The Recalling of John Arrowsmith

A Strange Place in Time - 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product...

Author: Shaw Alyx

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A Strange Place in Time - 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. A Strange Place in Time TOP SHELF An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers PO Box 2545 Round Rock, TX 78680 Copyright 2007 © by Alyx Shaw Cover illustration by Pluto Published with permission ISBN: 978-1-60370-302-4, 1-60370-302-0 www.torquerepress.com All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. First Torquere Press Printing: March 2008 Printed in the USA


Chapter One

Harley didn't say much. John Arrowsmith could tell what the massive, custom-built red and gold motorcycle would say about almost anything without the bother of asking him. However, as Arrowsmith and his motorcycle soared easily down the road, winding their way through the Fraser Canyon, he wondered what the machine was thinking. To his right, sheer grey cliffs rose high above his head, a slightly darker shade of grey than the dimming November sky that threatened to drop rain on him. The walls were jagged, as though chiseled by some disinterested god, counting on rain and wind to smooth his work. To Arrowsmith's left, the Fraser River crashed and writhed within its deep canyon like a muddy brown dragon, reminding him that this was a road to be careful on. A sudden, ice-cold splash of water on his neck told him this was not the time of year to be out on a motorcycle. Another drop hit his fringed black glove, sliding quickly down the glossy leather, and he sighed heavily. He was cold, he was tired, and now it was raining. With his luck, the rain would wash boulders down on top of his head and send him into the river. "What are we doing out here, Harley?" Arrowsmith frequently talked to his bike. He had yet to get an answer. The bike passed through one of the many short, dark tunnels that lined the way to the area of the river known as Hell's Gate. As it left the shelter of the passage, another drop of rain struck Arrowsmith, this time in the eye. He wondered if there was a place ahead to pull off of the road for a while. He'd never been on this road before, and for the life of him he didn't know why he was there now. The rain began in earnest, slashing down like the scratches on a foreign film. Overhead, the sky had further darkened as night approached. Then he noticed a widening of the road, a small gravel parking lot where tourists could stop to take photos of the area. He was shocked to see a huge brown motorhome in the lot as he pulled in. He would have thought it late in the year for tourists. The front of the vehicle showed British Columbia plates. Arrowsmith decided it was probably a family heading to Mexico for the winter. He pulled up next to it, using it as a shield against the rain. He reached down one gloved hand to idly stroke the glossy, rain-soaked gas tank of his bike. Harley wasn't a Harley; at least, he wasn't a purebred. Arrowsmith had built Harley out of a jumble of bike parts, some of which he had designed and put together himself. He was "the biggest fucker you ever saw," as Arrowsmith's adopted father put it. The bike suited Arrowsmith perfectly, a huge, mellow beast that looked like it could climb up the ass of an eighteen-wheeler and chew his way through to the radiator. Big cars that normally ignored bikes respected him. Little cars thought it prudent to stay behind him. Harley could travel down roads motorcycles had no business being on. Brian used to say that Japanese bikes committed hara-kiri in shame at the sight of him.


