The Heart of the Thief: On the Road

Previous Chapter: The Aerodactyl

On the Road
After ten days on the road with three people, the Thief had learned something about himself that he’d always suspected—he was not a people person. He’d always lived alone, and his work, for the most part, was of a solitary nature. Even when seeking a crowd, what he sought was anonymity rather than comfort and conversation. The fishmonger—what did he know besides fish? The bricklayer knew bricks and little else, and the blacksmith could shoe a horse and increase one’s knowledge of Durnish curse words, but he and his contemporaries possessed a rather simplistic world view, their opinions based on limited knowledge and steeped in ignorance. Not that the upper class was any better—they wore their education on their sleeve, when they had any, and preferred to believe that their station in life was due to their own merits rather than a fortuitous birth. Now there was a sommelier at the Angry Bear whom the Thief enjoyed chatting with, yet their friendship was more a business relationship, for he spent a great deal of money with the man. As for women, he tended to meet them in brothels, where his money compensated for his frightful appearance and his thief’s brand.
    The personalities of his company did not help matters. The raven-haired barbarian Josun was solemn and taciturn, as though the very idea of mirth was ridiculous and a waste of time. The Thief had made a few jokes at his expense, though he said them under his breath, for Josun was huge and carried a gigantic ax that looked well-used, and the Thief had learned very long ago that it was best to make fun of huge men when they were not aware of it. Fergal Dunn was the opposite in disposition, amiable and conversational to a fault. Having lived for hundreds of years, Fergal was full of ancient languages, fables, and mythical histories, and was quite eager to share this knowledge, despite his tendency to mangle the telling of most of what he knew, his memory having become convoluted and incapable of retaining dates. As for Cassilda, her every remark was tinged with sarcasm, though there was seldom any maliciousness in her voice.
    It took them ten days to travel through the Mawlden Forest. They stuck mostly to the main road, with Fergal suggesting detours when applicable so that they avoided bandit-infested areas or the hunting grounds of predatory animals. Relying on the Aiv’s excellent vision and keen sense of hearing, they often traveled during the night, which suited the Thief just fine, being a night creature himself. He was planning on ditching the group as soon as an opportunity presented itself, yet there was no point in absconding with the Heart when he was in the middle of a vast, unfamiliar woods.  They all watched him constantly, anyways—he couldn’t stop to take a piss behind a tree without feeling someone’s eyes on the back of his head—and between the three of them, there was little he could do but continue with the ridiculous ruse that they were all in this together.
    What bothered him the most, though, was how well Fergal had insinuated himself into the expedition. The diminutive Aiv hadn’t even wanted to let the Thief into his home and had to be forced into coming on the journey, yet here he was dictating their course, discussing the hardships of the Wotan Veldt, asking Josun about melee combat, and trying to trick the sorceress into divulging the details of her past. The Thief found himself wondering if Fergal’s garrulousness was part of an act designed to divert the other members of the party from wondering how much he really knew about the stolen relic. He was ancient, after all, and his knowledge was apparently endless, judging from his stories. The Thief also did not forget that Fergal had tried to murder him.
    On the tenth day, they reached the edge of the forest and looked out across the endless plains. The sun was setting over distant craggy mountains, painting the sky purple and pink and sending great horned shadows across the grasslands. A herd of animals congregated by a small pond, beasts with antlered heads and shaggy coats that snorted and bellowed, their voices carrying to the party waiting on the fringe. The Thief had never seen so much space, never encountered an expanse so free of shouting crowds and blanket congestion. The woods had been an alien environment, but its density had provided some familiarity, in the end, and after a while he hadn’t felt so out of place. Looking out at the sweeping veldt, he was suddenly aware of his existence as an individual, as something separate from this immense environment. The anonymity that he had craved in the city had been missing for a while, and one glance at the wind-swept currents weaving through the grassland-like tributaries made him fear that he would never get it back. I am not a Thief out here he realized, tearing his eyes away from the Plains and glancing down at the brand on his hand. The realization left him feeling empty inside.

