Magic. Perhaps sorcerers could uncover the truth with their spells; he did not know what they did, but the more he learned, the more he feared them. They should all be destroyed. If he was able to return the Heart without incident, he would look in to arranging an investigation of freelancers such as Dazbog.
    On deck, he watched as barbarian karvi approached, beckoned by their flag. It took only a short while for the men to row alongside the Aerodactyl; they were tall, muscular, lean men, of a hard consistency, their skin covered in scarred lacerations, eyes peering out from beneath jutting brows, distant, cold, and mean. Their leader, a tall man with a scowling disposition, climbed aboard and presented himself to Silas, picking him out from his fellows as the man of authority.

 “Coriver,” said the man, pointing to himself. “What are you carrying?”
    “A contingent of heavily-armed Medjay and a powerful wizard,” replied Silas. “I know how raiders operate. Let me relieve you of any notions you have regarding commandeering this vessel.”
     The barbarian smiled a ragged grin and presented his empty hands. He looked back at his companions and shook his head.
    “We did not think we'd be so lucky as to encounter a ship like this and find it poorly defended,” admitted Coriver. “But we had to see for ourselves. Why do you hail us?”
    “We are looking for a woman, a witch, and a tall, dark man with a scarred face. They would have sailed this way about a week ago. Did you happen to come across their ship?”
    Silas had not realized at first how badly Coriver’s face was marred. The scar tissue was fresh, white, and raised, sitting on the man’s visage like a spider. I bet that hurt like hell he thought.
    “Would you pay money for this witch?” asked Coriver, staring at Silas with a nonchalant expression, as though the answer to his question was irrelevant.
    “Two-hundred sovereigns. Alive. The same for her companion.”
    The barbarian shrugged and then began to unbutton his shirt. His entire chest was as deformed as his face. He gestured at the damaged skin as though beckoning an audience to appreciate a work of art.
    “My tribe took a Northron steamship a week ago. It was badly damaged in the battle, and though we surprised the crewmen, we were nearly destroyed by a witch. We bound her, took her to our village, and put her before the flames. We had intended to hang her on the ancient oak, for we loathe witches, considering them unnatural and an affront to Prax, but she escaped due to the treachery of one of my own. Her sorcery did this to my flesh. She also killed our totem, and now Prax speaks to us no longer. Two-hundred sovereigns is not enough for one of her ilk.”
    “Where did she go?” asked Silas
    “Into the Mawlden Forest? It is a vast expanse, and beyond it lies the Wotan Veldt, a savannah inhabited by beasts and specters. If she went that way, I would not follow her. If she hugged the coast, we have not seen her, which we count as a blessing. Our luck has failed since the witch escaped. The steamship that we took from the Northrons sunk not far from here, for unknown reasons, and many of my people remain lost. The rifles that we won have exploded in our hands; none among us is not covered in scars. She must have put a curse on us, one that we cannot shake.”
    Silas considered telling Coriver that Northron technology was designed to self-destruct if fallen into the wrong hands, but he decided that would ruin the barbarian’s woeful narrative.
     “Perhaps you could take us to your village so that we may pick up the witch’s trail,” suggested Firenze.
    “No,” said Coriver, putting his hands on his belt. His arms were long and sinewy, covered in red, curly hair. The pommel of his short sword looked as smooth as a river-worn stone.
    “Very well. Go back to your ship, barbarian. If you find the witch, search us out. We are heading east and plan on hugging the coast. Farewell,” said Silas.
    Coriver did not answer but turned his back on the Silas and Firenze and hopped down to his karve and bade his rowers to start rowing. Soon the sleek ship had put considerable distance between itself and the Aerodactyl. As the sun set over the horizon, bathing the ocean waters crimson and purple, the tiny outline of the karve could just barely be seen, an insect hovering over the churning waters.
    “You did not think it wise to inspect the village?” asked Firenze, staring out at the sea.
    “It was not worth the bloodshed. That man was quick to draw arms. Someone would have died.”
    “The Medjay surely could have disposed of them…”
    “We cannot afford to lost time traipsing through the Mawlden Forest. We have no alternative but to trust the wizard despite his insubordination and eccentricity. And Firenze, about what Dazbog said…”
     “He is a liar and a manipulator.”
    “It's true. All of it,” said Silas. “Don't forget any of it.”
    Silas turned and left for his quarters, leaving the mercenary alone on the deck, his mouth agape.