The enormous bike seemed to have his own personality. "Friendly bastard, ain't it?" Smash used to say, when the skinny biker came around to see what his 'nephew' was doing. Harley did seem to be friendly. Worse, he was almost alive, especially with his horse skull mounted over the headlight and wolf skin decorations draped across his back. It wasn't unusual for people to greet the bike as well as the rider. For a few brief years, Arrowsmith and Harley were part of the local color in the town of Courtenay, and they had their photograph taken by more than a few tourists. Arrowsmith would have been shocked to find out most people just wanted a shot of the bike's strikingly beautiful owner. The people Arrowsmith had grown up with were bikers. They had raised him after his mother, a member of their club, had abandoned him at three months of age. They were good folks. But as Arrowsmith thought about them while he sat in the rain, he knew that, right now, they were sitting with the other bikers and wondering what the fuck their weirdo son was up to this time. Arrowsmith thought it was a good question, one he wished he could answer. But he had no explanation. He had built Harley for this nameless trip, though he hadn't known that when he first began work on the bike. He found out last night, when a sudden, overwhelming impulse told him it was time to go. He had packed his belongings into Harley's bags, and this morning he had set out. Now he was wet and cold, and had no idea where he was going. He wished at least Brian and Silver were there. That would have been cool. He thought about the previous evening as he lit a cigarette. "Any asshole can smoke when it's sunny," Smash always said, "but it takes a real hero to smoke in the rain." Arrowsmith agreed with that thought, if ‘hero’ translated into 'idiot.' He kept trying to get his cigarette going. He had packed his bags before going to bed, Brian and Silver helping, or at least pretending to. They were not glad to be seeing their friend of ten years head out. "When will you be back?" Silver asked in his quiet, ghostly voice, his silver-white mane of hair falling down into his face. Silver's other nicknames were 'Casper' and 'Edgar Winter.' His real name was Ralph. Silver didn't look like a 'Ralph.' Arrowsmith always secretly thought he looked more like an 'Odin' or 'Thor.’ The bikers had dubbed him Silver, and frankly, when one ran with bikers, one could end up with worse names. Like his uncle Cockrot. "Not really sure," said Arrowsmith. "I'll be back someday." They had been standing together in the garage next to the little house where Arrowsmith lived with his adopted parents. Legally, his adopted family was known as Mr. Thomas Roland Whitehall and Mrs. Lillian Alice Whitehall. Everybody however called them by their biker handles: Mother and Popsicle. Mother had gained his name because of his huge beer-gut. He looked like he was carrying twin baby hippos. In the distance they could hear Motorhead pounding away, the sound emanating from the house. Arrowsmith kicked at the stained concrete floor. The lights overhead caused the razors lining his motorcycle boot to glitter. "Why do you have to go?" asked Brian. "It doesn't make sense, man."


"Look I have no idea," said Arrowsmith. "I just don't feel like I belong here anymore." That was true enough. What Arrowsmith didn't mention was he had never felt as though he had belonged. Once he had thought that was because he had been abandoned, but as he grew older, he was less sure about that. He was a pretty strange guy for a biker, a fact that had earned him his own handle, 'Spooky'. He got it on one of his midnight sleepwalking sessions. According to Popsicle, he had begun sleepwalking when he was fourteen. He would get up, get dressed, go into the kitchen to eat, all the normal things waking people would do. At first it was frightening, but Mother and Popsicle got used to it. They would find him sleeping in the garage, the bathtub, and other places. Sometimes he would talk while wandering around, and it was the phrases he would utter that earned him the name. Most of them had to do with death. This was also odd, because Arrowsmith was generally a happy guy. He was a natural clown who liked almost everybody, and the feeling was usually mutual. That was what made the odd rambling about death, infinity, and reincarnation so odd. Another unexpected aspect of Arrowsmith was his insatiable love of classical writings and music. True, he had his fair share of ZZ Top, Motorhead, Meat Loaf, and other like bands. It was just that anyone going through his music collection would also find Enya, Beethoven, and an assortment of New Age Music. On more than a few occasions Mother had wandered into the garage to find Arrowsmith working on his bike with ‘Ode to Joy’ literally rattling the windows. The three in the garage stood uncomfortably. Finally Brian sighed, shaking his head. "You're a weird guy, Spooky. But I'm really gonna miss you, and if you don't come back, Silver and I are gonna hunt you down." Arrowsmith laughed. "I'll be back. Never fear. I couldn't go the rest of my life without my two friends to tell me when I'm being an asshole." "Finland, you're always an asshole," said Silver, a slight smile on his face. Arrowsmith grinned back at him. Silver always called him 'Finland.' Brian never understood the reference. "Well anyway," said Brian, "don't you and Harley be gone too long." "Be back as soon as I can," said Arrowsmith. The three friends hugged each other. Everyone was getting a little choked up. Fortunately, Mother walked in to add a little comic relief. "Why is there a group fuckin' hug goin' on in my garage?" he yelled as he walked in. Arrowsmith turned around to face his adopted father. "Give us a hug, ya aging shitpile." "Fuck you," said Mother, and hugged him. Silver sighed wistfully. "Male bonding. Isn't it wonderful?"