    “Behold, fair travelers!” began Fergal. “You glance upon the Wotan Veldt. Josun, these are the ancestral lands of your people, before they took the Elmeric slur ‘Barbarosie,’ and made it their own. They used to hunt the gnus down there once a year in a ritual whose name has slipped my mind. Riding brazenly on their tawny steeds, they stampeded the beasts towards yonder cliff side, resulting in the death of hundreds. A great feast was had, and the shaggy hides were stretched and tanned, the entire civilization participating in the processing of the slaughtered creatures. The rape of the natural world that your species furthers had its roots in that ritual. Violence seems to be your…”
    “Oh dear, must we hear another sermon?” interrupted Cassilda. “And to think that I thought you a rather cheery little dwarf when we first met.”
    “I am not a dwarf! They are but a myth, like so much else you humans believe! Really, it is astounding the breadth of your ignorance, seeing how you have spread like locusts over the surface of the earth. I have heard people speak of elves and gnomes, giants and ogres, basilisks and dragons…”
    “King Wotan killed the dragon Gorgan,” said Josun.
    “There are no dragons, I’m afraid. In all my years, I have never seen one, and I have never heard of any of my kinsmen encountering such creatures. If they existed, perhaps Gorgan was the last. Old as I am, I am not ancient enough to have lived through Wotan’s time,” said Fergal.
    “What can we trust if not the old tales?” asked Josun. “My people abandoned the old values centuries ago, yet we still tell the elder stories. Were it not for the legends, I would not know how far the Roslagen have fallen.”
    “Let the past die,” said the Thief. “You can’t bring back the old days. Your people are who they are: a lot of pirates and murderers.”
    “Leave it to the Thief to point out the sins of others,” said Cassilda. “History has no meaning to you, does it? It is only occasionally useful when you’re attempting to fence something old.”
    “I am tired of the barbarian and his legends. He clings to them like a child to a bedtime story.”
    “Had you any honor you would not so readily discard the history of your ancestors,” replied Josun, giving the Thief a hostile glare.
    “What ancestors? A roving Zanj mercenary and a bar wench? I know nothing of Zanj, and Zanj knows nothing of me. Bar wenches have a complicated history that knows no borders and is blind to the prejudiced nature of man. The son of a bar wench is a son of the world. Now a dead man is a dead man, and if he wishes to tell me stories from beyond the grave, he’ll have to wait till I commission a séance. I won’t go telling his stories for him, and I refuse to lay claim to a particular group of dead men. If you wish to tell the history of the dead, Josun, be my guest, but don’t expect me to applaud you for it.”
    “He makes less sense the more he speaks,” said Cassilda. “What a terrible, cynical bore he is. You could have been a great wizard, Thief. They hate things just as much as you do.”
    “I am not a hater, sorceress. I just loathe my present circumstances.”
    “I know that you only pretend to love wine and women to fill the emptiness of your life. You steal because you are simple and cannot imagine another alternative. That’s the problem with you cynical men. You have no imagination. Money is all you yearn for, and once you have it, you don’t know what to do with it.”
    “I know exactly what to do with money, especially the coin you owe me. I’m going to use it to purchase more vintage wine and enjoy women of considerably less vintage.”
    “Well, we should be off,” interrupted Fergal, leaving the forest’s edge and marching into the plain. The others followed, though the Thief lingered in the rear, desiring to separate himself from any further conversation. The grasses of the golden plain were tall, encompassing the small form of Fergal, who wove through the shimmering sea like a dolphin, creating his own current, leaving the company to travel in his wake. They walked like this for some time, the sun rising higher in the sky, casting heat to beat upon their backs. Sweat formed on their necks and began to drip down their brows; Josun acquired a small following of gnats, which buzzed around him in a small cloud, though the barbarian paid them no heed. Cassilda looked miserable, hunched over, her beautiful face a weary, hoary mask.
    “The heat,” said Fergal, raising his voice to pontificate to the company, “is the reason why there is no civilization left in the Wotan Veldt. This is not good land for growing, though cattle can be raised here, if they are of the tough, lean sort. Water holes are riddled with predators, particularly large crocodilians and kayrek. The gnus are hunted by hyenas and giant cats, which in turn occasionally kill sentient beings such as us when they can. The animals, of course, deal with the heat because they have no choice, yet humans prefer a more temperate environment to live in. The Mawlden Forest beckoned to Wotan’s people, with its canopy to provide shade and its rich soil to give sustenance. When they left, the highways that led through the Veldt were abandoned and faded away. No one remembers now, even though they were a considerable empire with a rich artistic tradition. The pottery of Wotan’s people was prized even among my own kind. Can you imagine the barbarians making ornate, fine pottery? Can you imagine them living out here, laboring among their cattle in the shadow of a towering ziggurat? The cornerstone of their religion and the seat of their empire was the pyramid of Glaeze. We may chance upon the remnants of its foundations if we are lucky.”