Next Chapter: On the Road

The Heart of the Thief: The Forming of a Company

Previous Chapter: The Aiv and the Thief

The Forming of a Company
The will-o’-wisp glided through the Mawlden Forest, leading them through briar and bramble, its faint illumination painting the woods a ghastly emerald. Josun had little experience with magic, for mages were rarely passengers in vessels taken by the Roslagen, and other than an alchemist he’d chanced upon during a raid of the northern forest, he’d never met a magic user besides Cassilda. The alchemist had been old and frail, with a face covered in pox scars, and he had tried to mumble a curse before Josun struck him down. He had not been beautiful and lithe like the sorceress, nor had he been capable, Josun suspected, of any substantial magic. He certainly couldn’t have produced anything like the will-o’-wisp, which bobbed and weaved around foliage like a firefly. He had asked the sorceress about it, what it was, exactly, and she stated that was a spirit eager to do the bidding of the living. “Some spirits want to destroy, while others desire the pleasures of the flesh, and a few just wish to please anyone that will summon them,” Cassilda had explained. “It takes a lot of experience to identify a useful being.” She said nothing more, and Josun had not asked any further questions. He had discarded the superstitions of his people in favor of rationalism, and now his new faith was being challenged by the spectral light hovering through the woods, as well as the other inexplicable abilities of the sorceress. Perhaps there were logical explanations for various magical feats. After all, he didn’t understand how the Northrons powered their steamships with coal, nor did he comprehend how they constructed firearms. He would ask Cassilda later to explain magic to him, after he knew her better. To barrage the witch with questions would make him seem a child in her eyes, and he found that he wished to be seen favorably by the strange and comely woman. He did not believe that laying with a sorceress would make one impotent, as Coriver had stated, although he was also wise enough to know that such an occurrence was not very likely.
    “I’m sorry,” he said to the sorceress, as they climbed through a narrow ravine. The will-o’-wisp was weaving a circuitous route, as though tracing someone’s footsteps.
    “For what?” asked Cassilda, not turning to look at him.
    “For tackling you during the raid. You would have killed them all and it would’ve been a just end for marauders of their ilk.”
    “You probably would’ve been next. I was in a foul mood, for someone had stolen my amulet. It was smart to bind my hands with adamant. How did you know to do so?”
    “Whenever we boarded a ship, it was my task to subdue any wizards, and so I had the chains, which we stole from a slave freighter many years ago. Wizards, to my knowledge, are not numerous, and until recently I never had a chance to use the shackles.”
    “We are not numerous anymore. The Conventum has seen to that. They made a pact with the nobility after the Calamity in Valice, and now only the weakest, most obedient novices become licensed. I myself do not have a license to practice, and so I am called a sorceress, a name that conjures images of evil temptresses plotting to raise the dead or skewer the hearts of princes. If I were caught by so-called reputable mages, they would take me to Bilbao where I would be judged and likely sentenced to imprisonment. It would be something of a homecoming for me, for in Galvania they punish children for their parent’s crimes, and I was born on the Rock.”
    She stopped and stared at the barbarian to see if he understood what she was saying.
    “The Rock,” he said.
    “You haven’t heard of it? It is a dismal island out in the Gulf of Katan. The waves beat against its jagged shores, and the waters are infested with sharks large enough to swallow a person whole. There is an ancient castle that the authorities have transformed into a prison, and there the damned serve out their sentences. I learned to read and write there. In those walls I had my first kiss, as well as my first bloodshed. I was very lucky, Josun, for I was able to control my talents from their onset. I was able to make a guard think that I had become his lover, and so he took great pains to smuggle me out. Unfortunately, I could never love Galvania, for she treated me poorly even after my imprisonment ended. She is a bitter and jealous country, always wanting more while her citizenry starve in hovels. I shall never look eagerly upon her arid lands.”
    Scouring the ravine, they soon found the smoldering remnants of a fire and a bag of mushrooms next to a little cave. This discovery thrilled Cassilda, who sat down and played in the ashes for a bit while Josun opened the bag and consumed several handfuls of mushrooms. He hadn't eaten for some time, and although he preferred his mushrooms cooked, his hunger erased any reservations he had about eating abandoned fungi.
    “It was him,” she said after a while. White ash stuck to her fingers.
    “Who?” asked Josun, helping himself to another handful of mushrooms.
    “The Thief. My companion on the ship.”
    “Companion?” asked Josun, raising an eyebrow.
    “Co-conspirator would be more accurate. Yes, let's use a word that does not have any secondary connotations. He was roped into a scheme and decided too late that he wanted out. The type of man that he is, I suppose I should've foreseen this happening. He has an amulet of mine that we need to retrieve, as well as something even more important.” Cassilda stood up and pointed west. “He went that way. It seems that he was following someone or something.”
    “There are wylfen tracks all over this gully,” said Josun.
    “No, this thing is human-like, but small and gracile, judging from what these ashes tell me,” responded the witch.
    Josun briefly wondered if it would be worth the trouble to explain to her what a wylfen was. He decided against it.
    “Will you kill this thief when you meet him?” he asked.
    “No. I've already maimed several today.”
    They had been walking for only a few minutes when he heard the wylfen. The sorceress had refined her searching spell, and the ball of emerald fire had brightened and grown. Josun feared it was too visible beneath the thick canopy of the forest, where moonbeams struggled to break through. Cassilda had just stepped on a stick when he heard a bassetto rumble seemingly utter from the bowels of the earth. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and then drew her close so that she could see his finger pressed against his lips. Together, they crouched down very slowly. The sorceress said nothing; he could feel his heart beating against his chest as though it were about to break through his sternum. If the wylfen finds you, it will be the last thing you ever see. He knew of no living person that had seen one, and some among his people doubted their existence, yet around the fire they still told tales of men being snatched away like children and taken to the creature's lair to serve as a living meal. Looking out into the forest, he saw a massive shadow emerge from behind a tree to linger in the open. It was tall and broad-shouldered, with long arms that ended in lengthy, finger-like claws. The rumbling began anew; he watched as the great head lolled downward, its nostrils sniffing the air. Suddenly, he smelled it, the rotten, putrid odor of dried blood and carrion. What to do? He didn't know. It seemed to know they were there—perhaps it had been tracking them—and was waiting for their next move. Cautious, as all predators are. Maybe the smell of humans was foreign to it, and the creature was more curious than hungry.
    “Can you kill it?” he whispered to the sorceress.
    “Kill what?” she asked, in a voice that was louder than he would've preferred. Very slowly, he pointed at the wylfen, who still stood in the open, watching, waiting.
    “What is it?” she asked, still speaking a little too loud.
    “A monster,” he said simply. Perhaps she would understand.
    “There are no monsters,” she said. “Just dumb animals.”
    She stood up and stepped a few paces away, summoning the small green firefly, cupping it between her hands and then flattening it with palms pressed together, resulting in sparkling, cackling energy that writhed over her fingers in a spastic dance. Swiftly she shot the energy before her into the earth, where it vanished, leaving only a faint emerald glow. These actions caught the attention of the wylfen; it started to move slowly towards them, a thunderous growl emitting from its throat. Josun drew his ax, though he guessed it would do him little good, for the monster's reach was great, and its skin was said to be tougher than iron. The closer the beast came, the stronger its stench hit them—Josun's eyes watered, and he struggled to breath. How enormous it is he thought, noticing the dagger-like teeth hanging from its trembling jaws. A mere thirty feet away, he saw that only empty sockets sat behind the protruding maw, which dripped thick strings of saliva. Is it blind or did it never see? The question sat in his mind as the monster made its charge, a terrible roar freezing him in place, his sight fixed on those holes where eyes should be. Yet before it could reach him, a storm of green electricity erupted from the earth and flowed through the creature, halting it in its tracks. The wylfen was racked with convulsions; its teeth shone white like the light of the moon; it snapped its jaws and pawed at the air in frustration. Josun felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Cassilda staring at him in wide-eyed fascination. Run he heard in his mind. Instantly he obeyed and followed the sorceress, who had sprinted ahead. Behind them he heard the monster, its screams growing louder, its rage palpable, a current felt on the breeze as they cut through the forest, fleeing blindly as prey.
    Josun didn't know how long they ran, but he stopped after Cassilda tripped over a tree root and fell. She lay there for a moment, panting, hugging the earth. “There's no time,” he said, bending down to pick her up, but she shrugged off his hands and climbed to her feet.
    “What was that thing?” she said, in between breaths.
    “A wylfen, as I said,” replied Josun, impatient to continue.
    “Whatever it was, it had a great deal of magical resistance. That trap should've killed it instantly. Instead it just incensed it. I'm tired, though. Maybe that's it.” She sat down on a stump and stared behind them, her hands on her knees. “I've been beaten, put before a fire, forced to walk miles on no sleep and no food. Witches require sustenance, you know. We can't materialize everything out of thin air. I'm finding now that I don't particularly wish to continue until I've had a few minutes to recuperate.”
    “You don't fear the wylfen?” asked Josun, incredulous.
    “After what it's been through, I doubt it pursues us. Most things dislike pain, though I am certainly no wylfen expert.”
    Josun looked around. He had never been in this part of the Mawlden Forest. The tree trunks here were as thick as three men, and the foliage had an ugly vibrancy about it, as though it were made of shadows that fed on darkness. This is not a safe place screamed his instincts. A high shriek penetrated the stifling silence, followed by a long, low moan that sounded human, raising the hair on the barbarian's neck. He looked at the sorceress, who sat unperturbed on the tree stump, gazing down at the ground. At first, he thought she had fallen asleep, but then he realized she was in some sort of trance, judging from the odd pattern of her breathing and the tremors that ran through her body. Again a scream echoed through the night, this time closer. Whatever she was doing, he wished that she would hurry up.
    “We cannot stay here any longer. We must…” started Josun, placing a hand on Cassilda's shoulder. Suddenly he found himself no longer in the Mawlden Forest but standing on a ship. The sky was crimson, the sun a bleeding heart sinking into the churning sea. All around were heartless men; he recognized their type, having lived among barbarians his entire life. They stood with their hands at their sides, bestial men in black leather and hoods, only smirking grins visible on their animal faces, surrounding a girl with a broken nose and tears in her eyes, who knelt before them, fists clenched, while blood dripped onto the worn wood of the deck. One of the men came forward and placed his hands on her shoulders—she shuddered violently, tried to push him away—but he continued to press down on her, until she fell on her belly, her face by his boots. Looking down, the man removed his hood, revealing a bald head, impossibly wrinkled and liver-spotted. His lined face smiled a toothless grin, an expression like the frozen rictus of a corpse. Kiss it he said, pointing down to his boot. Out in the sea Josun saw something thrashing, heard someone calling out in a hoarse, raw voice. The girl looked at the bald man and spat. I think you should live and always remember said the man, grabbing her by the throat. Whoever was struggling in the water yelled a curse, the vehemence of the words lashing his ears like claws raking flesh. Drown already responded the man, dragging the girl towards the cabin. The red sky darkened to the color of dried blood. Drown already. He realized that everything was lost in the sea.
    At once Josun was back in the woods, standing helpless in the night, looking straight into the empty eye sockets of the wylfen.
    “Cassilda,” he said, as the beast loomed above them, its slavering jaws opened, hot breath burning his face.
    “Drown already, you fool,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly opening, lit by an emerald fire.