Mother looked over at Silver. "You're a weird guy," he said. Silver smiled and blinked innocently back at Mother. A wisp of white-blond hair fell across one pale blue eye. He was a perfect contrast next to Brian, with his black skin and dark brown eyes. Standing together, they looked like a photonegative. They spent the better part of the night sitting together and drinking beer. The next day, Arrowsmith left the town where he had spent his life and set out for Fraser Canyon. He didn't know why. He just had to get there. "Maybe I don't really have to be here," said Arrowsmith to Harley. The rain was coming down in torrents now. "Maybe it was temporary insanity." He pulled the collar of his leather jacket up higher around his neck. He wished he had a spot to be dry and wait out the storm. He glanced at the smug brown motor home. He knew what it was thinking. 'Sure, you've got an awesome motorcycle, and no one ever wrote a rock and roll song about an RV. But who's the asshole now, buddy? You've got water in your boots, and you can't even look for shelter because that hawg of yours has no business being out in the freezing rain. Suck on that, dude.' "Fuck you," muttered Arrowsmith, who was shivering now. He wished he'd left earlier in the day, but how the hell was he supposed to know God would pick that day to piss on a biker? He wondered for a moment if he should start going to church. "Hey buddy!" called a voice to his left. "Are you wet enough yet?" It was the voice of an older man. Arrowsmith turned to look, but could see nothing in the perfect blackness. He heard a woman gently chide: "Don't tease him, Fred." "No," said Arrowsmith. "I think there's three square inches on my butt that's still dry." The man laughed. "Do you want to come in for a bit and dry off?" Arrowsmith said "Sure. Just let me put the bike to bed." He got off of Harley's back and opened one of the large saddlebags. Inside there was a tarp and some stakes to anchor it. As he shook it out and draped it over the huge bike, a light came on as the RV door opened. It showed the writing on the oiled canvas cover, old English letters that spelled out 'Harley's Tarp'. Arrowsmith secured it and almost bolted into the large vehicle. Arrowsmith could tell the moment he saw the middle-aged woman inside the RV that she had serious doubts about letting him in. She was standing as far from him as possible, just watching. Arrowsmith was used to being stared at; he didn’t blend easily into a crowd. He was large, well over six feet, and not a spare ounce on him anywhere. Clad in stained jeans, a black t-shirt, and a huge black leather jacket, his hands scarred from fighting and working on motorcycles, and razors lining his boots, few people overlooked him. The insignia for his motorcycle club on the back of his jacket likely didn’t ease her mind, either. Few people would be comforted by the image of a flaming motorcycle backed by a burning gold sword topped with a skull.


Arrowsmith accepted the towel he was offered and began drying off, catching a glimpse of himself in a small decorative mirror hanging on a wall. His long hair, when it dried, would be the same shade of golden-brown as his eyes, framing his aristocratic face. That was Popsicle’s word for how he looked, but he suspected she was biased, being his mom and all. She also said he was beautiful, but in a masculine way. Currently Arrowsmith thought he looked like some dumb jerk who had been riding his bike in the rain. "So how long you been a biker?" Fred asked politely. "Always," said Arrowsmith, scrubbing at his long hair. "My grandparents and parents were bikers." He lowered the towel and stood up straight, rising above their heads. He extended a hand that bore a small, strange tattoo, a raven inside of a circle, crossed by a lightning bolt. "John Arrowsmith," he said. The older man took his hand. "Fred Harrison. This is my wife, Andrea. What are you doing out in the rain? This is no time of the year for motorcycles." Arrowsmith didn't want to tell him the truth. By the looks of things the woman was already scared of him. No reason to make them think he was crazy. "Just out for a last ride," he said. "Before I have to put the bike away until spring." Arrowsmith saw the words 'drug runner ' pass through Andrea's mind. Arrowsmith didn't take drugs, at least, not anymore. Heroin had almost put him in the ground a few times before he'd managed to get clean of it. The ugly scars on his arms that had once run with pus and poison were constant reminders of why he'd stopped. They offered him a glass of wine and a place to sleep. As Andrea passed him a ham sandwich, she admitted to Arrowsmith that she had expected him to eat and behave like a barbarian, but his manners were better than Fred's. Arrowsmith had heard that before as well; another one of the strange things that earned him his nickname of Spooky. It was not merely the fact that he had manners in the first place; it was the fact that they were strangely outdated, almost Victorian. He certainly had not learned them from his adopted family. Popsicle was neat but not refined, and Smash and Mother were of the 'grab'n'growl' school. Arrowsmith smiled, self-conscious of his oddities. “My… grandmother taught me,” he lied. It was the only thing he could think of to say. In truth the only thing his grandmother had taught him in the way of etiquette was to not put his face in the bowl when he ate soup. Arrowsmith spent the night on the couch, and awoke to find the sun was up and the day was reasonably warm for the time of year. He could hear his hosts shuffling in the next room, getting ready to face the morning. He stood up and stretched, hearing various bones snap and pop. He gave himself a shake and yawned, then folded up the blanket he had used. Once more he looked out the window. It was time to head out.