    “What luck would that be, to stumble over fallen stones?” asked the Thief. “It is bad luck to travel through graveyards, haunted as they are, and a ruin is just another place for the restless dead.”
    “Only children and simpletons fear ghosts. There are no such things,” said Josun.
    “Really, barbarian? Is that how you console your conscience? None of the lives that you have taken have returned to bother you, I take it?”
    “You cannot return from death. Even the Roslagen, who live by superstition, do not believe so. They say that Prax, eater of the dead, devours the souls of the slain. They kill for him so that his hunger will be temporarily sated, thus prolonging their own lives.”
    “Prax has changed much over the years, it would seem,” said Fergal. “I remember him being a trickster, a god of the harvest, a friend to thieves and drunkards.”
    “Interesting that a fun-loving trickster god has transformed over time into a blood-thirsty diner of souls,” mused Cassilda. “Perhaps that was his final trick. After all, drunks are only blessed until their livers die, and thieves have a habit of hanging from the scaffold.”
    “Only the lousy ones,” retorted the Thief.
    Ahead of them rose a pile of stacked-stones. Fergal emerged from the tall grass and deftly climbed atop the mound to survey the area. Light was fading rapidly, and there were miles of plain remaining. The mound provided an elevated spot to camp, and he could see no better place in the general vicinity. Setting down his pack, he motioned for the others to join him.
    “No better spot with nightfall so close. Let us sit and rest. Would you provide a fire, Josun? There are no raiders in this wilderness, and the light will keep the beasts at bay.”
    Josun removed kindling and a small log from his pack along with a piece of flint, and soon a small fire burned. The travelers sat around it, leaning on their packs, staring into the flames, light dancing on their faces, revealing tired dispositions. None of them were accustomed to the amount of traveling they had endured. The Thief was sure that he had walked more the past week than he had done his entire life, judging by his aching feet and exhausted energy reserves. Usually the onset of night resulted in his revitalization—the white light of the moon, the stretching shadows, the decrease in temperature—but lately, despite his vague intentions of escaping, he just couldn’t shake the heavy feeling of fatigue. The feeling must have been mutual, since no one had commented on Fergal’s decision to stop and rest for the night. But no one wants to risk questioning the little troll, he thought. He was broken out of his brief reverie by Cassilda’s sudden clearing of her throat.
    “How are you feeling, Thief?” she asked. “Weary and drawn-out, like too little jam scraped over a dry biscuit?”
    “I’m as tired as anyone else and desirous of sleep. Leave me be.”
    “You know how I came upon that periapt you are keeping for me in your pocket? I was at a party thrown by the Proctress of Dortmund, one of those extravagant affairs where the rich flaunt their wealth without an ounce of shame. Other than ogling the beautiful women (of which I was one), there wasn’t much fun to be had for a man such as yourself, who would undoubtedly prefer a noisy tavern full of boisterous drunkards and bar wenches that don’t yell for security when they are groped. Of course, noblewomen are free from pinches and unwanted kisses, but courtesans are kept around for just such abuse. One of the many perks of being a magician is that you can keep hands away from your arse with a spell that makes you too beautiful to approach. Anyway, I saw the amulet beneath a glass case next to the buffet, just another treasure sitting and collecting dust. How it matched my eyes! That fact alone made it irresistible, and I decided on the spot that I must possess it. The proctor had rigged the usual enchantments, but she had not counted on a courtesan catching the eye of one of her teachers. He saw me staring at the periapt, and began to tell its history, and I learned that it once belonged to Vyrmyth, an almost mythical sorcerer from the dawn of civilization. The wizard said that it amplifies the natural talents of its wearer, and in the case of a magician, it strengthens his or her powers doubly. Yet this comes at a cost, for it slowly takes a bit of your life every day. Now a magician can simply diminish this effect through elixirs and spellcraft, but a regular man will feel the toll that the amulet takes on his body. He may feel his desire to do anything disappear, and what once would have aroused him only results in impotency and sloth.”
    “Are you claiming that this thing will make me into a eunuch?” asked the Thief.