    The wylfen lunged forth. Time slowed to a halt. He saw the wide maw come over him, felt the teeth press into his torso, heard himself wonder why death took such an eternity. There were moments in the past where he'd been close to death; during a raid just a few years ago, he'd taken on a man armed with a mace and received a broken arm and three cracked ribs for his trouble. Injuries like that had happened quickly, the pain coming afterward, the adrenaline rush of battle pressing him onward and saving his life. This was different, as though someone had slowed every instant, timing the passage of every second to the flow of molasses. He felt the pressure of the monster's jaws subside; instead of the rancid heat of its lungs, he felt the cool night air break upon his face.
    Cassilda stood at his side. With a twitch of her arm, the wylfen flew backward, crashing into a tree with enough force to splinter it. The monster let out a roar and tried to stand, but the sorceress hit it with a telekinetic blast that pinned it to the ground. The wylfen struggled and dug ruts into the earth with its claws, moaning in a human-like voice, slobber spraying from its mouth, which snapped at the air as though it would disembowel the wind. Sparks shot from its hide and smoke rose from its nostrils while green, ghostly light enveloped the fallen beast. Cassilda's mouth clenched in a grimace; a great volume of blood flowed from her nose, trickling down her lips and puddling at her feet. I can smell it dying thought Josun, who watched with a subconscious nonchalance, as though his fate did not depend on the outcome. Suddenly the tree behind the wylfen cracked and toppled, landing with a crash on its head and driving the great skull into the ground, killing it instantly. With a cry, the witch ceased her spells and collapsed to the ground, head bowed and chest heaving. Josun watched for a moment, hesitant to approach. After a battle, the Roslagen allowed each other time for the rush to subside; with boiled blood, tempers flared at the slightest provocation, and even a hand on a shoulder could be cause for assault.
    “Witch,” he said, after a while. “Are you capable of walking?”
    “Yes,” murmured Cassilda in a weak voice.
    “You have slain the creature,” he said, walking over to its corpse. “I did not think it could be killed.”
    “Everything dies. Even the Heart of Rankar will cease to beat one day, perhaps sooner than we think.” She climbed to her feet, weariness plain on her face, which he did not recognize. Her nose was crooked; there was a scar on her forehead, a jagged, ugly mark. In the moonlight, he noticed that she was missing an ear.
    “You're the girl in the vision,” he said.
    “You shouldn't have seen that,” she replied. “When I need strength, I think of that moment. It's not really a memory anymore, but a part of me, a piece that I relive every day. That ship, those men, the screams as he drowns… it doesn't matter how many faces I wear, how many beautiful masks I slip on and off, because beneath it all, I am her, that poor, mutilated girl lying on the deck, hate growing in her heart like a patch of weeds. That day never ended for me, barbarian. But one day I shall replace it.”
    Josun walked over to the wylfen. It was ancient; he could tell from the gnarled hardness of its skin as well as the faded scars that littered its battered skull. Up close, he discovered that it was much like a gigantic man, albeit for the eyeless sockets and protruding jaws. Reaching down, he wrapped his hands around a six-inch tooth and pulled with all his might. It popped out of the gums with much less resistance than expected. Maybe the beast had a cavity he thought. Holding his newly-obtained treasure up to the moonlight, he turned towards the witch and called her close.
    “You should keep this as a totem to ward off evil,” he said, giving her the tooth. She took it gingerly, staring at it in the pale light. It was robust and smooth, designed to sink into flesh and keep hold while the monster's head shook from side to side. Cassilda pondered it for a while before looking at the wylfen in detail.
    “This creature was not native to the woods or to Pannotia,” she said. “Its blood is black, which is evidence of an extra-dimensional origin. Foreign elements in its veins react strangely to our environment. In fact, I'd wager to say that it was dying. There are tumors all over its body.”
    “I have heard tales of the wylfen since I was a child. King Wotan himself did battle with a wylfen,” protested Josun.
    “Some wizard or other likely attracted this creature long ago, perhaps even hundreds of years in the past when a great feat of magic was performed. Extra-dimensional entities are as curious as we are. This thing became trapped in our world where it had no natural ecological niche. So it established itself as a top predator and its reputation spread through the local villages, and that's how legends were formed.”
    Josun looked doubtfully at the dead creature and gave it a good kick. “I don't know,” he said. “What evidence do you have of extra-dimensions?”
    “The fire at the tips of my fingers,” replied Cassilda. “There were mages powerful enough to travel to other worlds, though you wouldn't want to stay very long in most of these places. Some are mirror universes, like our own yet different in some way. Look at this creature, for instance. It has the general shape of a man, no? Perhaps it comes from a world where mankind did not evolve intelligence but instead degenerated to a bestial form. Or maybe it comes from a possible future. Who knows? It hardly matters to us now, does it not? We have business to attend to.”
    An emerald firefly materialized and swirled around them several times, leaving glittering dust floating in the air, before flying off on the trail of the Thief. Cassilda followed it, fatigue melting from her face, which assumed a beautiful appearance once again. Josun, tired yet having no other direction, trailed, his thoughts muddled, disparate, and vague. For a while he kept glancing back to make sure the wylfen had not risen from the dead. Nothing followed them but the hum of the cicadas, the rhythmic crack of their step, and the faint, pale light of the moon.