"I guess you'll be moving on,” said Fred as he came out of the small bedroom to make coffee. "Yeah," said Arrowsmith. "Places to be. That kind of stuff. Thanks for letting me sleep here." "Oh no trouble," said Fred cheerfully. "Never hurts to be kind to people." Arrowsmith stayed for a cup of coffee, then Andrea further distracted him with a plate of blueberry waffles. By the time he stepped out of the RV, his hosts following after him, it was ten in the morning, and he was anxious to resume his nameless quest. It was a beautiful late fall day. The sky was clear, the sun shone down brightly, and the road was dry. It was a great day to travel. He walked over to Harley and removed his tarp, folding it and stuffing it back into the bags. Arrowsmith had a feeling that he was close to his destination. "Holy cornflakes!" exclaimed Fred. "Andrea, get over here and look at this. Where'd you get that bike?" Harley gleamed in the light, just begging to be appreciated. "I built him," said Arrowsmith. Fred's eyes were shining. "Man, that thing looks like he'd eat a tractor trailer for breakfast." Arrowsmith knew where this was heading, and he wasn't surprised when Fred hauled out a camera. He got onto the bike and posed obligingly for the photo. Then he said goodbye to both of them. Fred and Andrea watched as he started the huge bike, slowly turning it towards the road. He paused to look for anything behind himself coming forward, then pulled out of the little lot. They hadn't heard the car coming over the roar of Harley's engine. Even if they had, there was no way they could have known it was on the wrong side of the road because of the obscuring cliff wall. It was a large, blue vehicle, and it was there so suddenly there was scarcely any time to react. The driver, upon seeing the motorcycle, didn't go back his own lane. Instead he panicked and tried to go around the bike to avoid hitting it. Arrowsmith saw what he was doing at the last second and managed to avoid him, but he was forced straight into the path of the truck that the blue car had just passed. There was nowhere to go but forward. The truck just grazed the back tire, but it was enough to fling the bike off of the narrow shoulder of the road. Fred and Andrea watched in horror as the bike vanished over the cliff. They heard the truck scream to a halt, but the blue car kept going. The driver leapt out of his vehicle and ran to the side of the road where the bike had gone off. He stopped and peered down, then looked over his shoulder at the couple. "Did I hit him?"


Andrea crossed the road to stand by the driver. She could only nod. She looked over the edge, down at the writhing force of the river. There was nothing there. Not a scrap of leather, not a glint of gold. "He must have gone straight into the river," the man said. "In those clothes with that current, he would have been sucked right down." He stared for a moment longer, then ran back to his truck to call the police. *** Arrowsmith saw the river appear beneath him, and knew he was going to die. He had absolutely no say in the matter, and as a result, he felt only an odd curiosity. He wondered if he would know he was dead. Then he closed his eyes. He struck something, but it wasn't water. It wasn't even cold; it was repulsively warm and extremely thick. It caught him gently, and he felt himself begin to sink into it. He clawed and struggled to get out of the mucus, feeling himself beginning to smother in the goo. An overwhelming panic gripped him as he writhed and fought like a netted fish. It was one thing to die suddenly. It was quite another to slowly choke in this strange matter. There seemed to be no escaping it, no matter how hard he fought. He was just sinking further into it. It filled his nose and throat, strangling him. Gradually his struggles slowed. The world became vague, then all went black.