    “I don’t know. How much libido do you have to spare?”
    “My libido is fine,” said the Thief, giving her a rakish smile, “though I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.”
    “No doubt truer words were never spoken! You can go bugger yourself. Keep that amulet out of spite, if you must, but realize that you may need my help someday, and I might not be able to give it. Now be quiet, all of you, for I would like to get some rest.”
    “The lady’s wish is my command,” said the Thief, letting out a rolling belch that reverberated through the night like the roar of a lion.
    “I will have first watch,” volunteered Josun. The wavering light of the fire danced across his hard features, accentuating their edges, making his visage appear as though it were carved out of granite.
    “That is three nights in a row that you have had first watch. Perhaps you should get some rest…” started Fergal.
    “No,” said Josun, shaking his head. The Aiv shrugged and settled down, his head on his pack, his body curling into the fetal position. Shimmering night sounds of locusts and far away bullfrogs filled the air. Not far away something began a repetitive series of barks and huffs that continued for about five minutes before ending suddenly with a shrill scream. The Thief found it difficult to sleep. He kept approaching the event horizon only to be spurred awake by yet another bestial vocalization that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to raise. With the Heart thumping loudly in his chest, he found himself vowing to never sleep beneath the stars at the conclusion of this journey. Lady Luck give me a roof and a bottle of wine and the company of no one he whispered. A white ball streaked across the sky, leaving a dusty trail of fire in its wake. Though he was staring right at the comet, the Thief did not see it.
    In the dream he walked below the earth, through subterranean capillaries, blindly groping his way through the darkness like a mole rat following faint whispers, hands extended like star-shaped proboscises. Suddenly the darkness gave way to light, and he stood in a massive cavern, a strange emerald city looming ahead, its walls stretching into infinity, its towers spiraling like the coils of a snake. A door appeared in front of him, disconnected from anything, and against his will he opened it and gazed into an abyss. The darkness churned in the abyss; horrid shapes came together only to decay moments later, leaving behind silhouetted abominations of triangular teeth, elongated claws, and misplaced eyes. Thief said a voice from the void. He backed away from the door, shaking his head, the brand on his hand burning like fire. A limb shot out of the ether, a stalk-like protrusion ending in a squirming mass of feeler tentacles. The cavern rumbled with a groan, the infinite walls of the alien city vibrating like an illusion on the horizon. The thing was still trying to get through the door—two more arachnoid stalks wriggled on the outside, trying to gain traction—but it seemed to be too bulky to easily pass through. The Thief wanted to flee, but his feet refused to move. In the distance, something launched itself from a spiraling tower, a winged monstrosity that glided through the volcanic air, growing larger as it approached. It’s mine, not theirs whispered a woman. He turned and saw the sorceress at his side, her hair auburn, eyes as green as the emerald city. Don’t look, you’ll go insane. A slime-coated tongue slid past the stalks, feeling its way across the earth, leaving a trail of mucus in its wake. I must have it. Do you not understand revenge? He has won; he has taken everything from me. Death is the only retort I can give. Without revenge I have no meaning. Without the Heart, I have no revenge.
    A shadow fell, enveloping all in darkness. As he looked above, he felt a sudden wind beat upon him like a hurricane. Cowering on his belly, hands wrapped around his head, the Thief saw great bat wings stretched across the cavern ceiling, their motion titanic, pummeling the air as though they were the appendages of a god. A skeletal head lolled downward, hot breath billowing from its opened maw, and he knew that in a moment there would be nothing left of him or the sorceress, for nothing could withstand the incinerating heat of a dying star. Give it to me she said. It is your only hope.

    He awoke suddenly, the night sky sparkling with a billion scattered stars. Clouds of breath steamed from his mouth, a sudden cold having set in, leaving frost on his face. The desire to return to sleep weighed his body down, though the disturbing vision he’d just experienced necessitated rising, no matter the level of fatigue. A sixth sense, a thief’s presentiment, crawled his skin and told him to observe before making a move. Smoldering embers were what remained of the campfire, and Josun was not on watch. No one had relieved him, however, for Fergal remained in repose, as did Cassilda. The night noises that had kept sleep away for so long had ceased, which led to his realization what the matter was. There’s an unnatural silence. No insects hummed, no birds chattered, no beasts roared. Very slowly, he slid his elbows back and arched his upper body up so that he could see below.