    “This is not right. Something has gone wrong,” said Cassilda, her hands on her hips.
    They stood beside an immense tree, its trunk as wide as four men, its roots twisted and emerging from the earth like giant worms fossilized by the passage of time. This was where the firefly had taken them, yet all around was nothing but more trees, similarly huge and eldritch, suggestive of an age that had long since passed beyond the recollection of memory or even written word.
    “Where is the Thief?” asked Cassilda, nearly screaming.
    “Perhaps an animal took him,” suggested Josun. “Carried him up into the tree.”
    “Like what? An arboreal monster? Another predator searching for prey? I don't think the Thief would fall victim to a wild cat or whatever else lurks in these woods. He is not a conventional burglar. He possesses a power akin to sorcery but different somehow; I cannot detect his magic, because it isn't magic, really. It is a method of passive suggestion—that's the best way I can make sense of it. But maybe you're right. Perhaps he's hiding up in the boughs of this tree, or perhaps his carcass is, rather. How do we scale something of this magnitude?”     Cassilda stared upward. The first tier of branches was a good thirty feet above them.
    “Can you not use your powers to fly?” asked Josun.
    “No, unfortunately. There are wizards that can fly, though I have never met one. Levitation was also a skill I never mastered,” she admitted sheepishly.
     Josun stared at the tree's trunk for a moment. Its bark was rough and composed of deep ridges that were spaced apart just wide enough for a person to fit their fingers in between. In fact, it looked as though someone had already plotted a route for a prospective climber—he noticed several horizontally-angled ridges that were the right distance apart to serve as handholds for an ascent. He placed his hands on the bark and began to climb. Cassilda aided him by summoning another firefly to light his path upward, and in a few moments he had reached the first tier of branches.
    “What do you see?” asked the witch.
    Balancing himself on the thick branch, Josun looked upward at a dense expanse of wood. It took him several seconds to realize what he was seeing. This isn't part of the tree—it’s the underside of a deck he thought. Sprouting from the trunk were perfectly camouflaged supports that looked just like gnarled boughs, and moss covered much of the deck's bottom, rendering it green and indistinguishable from the tree's foliage to an unsuspecting observer. As the firefly rose to illuminate the structure, he discovered a row of rings fastened into the deck to aid one in climbing to its right side. Let's hope they hold he prayed. Josun was a big man, however the rings looked suitably sturdy. Though they groaned as he traveled across them, they did not tear from the underside, and the barbarian was able to quickly reach the edge of the deck and pull himself up onto it.
    Sitting in a crouch, he examined his surroundings. The deck was circular and wound about a building three stories high, which in turn wrapped around the trunk of the tree. The edifice was covered in shingling; a large round window pointed in his direction, and behind the glass he saw light and movement. Instinctively, he reached for his ax, yet he did not remove it from its sheath—whatever was in the house was small, and he had the feeling that no weapons would be needed. With a great deal of care, Josun slowly made his way towards the window, pausing after every step. The impatient sorceress waiting below was forgotten as the barbarian hovered by the window pane.
    He saw a curious creature through the glass. It had a disproportionately-large head with enormous eyes and giant, bat-like ears, and though it looked somewhat monstrous, it was clad in a jerkin and a pair of trousers. This being was crouched next to a figure sleeping in a rocking chair, whom Josun recognized as the man he’d subdued during the steamship raid. Its hands lingered about the sleeper, as though it were deciding between rifling through his pockets or strangling him. Suddenly, it took a knife from its belt and held it before the man’s chest. Josun moved without thinking. In a second he had burst through the door, a towering figure in the tiny house, and the little monster had screamed and dropped the knife.
    “What the hell?” said the man, jumping out of his seat. His eyes found the fallen knife, and he seized it and held it before him.
    “Are you the Thief?” said Josun, undeterred by the weapon.
    “You’re a barbarian, one of the raiders from the ship… how did you get up here? What do you want?” asked the Thief.
    “He wishes to atone for his misdeeds,” said Cassilda. Everyone jumped, for no one had heard her enter, and she had seemingly materialized out of nothingness. “You, I hope, wish to do the same. I pray that you have something that belongs to me?”
    “You’re not carving it out of my chest!” snarled the Thief. “I won’t be used as a pawn in your schemes.”
    “I was not referring to the Heart, though that too is mine. My amulet, please.”
    The Thief felt around in his pocket, and to his great surprise, he found the green stone there.
    “I lost it,” he said. “It sunk to the bottom of the sea.”
    “You have it in your pocket. I can read it plain on your face.”
    “This is an outrage! Who are you people? Why are you in my home? Have the laws of common decency been completely forgotten?” interrupted Fergal.
    “I’m so sorry that we did not introduce ourselves,” said the sorceress sarcastically. “I am Cassilda of the Rock, a sorceress of questionable morals, and this is Josun Tenderheart, a former pirate and breaker of arms. This arboreal nest is quite charming, I must admit. Could you be a good host and bring us glasses of wine? What are you, anyway? Some kind of troll?”
    “He’s an Aiv. One of the faerie people of the forest,” said Josun.
    Fergal’s already flushed face turned purple. “What did you say, you mindless brute? Is that some barbarian term stolen from another people, like most of the words that make up the vocabulary of your pidgin-tongue? Civility and decency ended when your heathen tribe invaded the Mawlden Forest! I watch, you know, I watch the people as they go about their lives, and never have I seen such savagery as the senseless violence perpetuated by your bestial kinsmen. The world would be a better place if they were suddenly wiped from the face of the earth.”
    “I agree,” said Josun.
    “You agree! What am I to say to that?”
    “How about nothing?” said Cassilda, snapping her fingers. Fergal’s lips continued to move, but he made no sound.
    “Listen, Thief. You and I have been through quite a lot, and I must say that I am glad to see that you survived the raiding of the Revenant. A brilliant corona of luck surrounds you like a shield, and you are very skilled at survival, which is admirable. You don’t trust me, and I don’t blame you, yet I get the sense that you don’t trust anyone, for your profession demands such wariness. Every confidant could be a snitch; any friend a liability. You must see the gallows as your future, and though you will not veer from the path you’ve tread, you still take care not to end your journey prematurely. But we are bound now, for the Heart is in your chest, and until it is removed, we shall be joined at the hip. You’re going to have to trust me. Like you did when you leaped from Capanne Mons.”
    The Thief sat back down in the chair and placed the knife on his knees. There was nowhere to run to in the Mawlden Forest, and he was hundreds of miles away from Capetia. The sorceress was right. He was stuck with her.
    “What are the side-effects of having this thing inside me?” asked the Thief, forlornly staring at the floor.
    “My sources disagree regarding that question. Some even stated that the Heart of Rankar cannot be bonded with a living being. According to the Vulgate of Herodotus, only the greatest of the Theodoti claimed pieces of God and at great risk to themselves and their race. The Corruption may have even started from an unworthy vessel, someone too weak or immoral to bear the burden…”
    “I don’t have time for digressions,” said the Thief. “Spit it out.”
    “You may ease in and out of time. Your body may age and crumble like worn stone. Languages will all make sense to you, even if you’ve never heard them before. You might attain certain levels of sentience unimaginable for even the wisest. Or none of it may come to pass, and you’ll just feel a slight ache in the chest every now and then. Perhaps it all depends on your character and strength, master Thief.”
    “You owe me more money. Whatever pittance I agreed to is not enough. And this,” he took the amulet from his pocket, “shall remain in my possession, because I know what you use it for, and I will not be controlled like a puppet with your hand up my arse.”
    Josun stared at the sorceress with his large, dark eyes. She could tell that he was thinking of his pact with her and wondering if he had made his own decision.
    “Fine. You can keep it for now, if it makes you feel better. Just so you know, that is the Periapt of Vyrmyth, and it reduces the lifespan of its wearer by an hour for every day it is worn.”
    “I’ll take my chances,” said the Thief.
    “Very well then. It is agreed. We are a company, and our bond shall not be dissolved until we reach the Shimmering Isles, the ancient land of Archaea. In the depths of the Underworld, I shall remove the Heart of Rankar from the breast of the Thief, and claim it before the Pit of the Dead, and then take it within myself and claim it as my own. We shall go our separate ways afterward, but I shall reward each of you with whatever you desire, for such power will be within my capabilities. All right then! I suggest that we rest here tonight and leave in the morning. Josun, I assume that you can direct us to where the Roslagen keep their vessels? We shall need something large and seaworthy.”
    “The Roslagen will have moved now, and they will be vigilant. I do not suggest that we search them out, unless we wish to do battle against unfavorable odds.”
    “What about him?” said the Thief, pointing to Fergal.
    “Oh yes, the troll! I had forgotten about him. Perhaps he can be of some use.”
    Cassilda lifted the spell, and a wave of angry words came rushing out of Fergal’s mouth.
    “What incredible rudeness, why, I never imagined such terrible conduct from a magician, if you can even call yourself that! Breaking into my home, silencing me with magic, and then ignoring my presence as though I were an unruly pet to be muzzled and thrown in a corner! In all my hundreds of years, I have never been treated in such a manner! If you all could summon a modicum of decency and leave immediately, then I might find it within myself to not pray for the worst possible fate to befall each and everyone one of you. Ruffians! Bandits! People of low-standing!”
    “I’ve never been called such nice names in my life,” said the Thief.
    “He was about remove the Thief’s heart before I stopped him,” pointed out Josun.
    “Oh that is interesting,” said Cassilda. “The troll calls us such loathsome creatures, and just minutes before he was planning a murder! Why were you so interested in the internal anatomy of the Thief?”
    “Murder, why, I’d, uh, never… I refuse to listen to such a blatantly false accusation! I was simply… um, preparing to defend myself against a potentially dangerous intruder, someone who had broken into my home, much like yourselves, and refused to leave! What would you do under such circumstances?”
    “He said he could see the Heart through my chest,” said the Thief.
    “Well Mr. Troll, I’m afraid you are too compelling to abandon, even in the middle of nowhere,” said Cassilda. “You appear to be a cross between a bat and a gnome; you claim to be hundreds of years old; you can spy the Heart of Rankar through the meat and gristle of the Thief. There is a bounty of knowledge locked away in that disproportionate head of yours, and we need someone to guide us through the Mawlden Forest, someone adept at evading barbarians and monstrosities. Therefore, it is with great regret that I must conscript you to our cause. We are going to raid your stores anyway, so you might as well come with your food.”
    “By what right?” asked Fergal.
    “Why, by the right of force, of course. Might makes right, or so they say. Please, Fergal, don’t make this unpleasant. I’m tired, cranky, and in need of a good night’s sleep. Perhaps by the next morning, we shall all be great friends.”
    No one noticed the sign she made behind her back. Immediately, everyone yawned and felt drowsiness fall upon their shoulders like a ponderous weight, pressing them down. The Thief settled back into the rocking chair and closed his eyes. Josun lay down on the floor like a tired dog. Fergal found himself in an alcove, his anxieties fading away with his consciousness. His last thought was of his bed and how ridiculous it was that he was not in it. He would not have been pleased to know that Cassilda retired to his room and slept well in his comfortable, albeit tiny, bed.