Chapter Two

The gentle sun warmed him, drying the slime from his body, watching over him as he lay unconscious. A small bird landed on him. It hopped up and down his body, flicking its brown tail, inspecting him curiously before flying off once more. A breeze caused a few golden butterflies to rise, bobbing gracelessly. A spider climbed up the arm of his black leather jacket and eyed him critically, then went seeking a nicer neighborhood. Eventually, Arrowsmith woke up. He came awake by degrees, convulsing slightly. He was sure he could feel his blood slowly beginning to move within his veins. He lay on his side, unmoving, staring at the place in which he found himself. Wherever he was, it was not at the bottom of Fraser River, for which he was grateful. But still, where was he? The air was cool, and smelled of fall. That was right enough, but as he slowly raised himself, he saw that he was on a mountainside. Below him was a fantastic waterfall of gold and red trees, falling gently away down the slopes. It was beautiful, but it wasn't Fraser Canyon. He pulled his jacket closer to himself, shivering as he slowly sat up. The soft, dry mountain moss crushed under his shifting weight, and he idly brushed the dust from his hands. He looked around nervously and, seeing Harley, got up and walked over to him. The great red and gold bike had taken quite a hit, but Harley looked like he had survived it okay. By the time night fell, Arrowsmith was satisfied the bike was in perfect order, save for the dents and scrapes in his red hide. Arrowsmith threw the tarp over the bike, then set up his small tent and made a fire just the way Smash had shown him: two books of matches, a little kindling, and way too much gas. After the contained explosion puffed up in his face, Arrowsmith was grateful he still had his eyebrows. Night began to slowly settle around him as he gathered more wood for his fire. Overhead, the sky faded to a depthless blue, while the horizon blazed golds and reds. Arrowsmith was no great astronomer, but he knew a few constellations. He turned his gaze to the incredible expansion of stars above him, thinking they looked like the contents of an overturned sugar bowl. He turned circles, looking for the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, or the constellation of Orion. Eventually he made himself dizzy, and he sat down hard. But he still saw nothing he recognized. As it grew darker, he spotted lights somewhere down the mountain, possibly a town. But it was far away, and Arrowsmith felt too shaky to travel. He certainly didn't feel like dragging Harley down a mountain in the dark. "I'm cold and I'm lost," mewled the six foot, four inch, and two hundred and twenty pound leather-clad biker. Arrowsmith sat huddled near his fire and tried to figure out what had happened to him. He had flown off the road and into the river, or at least into the air over the river. Arrowsmith didn't know lot about physics, but he knew things that went up came down. He should be in the river,