    Josun stood at the bottom of the ruins, a strange look on his face, as though all the blood had recently been drained from it. His right hand was stretched out in front of him, fingers extended as if to caress the chin of an invisible lover, while his body remained tense, its rigidity plain in the statuesque pose it held. The Thief only knew the barbarian was alive because of the small puffs of moisture that emitted from his nostrils every few seconds. What is he looking at? For several moments the Thief saw nothing in front of the man. It was only when he paid attention to the slow movement of Josun’s fingers that he saw a mimic reflection made of faint, almost invisible light. A ragged outline floated above the earth, an ashen imprint of moonbeams as ephemeral as the frost that coated the grass. There was a music to it too, an ambient drone like the slow trickle of water in a subterranean cavern. When their fingers touched, he heard a coo emit from the specter, the soft noise of a baby. The Lady save us. He had never seen a ghost before, never believed in them despite what the sorcerers said. The coldness, the absolute cessation of life—he was not fooled by quiet sounds or meek impressions. Josun’s face, sucked dry of vigor, explained the situation. The question was, what could he do about it? Would noise frighten it away? Would Fergal know what to do? Seeing a rock lying nearby, he decided to wake him with a well-aimed throw at his enormous head. The stone glanced off the Aiv’s brow with a thud; eyelids fluttered but did not open, while a groan elicited from his mouth before tapering off into a snore. The Thief cursed under his breath and looked around for another rock. As he reached for a suitably-sized pebble, a spiderweb of ice spread on the ground beneath his hand.
    Come with us, come with us, be with us forever, we do not wish to be alone, you will come with us and be with us and it will be lessened, we will feel again when you are with us, we will be more than frost on fallen leaves, we will be more than derelict memories, we will have form and function and blood and flesh and a name.
    Something cold touched his shoulder, stealing warmth from his body with every second that it lingered. A soft sigh slithered through his ears, its weariness coursing through his head. He felt an infinite tiredness of being, a feeling he imagined only the ancient and the chronically-pained ever experienced. The yearning for eternal sleep, the paradoxical peace of nonexistence, pawed at his soul like a halfhearted feline. He knew it was the specter, that it wanted the life which it could never again have, yet its desire was so strong that he could do nothing but lay there comatose and wait to become a corpse. A shout rang out; briefly, he felt it turn its attention away from him and lessen its grip somewhat, yet when he tried to move, the Thief found that his legs were frozen, covered in ice. He could tilt his head still—there was Fergal, waving arms, great eyes as wide as the moon—but everything else was paralyzed by frost. As the Aiv shouted at the specter, its anger grew like water boiling in a hot spring. The coos turned to guttural howls, long, drawn out moans that cut through the heart like a scythe through wheat. He heard Fergal gasp, saw him stumble and fall as the spirit approached, its appearance having become darker and more suggestive of a decaying assembly of bones. Arms reached for him, crooked like a shepherd’s staff. “No, please, leave me be!” whimpered the small humanoid, yet the Thief knew it had no pity, for pity was an emotion for the living, and the dead knew only fear, anger, and infinite sorrow.
    A bright light lit up the night like a firework, erasing the scattered stars. Little meteors fell from the sky, bringing fire and warmth. A voice like the rushing wind drowned out the specter’s howl. The ice on his legs turned to water and feeling returned to his limbs. Pulling himself to his feet, the Thief looked upon Cassilda, standing before the spirit, her body pulsing with an emerald glow, fire writhing over her fingertips. She flicked her wrist and fire encircled the specter, the flames licking at its icy, cold light. He felt the dead thing’s terror in his heart, felt it release its hold on him and the others.
    “Imprint of emotion, release them and be gone! You are nothing but a shadow burned onto the earth, still clinging to the life that you lost. Nameless, forgotten, dead before your time, we give you the pity that you cannot give yourself. Be gone, for the soul has long ago fled and vanished to wherever it is dead things go. Let go of the mortal realm. I banish you for all time. Now leave!”
    With her final utterance, the flames lit up high and the specter shrieked. In an instant, there was nothing, only the quiet night, the multitude of stars, and a pile of ash where the spirit had been. Cassilda approached the pile, tore a rag from her shirt, and deposited a pinch of ash onto the rag, which she then tied together and placed in her pocket. Turning to Fergal, who lay on the ground with his hands on his head, she bent down and whispered something into his ear, causing him to cease his blubbering.