Next Chapter: The Aerodactyl

Conan Brothers Q&A

TruePatriot asks "Truly Trump is screwed now, right? He's going to be impeached in the House and the Senate will find it harder and harder to ignore his crimes."

Dave: Republicans are really good at Doublethink.

Arnold: Or not thinking at all.

Dave: Hypocrisy is word that has been deleted from their collective vocabulary. If you think Republicans in the Senate are going to wise up and realize the danger Trump poses to democracy, well, then, I have a nice hoboshack down by the river I can sell to you for the very low price of one million dollars.

Arnold: It's the best hoboshack I've ever slept in.

Dave: What bodybuilder hasn't slept in a ditch somewhere in order to follow their dream?

Arnold: Nothing makes that dream realer than waking up to a family of raccoons nesting around your body to take advantage of your warmth.

Dave: If only we knew how Youtube worked, then we'd have it made.

Arnold: Trump will be impeached in the House and acquitted in the Senate, and the interpretation of these events will depend on your political affiliation, and I'm not sure it will really matter much, which is an insane thing to say about the impeachment of the President, but we live in strange times.

Dave: I'm scared about the 2020 election. Republicans have all but shrugged their shoulders at Russian interference, and there's no way Trump concedes if he loses. Republicans have followed him so far as he's gone down the rabbit hole. Who says they wouldn't follow him if he decides not to leave?

Arnold: So much of our government depends on tradition and precedence. When someone does something unprecedented, as Trump has done many times during his administration, our system doesn't seem to handle it.

Dave: So we should be panicking and hiding in the bunker?

Arnold: I dunno. What happens in a hypothetical coup? That's Tom Clancy territory.

Dave: Jim Halpert is Jack Ryan. Will Jim save us all?

Arnold: I just can't take John Krasinkski serious as an action hero. What you do early in life follows you around like a phantom fart.

Dave: And that concludes our political discussion.

GamerBoy asks "Is the Outer Worlds the RPG savior we've been looking for?"

Dave: It's basically Fallout 4 but with the dialogue options added back in.

Arnold: And with better writing and actual characters.

Dave: It's also not an open world game. Combat is pretty tame, too. The AI seems nonexistent.

Arnold: I like playing quests with multiple endings, however. Also enjoy being able to talk my way out of situations like a proper RPG.

Dave: We're enjoying it so far. I appreciate the fact that it is playable on my seven year old computer.

Arnold: In short, if you like Obsidian's take on modern Fallout (New Vegas), then you'll enjoy the Outer Worlds.

Dave: The capitalist critique seems a little ironic given that Obsidian is now owned by Microsoft, one of the richest corporations in the world.

Arnold: I hear Pointless Venture will have an in-depth review up soon.

GymGnat asks "Any bench advice?"

Dave: To bench a lot, you have to bench a lot.

Arnold: Do a pressing variation four times a week. Incline, overhead, close grip, wide grip. Use low reps. Ramp up your sets. Do heavy singles.

Dave: Tuck them shoulders and work on your arch. Don't just lay down on the bench like you're going to take a nap.

Arnold: Don't forget bodybuilding movements. Train your upper back and your arms, all of you nascent powerlifters. Don't forget about your guns.

Dave: People with skinny arms seldom have big benches.

Arnold: Or much purpose in life.

The Heart of the Thief: The Aiv and the Thief

Previous Chapter: Josun of the Roslagen


Many a housewife has told a tale of a missing ladle or a sack of flour and blamed it on faeries. Unlike hobgoblins or poltergeists, faeries were once a real race, not so different from men! Of course, they had elongated ears that somewhat resembled those of a rabbit, and there is some evidence that they had tails as well; but in general appearance, they looked like fair men and women, though taller and slenderer. They lived before the Dominion of Man, perhaps soon after the Age of the Gods met its end. The ruins of their civilization are still found towards the East of the Continent, though many archeologists ascribe their elegant architecture to the Emperor's Revival, despite their construction being beyond even the skill of Pallas's best. The Lung of Rankar is thought to have been their totem. They were the first to create music, and it is said that you can still hear traces of their songs in the forgotten dells and haunted groves of the Mawlden Forest. What happened to them is unknown, but the Corruption is blamed, for it is the bogeyman that is always cited when something is inexplicable. More likely, they suffered some sort of plague or environmental catastrophe. We will likely never know for sure.
Simeon Peter,  Apocrypha: Faeries: A People of Legend

 The Aiv and the Thief
Fergal Dunn moved through the woods with a bag full of mushrooms and a large knotted stick that he'd christened Francesca after his dearly departed grandmother, who had been fond of large sticks and their frequent implementation. Francesca was used mainly for warding off ravenous beasts and finding one's way in the dark, though Dunn's eyes, which were proportionally large even for his rather enormous head, could see very well during nighttime, especially during nights when the moon was full. He had spent the evening foraging, and when darkness settled in, he had continued to do so, utilizing his keen sense of smell. Though there were wolves in the Mawlden Forest, he was not particularly afraid of them, for they were noisy and smelly and couldn't climb trees, thankfully. He was more concerned with accidentally stumbling upon the humans that had made their village nearby, close to the profaned oak. Fergal's species, which had never been given a name in the scientific nomenclature, was very long lived, so long lived, in fact, that most of them (including Fergal) couldn't tell you how old they were, exactly. That oak, however, had existed when he was just a boy, and it was already ancient in those ancient times, and it had always had a poor reputation and cast an air of foreboding. So it was not surprising that the violent men would choose to live in its shadow. Though they did not possess his finely-tuned senses, they were still capable of surprising him, due to their numbers and propensity for stumbling into the woods while drunk. Usually he could hear them from a mile off, but occasionally, he'd encounter one passed out on a tree stump, barely-breathing and staring blindly into the darkness. Nights like this one, with the moonlight pouring white through the canopy, were risky. Still, one had to get home and one had to eat. So he took his time moving through the woods, stopping every now and then to look and listen.
    Something was moving through the woods towards the west, its pace rapid but not reckless. It was a human, most likely, someone who had left the trail that the men had carved through the heart of the Mawlden Forest. That meant that he or she was eager to avoid meeting anyone, which piqued Fergal's curiosity. This person must also be unfamiliar with the area, for they were moving away from the relative safety of the forest near the village and towards the denser, wilder part of the woods. A vagabond or ruffian he thought. Such people were interesting to watch. He'd followed a bandit one time who'd escaped from the village, and after tailing him for some time, witnessed his unfortunate demise at the jaws of an enormous wylfen. Though Fergal wasn't one to take pleasure from the misery of another, his natural curiosity often got the better of him. The bag of mushrooms on his shoulder was rather light. Let us just take a peek he thought, heading towards the footsteps. Perhaps the wylfen was in the area.
    Fergal estimated the wanderer's direction and aimed to head him off some distance ahead, on the edge of a glen. There was an old elm tree that was growing out of the side of the valley, and its weight, as well as the precariousness of its rooting, had almost caused it to topple across the two hillsides. Its boughs would make an excellent observation point for a diminutive creature such as himself. The wanderer was likely wading in and out of the stream that flowed out of the glen, so he or she would most certainly pass through. Fergal, being a native, knew that such a route was highly dangerous, since the large predatory creatures of the Mawlden Forest often cornered their prey in the area. Of course, the wanderer didn't know that, otherwise he would be sticking to the trail. Not that the trail was without its dangers—besides the barbarians, wolves often ambushed lone travelers in the deeper sections—but the more dangerous creatures dwelt in other areas, the barbarians having learned this long ago through trial and error when they established the rough road.
    Soon the ancient elm rose before him, and he took to climbing it, effortlessly ascending to the top branches with his long arms and large hands. His people were made to climb and scurry, and they had no trouble delving into the earth, either, for they considered all of nature and its environs to be their home. They had never become civilized, not even in their distance past, though they would contend otherwise, associating the word with culture and refinement instead of urban living and technological progress. Indeed, they had their own culture—much of Fergal's memory was filled with elaborate greeting rituals and salutary poems—but they so seldom saw one another, being solitary creatures, that all of it seemed something of a waste. For instance, it had nearly been a century since Fergal encountered one of his own kind, though he did not particularly consider a century to be a large passage of time. Time was a dimension that was considered unimportant to his species—they did not keep track of it, lacking both time pieces and dating systems. A decade flowed into a century, and a century passed into two centuries, and so forth, and so on. From Fergal's point of view, the sheer quantity of experiences and happenings rendered them indistinguishable from one another, to the point where if he remembered something, he was unable to pinpoint if it had happened twenty years ago or two centuries before. The past was a jumble, misremembered and unintelligible. This was one reason why his people stayed away from each other. There really was nothing to talk about.
    He hadn't waited long before the wanderer appeared. At first, he almost missed him—the sound of his footsteps all but disappeared as he approached the glen—but then Fergal's keen sight caught the hint of his outline plastered against a tree in the moonlight, the rise and fall of his breast almost imperceptible. The figure was shrouded in darkness; his face a void even for Fergal's eyes. He was likely a man by his build and from the city judging from his ragged attire. A prisoner escaped from the barbarians thought Fergal. He watched as the shadow crept towards the opening of the valley and passed beneath the elm, his feet soundlessly gliding through the water of the stream. As he walked his image became more difficult to discern; Fergal had to squint to see him, and no matter how much he strained his ear, he could not hear his passage. He knows I am watching he concluded, realizing that some sort of enchantment was at work. Though the practice of magic was an ancient memory to him, he knew, as did all his people, how to recognize the art. This man was not a wizard; that was plain, for wizards did not slink about in the woods. Yet an air of magic clung about him, painting his steps and moving his form into darkness, obscuring whatever secrets lay beneath that shroud. Fergal jumped down from his observation point almost as soon as the man had vanished. Even though he could not see or hear him any longer, he could still find his prints and follow the trail of bent branches and disturbed stones. And there was, of course, his smell—a heavy odor of musty leather, sea brine, and fear—which lingered in his wake. This man was too interesting to forget, despite the late hour and the growing hunger in Fergal's belly. So he followed.