    “Thief,” she said, pointing down the hill, “I need your help. The barbarian is unconscious, and I don’t believe I can drag his bulk to the fire.”
    “Why don’t you cast a spell…” started the Thief.
    “Because magic takes effort, and I’m all spent, and really you should be more cooperative, seeing how I just saved your life.”
    “The amulet is not in my pocket,” he said, suddenly noticing the lack of weight in his pocket.
    “Yes, it is around my neck, where it should be. Now help!”
    He did as she requested, dragging his numb legs down the hill, his obedience sudden and without further dissent. He found the barbarian splayed out on the grass like a slaughtered animal, face as pale as the moon, eyes rolled upward in their sockets. He looks dead thought the Thief, but he took hold of Josun underneath the arms, and dragged his considerable weight back up the hill towards the warmth of the fire. Setting him down a short distance from the cinders, he stepped back and watched as the sorceress rekindled the flames with a snap of the fingers. Light bathed the barbarian’s wan face; with murmured words and a sprinkling of ash mixed with a few droplets of blood, vigor returned to his visage. Cassilda lay for a long time with her ear pressed to his chest before becoming satisfied.
    “It will be a while before he wakes,” she said, touching his face. “The wraith drained much of his life away and only kindling remains. We can do quite a bit with kindling, though. Like the fire that roars before you, it can be built up once more, provided fuel is available. We may have to give our blood to our companion here, until he is strong enough to live without it. You may be exempt, Fergal, for I know naught what kind of ichor runs in your veins.”
    “My blood is blue,” said Fergal, staring past the sorceress’s shoulder.
    “So’s mine,” said the Thief with a grin. Fergal’s stare never wavered, his eyes as distant as the moon.
    “I don’t believe he is familiar with that human idiom, you fool,” said Cassilda. “A step away from death’s door, and you continue with your frivolous manner, as though that specter did not almost kill you.”
    “I take back what I said about you earlier. You are quite fetching when you’re angry.”
    “If you wish to see me angry, keeping speaking. Otherwise, hold out your arm and roll up your sleeve. Do you have any diseases that we should know about?”
    “Other than a bout of clap that was thankfully remedied by an herbalist, I’m as healthy as any peasant-born man who makes his living through breaking and entering.”
    Cassilda sighed and took his knife and drew a mark on the Thief’s arm. She put a few droplets in a vial and then cleaned the blade.
    “I will give him some in a minute. The both of you can go back to sleep, if you can. I will stay with him the rest of the night.”
    Neither the Thief nor Fergal found themselves able to sleep. There was a coldness that would not leave them, and despite his comment, the Thief could not bring himself to think of anything other than the piercing, thin voice of the ghost. It wasn’t until dawn that the rising sun melted the frost that had seized their hearts, and they rose fatigued, but thankful for the light of day.

Next Chapter: A Shadow over Dunfermline

Albums That Made Me: Pinkerton

Weezer's Pinkerton is an album that I do not possess much affection for now. I find Rivers Cuomo's lovesick Japanophile nerd image unbearable, and the last time El Scorcho came on the radio, I had an epiphany and realized that it was just as bad a tune as Beverly Hills or Hashpipe. The critical cliche about Weezer is that they made two great albums and then a bunch of stinkers; I don't know if that's necessarily true, since Cuomo has never changed his Nirvana meets Cheap Trick while stealing licks from the Cars sound. Rather, I think the Blue Album and Pinkerton represent the apex of that particular combination, sort of like how Highway to Hell and Back in Black epitomize all that AC/DC are about. Across the Sea is a sad tale of rock star loneliness, layered with brilliant guitar parts; Butterfly is the Big Star ballad you never knew Cuomo had in him. Cuomo said that the recording of Pinkerton was much rawer and more half-hazard compared to their debut, but Weezer are such a tight band that you never really notice like you might with In Utero. That being said, Tired of Sex and Getchoo have an edge that Weezer needed to contrast with their geeky image represented by songs such as Pink Triangle. Listening to it today, I'm not sure if it's that great of an album. Regardless, it definitely influenced my own songwriting after I had listened to it. It certainly seemed to have a similar effect on many other bands, for pop-emo exploded a couple years after Pinkerton's release.

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