    It was some time before he spotted the man huddled beneath a rock ledge. He had started a small fire just outside the tiny cave, relying on the narrow gully to hide the light from any pursuers. It had become a bit chilly in the woods—the temperature often dropped several degrees at nighttime during the late summer—and the dense canopy as well as the uneven terrain created cold pockets of air. Still, it was an unnecessary risk in his opinion to create a fire, especially if the Roslagen were after you. A small fire would also attract predators rather than warding them off. If something comes, I'm in a vulnerable position he thought, watching from behind a giant stone. There was no higher ground, the gully's sides being too steep and smooth to climb. He was about to reconnoiter another position when the stranger clutched his chest as though he were having a heart attack. Suddenly Fergal could see it through the man’s breast, a glistening, beating heart that glowed brilliantly like a miniature sun. It was a catalyst, propelling his memory back eons, ticking through the ages until it finally stopped on an image of a tall, slender creature, crowned in sapphires and little else, dipping down beneath an alabaster tree and removing a lung from its hollow center. It has almost breathed its last she said softly, her eyes turning down to stare at the earth, the wheezing organ sputtering in her arms. Soon after, the people had lost their divinity and vanished to the woods, their grace forgotten, the only remnant of their glory a vast yet fading memory and an unnatural propensity to cling to life.
    Fergal found himself doing something very un-Fergal-like. He stood up from his hiding spot and walked across the thin stream, stepping softly on the wide, cold rocks of the creek, all the while keeping his eyes focused on the man’s heart. The stranger didn't notice him even after he had sat down at the fire with a sack of mushrooms at his side. Alas, Fergal had to get his attention by dusting off his Capetian and introducing himself.
    “That's a nice thing in your chest you have there, sir. By the way, my name is...” was how he started. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, the stranger's head fixed an icy stare at the speaker. He was a dark-skinned man with a scarred face and fierce eyes and quick hands; in the few seconds that it took Fergal to speak, he had removed a rather savage-looking knife from his rags and seemed prepared to use it.
    “… Fergal Dunn, and I hope that you'll excuse my intrusion, for I see that you are a private man, with private matters to attend to, but I could not help but being intrigued by that object radiating from your torso…”
    “What are you?” interrupted the man (quite rudely, in Fergal's opinion).
    “I beg your pardon?” asked Fergal.
    “You're not human,” stated the man.
    “That is certainly correct. I am of the Huldufolk, who have limited their doings with the race of man, and have consequently, I suspect, fallen out of recent memory. You're not from around here, I gather? May I ask from whence you came?”
    “You've been following me. Are you a spy?” asked the man, rising from his seat. Fergal, confident in his ability to defuse the situation as well as his speed if things got out of hand, remained where he was and held out his palms to show their lack of weapons.
    “I am no spy. I am simply a… busybody, if you will. This is my home, friend, and I wish to know what any passersby are doing. I was on my way back to my dwelling after having spent the night foraging for mushrooms—that's my sack, right there—when I heard your crashing through the undergrowth. Curiosity got the better of me, so I trailed you to this gully, and I was just about to leave you to your business when you doubled over, clutching your breast. Where did you get a heart like that? I knew of something like it, once before. Do you know what it is you carry?”
    The man looked at him long and hard before finally deciding that Fergal was telling the truth. He sat back down and made a dismissive gesture, a rather crude sign that needed no explanation, and then curled up against the back of the cave wall.
    “If I may give you some advice, good sir, seeing how you are unfamiliar with these parts, I would recommend against sleeping here tonight,” said Fergal, sensing that his time was limited. “This gully is the hunting ground of a wylfen, a particularly fearsome beast. Have you ever encountered a wylfen? It is as tall as a man and as broad as two, with long limbs that end in curved claws. Despite its great size, it is as nimble as mouse, capable removing an arm or performing a decapitation in an instant. However, sometimes a wylfen is not hungry enough to eat its prey in one sitting, in which case it will drag you back to its lair, where it will consume you piece by piece, often just nibbling off a small chunk or two, usually from your buttocks. Provided you do not die from terror, pain, or blood-loss, it is possible for one to survive many days. I cannot imagine a more terrible way to die.”
    “Hanged from an oak tree to be devoured by spirits isn’t so pleasant, either,” said the man, mumbling.
    “I don't quite know what you mean,” said Fergal.
    “Does conversation attract wylfen? Because I know it attracts barbarians,” said the man. “Listen, I don't know what you want, but you need to sneak on home to your hole or burrow or whatever it is you live in and leave me be. Understand?”
    “Sir, are you suggesting that I am some sort of subterrestrial creature akin to a mole or mouse?” said Fergal, terribly offended. “If so, you are mistaken. My people are arboreal by nature; I myself possess a magnificent tree house the likes of which I am certain you have never seen. It's an expansive, sophisticated dwelling, designed by the finest architect of the ancient era, Theophile Horrendous, whose reputation, I'm afraid, did in fact live up to his name. You won't find many historic homes in this woods anymore. Why, other than old Ariosto, who lives twenty miles or so from here, I possess the only dwelling of note.”
    “Is it more comfortable than a cave?” asked the man.
    “Why, mostly certainly! We rustic country folk can't offer the same level of luxury found in your human cities, but we know how to relax, you can be assured.”
    “Is it out of sight?” asked the man.
    “Yes, it is very thoroughly disguised. Wouldn't want unwelcome guests, right?”
    “Well then, let's go there,” said the man. “It's plain that you won't give me any rest, and you have me worrying about giant monsters.”
    “Sir, I...” began Fergal.
    “Which way is it?” asked the man. “Will there be anything to eat?”
    “I did not mean to have given you the impression that… uh… my home was available to a stranger such as yourself,” said Fergal.
    “Why? What's wrong with strangers?”
    “Nothing in general. It's just that I don't know you…”
    “And I could be someone dangerous. A ruffian, perhaps. Someone who could rob you, steal the rug right out from under your feet,” finished the man.
    “Well, you must admit that you seem to have had some sort of conflict with the Roslagen,” said Fergal.
    “The Roslagen have conflicts with everyone they come across,” replied the man.
    “True,” said Fergal. “You are an armed man, however. Is it wise to let an armed man into your home?”
    “What is a knife? Some men kill with sticks, others with stones, still others with their bare hands. There is nothing suspicious about an armed man out in Pannotia. Tell me, Fergal, are you a good cook? What are you planning on fixing with those mushrooms?”
    “I am not a bad cook, though I don't know if I would go so far as to say that I am a good one,” replied Fergal. “These mushrooms are for a hearty stew featuring rabbit, potatoes, and onions. The smell carries for miles. I can't tell you how many times I've heard creatures wandering around below, sniffing the air. There is another variation using fish…”
    “Let us taste it,” said the man. Fergal stared at him, wondering how he could escape this predicament. He could just up and run, leaving the man here to squint into the darkness. Yet he had engaged the man in conversation, establishing something of a rapport, so to abandon him in the gully would be considered very rude, and rudeness was anathema to his people, who thought it a primitive behavior. To lead the man into his home, however, was not an option—he had never let any man into his home, and it had been almost a century since the place had hosted a visitor of any sort. This fellow, interesting though he may be, was obviously a person of questionable character who could not be trusted. He would have contemplated this topic all night if possible, for he, like all his people, preferred to take their time deliberating a choice. Yet Fergal's keen ears picked up a distinctive sound: the ponderous steps of a heavy beast coming through the gully.
    “There's a wylfen coming,” he said to the man, jumping to his feet. “I would suggest climbing the closest tree and holding your breath.”
    “What an interesting way to uninvite a guest. Tell them that a monster is coming and to climb a tree,” said the man.
    “I really would heed my advice. I'm afraid I must take it myself,” said Fergal, sprinting down the gully towards the ancient elm tree. It took him only about a minute, for he was very quick, and he had soon climbed to the top of the highest branch. The noise of the wylfen was growing louder, nearly deafening to one with ears as sharp as Fergal's, though a human would only hear a few snapping branches and intermittent snorting. Peering back towards the fire, he saw the man still sitting unmoved. Well I warned him, he thought. If the man ended up being dragged off to the monster's lair to experience a prolonged death of misery and terror, it was through no fault of Fergal's. Preferring not to witness the stranger's demise, he jumped down from the tree and made his way home. Halfway there he realized in horror that he had forgotten his mushrooms as well as his favorite stick. The prospect of mushroom soup without mushrooms nearly dejected him as much as the presumed fate of the ruffian and his magical heart.

  
He had finally pulled off his boats and sat down to a nice cup of warmed cider in his favorite chair when he heard the unmistakable sound of footprints on his front porch. This was most peculiar, of course, because Fergal's porch was forty feet above ground. Perturbed, but not yet panicked, he slowly got up from his chair and made his way over to his closet where he kept a thick hickory stick, the unnamed twin of Francesca. Brandishing this weapon, he blew out the candle on his coffee table and huddled in a corner to wait. The visitor tried the door and found it locked, so he moved to the window. He was finding it something of a tight fit when Fergal decided to act rather than let someone break into his home. The initial swing of old hickory connected with the top of the invader's head; the second blow also hit home, but rather than repelling the burglar, the momentum of the blow caused him to fall all the way through the window and into Fergal's house. This undesired action provoked a fury in the diminutive hominin, who pounced upon the downed man, wailing with abandon. This continued for nearly a full minute, until the stranger managed to crawl beneath Fergal's coffee table. Fergal, at this point, was exhausted from his exertions and the adrenaline rush, and though he'd ceased attacking to catch his breath, he still waved the stick around menacingly, ready to start with a fresh assault if the invader's movement demanded it.
    “Who are you?” yelled Fergal. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? I'll have you know that I am more than capable of bashing your head in. Identify yourself, burglar!”
    “I am the Thief,” said the man, still hiding under the coffee table.
    “I'll be damned if you take anything from me!” said Fergal, poking his stick at him. The Thief grabbed a hold of the piece of hickory, and a short tugging contest ensued, which Fergal won, much to the surprise of both.
    “I'm not here to rob you. I'm the man from the fire. Your uninvited guest.”
    “How did you follow me?” asked Fergal, surprised.
    “How did you hear my footsteps?” asked the Thief.
    “How did you escape the wylfen?” asked Fergal.
    “How did you get so good at wielding a stick?” asked the Thief. A brief silence followed before Fergal laid down arms and the Thief crawled out from under the coffee table. Each stared at the other in the darkness.
    “To tell you the truth, this is the first time I've ever been caught since I became a professional,” said the Thief.
    “No one has ever broken into my home,” said Fergal. “The men who pass this way seldom look upward.”
    “A set of firsts for the both of us, then. Did you make that stew?”
    “I forgot the mushrooms,” said Fergal.
    “The wylfen must be enjoying them,” said the Thief, moving towards a chair. He fumbled around a bit, tripping over a pair of boots before Fergal lit a candle. Light having been restored, he looked the place over. It was a spacious room wrapped around the large trunk of a tree, its sides lined with shelves and bookcases. A narrow set of stairs led upward to another story. From the ground he had gathered that the house was built in sections stacked atop one another, with each floor becoming smaller as the supporting framework of the tree narrowed. This was the main floor and living area, judging from the general disorder and worn familiarity of the furniture.
    “Sir,” said Fergal, staring at the Thief lounging in his favorite chair, “I must ask that you properly identify yourself if you'll be staying under my roof for the remainder of the night.”
    “I am the Thief, as I said. Where I come from, my name is known in the alleyways as well as the Ducal palace. The heart that I carry in my breast is the fabled Heart of Rankar, treasured icon of the Priesthood as well as the cornerstone of Capetian sovereignty. Only I could have stolen such a relic. How you know of it, I cannot fathom.”
    “So you are a career criminal, I take it?” asked Fergal.
    “I am the Thief,” replied the Thief.
    “Was that the name your parents gave you? I am unfamiliar with human customs,” admitted Fergal.
    “You're making this too complicated,” said the Thief. “I am the Thief, as in there are no other thieves before me. None with my résumé; none with my skills. I have stolen priceless heirlooms from impenetrable vaults, raided palaces and monasteries of their treasures, and now I've taken the last living piece of the universe. Know you of anyone who can claim such feats as their own?”
    “I do not associate with thieves in general, I'm afraid,” responded Fergal. “So I suppose I do not know of anyone with such a résumé.”
    “Thief was a name that I earned. It wasn't given to me by anyone. Perhaps you can understand that.” The Thief looked around and spied a bottle sitting on a shelf. “Do you have any wine?” he asked.
    “That is a bottle of sherry, though I don't know that I would drink it, for it's been sitting for time immemorial.”
    The Thief grabbed the bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig, grimacing, though he took the bottle with him back to his chair and continued to drink from it.
    “Well Mr. Thief, I suppose I must give you the shelter of my roof for the night. That chair will have to suffice, for I haven't cleared out the guest room in ages, and I don't think you'd find those quarters very comfortable in any case, considering your size in comparison to mine. In return for my hospitality, I must ask you to promise to leave tomorrow morning. I am a solitary person and my privacy is very important…”
    Fergal droned on for another minute or two before he noticed that the Thief had fallen asleep. After picking up the bottle of wine from the floor (the discourtesy of the man!) he retreated to his own quarters and locked the door. He thought it unlikely that the so-called Thief would loot his valuables, for he’d have to haul any plunder for many miles through the wilderness, yet he could not relax with the strange man in his home. He was a ruffian, to be sure, but after several minutes of reflection, he concluded that the real reason he was disturbed was the presence of the Heart of Rankar. After a futile hour of searching his memory, he scoured his library, looking through the dusty tomes for answers. He chanced upon an ancient volume—he could not pronounce its title, the words simply would not come—and opened the dried, thin pages. The script was not in Huldu but in the elder tongue. Elmeric the humans called it, the language of magic, though mages and wizards did not understand the words, nor grasp their true power. Fergal’s ancestors had spoken Elmeric, though they had another name for it, and as a boy, he must have been able to speak it. But he could not recall much of his childhood, and the only connection he had to his sires was the book and image the Heart had recalled. Flipping through the pages, he came across a drawing of a lung entwined in the center of a white tree. It was a piece of God like the Heart he thought. It made us beautiful, immortal, and capable of conscious thought. Did one of the Huldufolk possess it still? How withered and dead it must be, for he and his kin bore faint resemblance to the slender, long-limbed creatures depicted in the book’s pages.
    His eyes caught on a long knife laying upon his mantle. A mad notion seized him, and Fergal leapt to his feet and retrieved the knife. A piece of God needed a vessel to distribute its powers. If he had the Heart in his chest, perhaps he could read the words of the book and know what his forbearers had known. His stocky frame would elongate, and his bat-shaped ears would become thin and narrow like a rabbit’s. The forest would open its arms to him and call him master and be at his beck and call. The elder days would return, and there would be children again, and the air would lighten with the merry sound of their beautiful voices. The humans, with their smoke and cities built of dead wood, would flee and become a distance memory.
    Fergal unlocked his door and went for the Thief.

Next Chapter: The Forming of a Company