not on a mountain. Had he survived the fall by some miracle, and been wandering around in shock? And if he had been in shock, then how did the bike get there? The idea made no sense. He set up his tent, then entered and took off his clothes. They were a little scuffed, and he had some bruises, but nothing like what he would have after falling off a cliff. He'd heard of people falling distances that should have killed them and surviving, so what had happened was not impossible, but extremely rare. Even so, he'd never heard of one of those people not having a single broken bone to show afterwards. He vaguely recalled falling through some heavy slime, but as he checked himself and his clothes, he found no sign of it. A nightmare, he supposed, or a hallucination. He would go down to the little town tomorrow and talk to a doctor. Tired and confused, he climbed into his sleeping bag and went to sleep. He awoke late morning, cold and much more sore than he had been the previous night. He dozed off and on for a time before rising, then finally dressed and climbed out of the tent. He saw a large stump he had not noticed the previous evening, and he walked over to it. Climbing onto it, he looked around at the area. The fantastic Halloween scent of autumn maple leaves was intoxicating, and he breathed their fragrance as he looked around. Red and golden trees rustled gently in the light autumn wind, offset by a crystal-clear sky of the most amazing shade of blue. A few white fluffy clouds drifted by, moving east towards a high wall of distant snow-tipped mountains. Below him, he saw the beginnings of a vast ocean of a thousand colors. It rolled and waved for miles, a huge rock concert of every kind of red, gold, and green God could think of, all poured down onto one forest. Farther away he saw the forest edge, and beyond that the flat green of a plain. Across the plain was a silver glint of a river, a very big river, Arrowsmith thought, to be so noticeable at such a distance. But not one road. He got down from the stump and walked back to his tent. He was really hungry now. He hoped he would find a roadside cafe on his way to town, or at least run something over he could cook. Arrowsmith could eat anything that hadn't been dead long enough to collect maggots, and he made great Road Kill Stew. This thought in mind, he began nosing around for something dead. He located a deer not far away, and at first, he thought he had made a real find. Perhaps it was some hunter's quarry that had escaped, but not before taking a mortal wound. Arrowsmith walked up to the creature, and stopped. The deer was lying on her side, and at first, Arrowsmith thought her back end was covered by branches. But, as he drew near, he saw she didn't have a back end. Something had bitten it off, and by the look of the clean, crescent-shaped wound, had done it in one bite. He stared at the deer, knowing that what he was looking at could not possibly be. Nothing was that big, not bears, not wolves, shit, not even Bigfoot. But judging from the huge tracks all around the deer, Bigfoot was the one who'd done it. Arrowsmith slowly backed away, looking about nervously. All he could think about was himself lying in his tent, his little fire burning away. It could have been him laying there, not the deer.


He turned and ran to gather his gear and take down the tent. He was packed in moments, stowing his few belongings into his saddlebags, then set about trying to walk his bike down the side of a mountain. This was not the easiest thing to do; the bike was heavy, and some of the places he was forced to tread were not very stable. It took him hours to go just a short way, and a lesser man may have left the damn bike. But not John Arrowsmith, he had built that mother and it was coming with him, monster or not. Sunset was about an hour away when Arrowsmith found a road. He came crashing out of the bushes and trees, dragged by the weight of his great machine through brambles and onto its flat surface. Arrowsmith nearly fell, but managed to keep his feet. He still had a death grip on the bike's handlebars, and at first all he could do was glare at what he had found suspicious, as though it was merely a joke being played upon him, and would disappear after a second. The road stayed where it was, a wide dirt path worn smooth and lined with white stones. He sighed, and put the kickstand down, then looked at his hands. His gloves had saved them from being worse than they were, but they were still in pretty bad shape. The skin was torn and bloodied, and his clothes were ripped from passing through brambles. For the last half-mile, he had been limping along on a sprained ankle. He didn't want to look at it; he knew it would be purple, and swollen too big to get back into the boot if he took his foot out. He sighed and sat down on Harley's wide back, rubbing his eyes wearily. He rested on the road, seeing and hearing nothing human. For a while it was nice, but then he became nervous, wondering what could be in the woods watching him. It was an unsettling thought, and he swung one long leg over Harley's back and gave him a kick. The engine coughed, but nothing happened. "Oh come on, baby, this is no place to die." He kicked it again, but still nothing happened. "Please start, or something is going to come out of the woods and get us. C'mon, start." He kicked it again, but still nothing happened. "Look, there is a monster coming to get us and it is twenty five feet high and eats motorcycles, now will you..." The engine turned, bellowing into life. The sound echoed down the sides of the mountain, causing deer and small birds to take flight. After the silence, the noise was overwhelming, but Arrowsmith didn't care. He and Harley wove their way gently down the road. The road was a long one, and the most beautiful Arrowsmith had ever been down. It wandered passed gigantic trees, and high crystal waterfalls cut into lichen-covered stone, then out to the edge of the cliffs, where Arrowsmith could get a better look at the valley in the light of the setting sun. All around he saw high snowy peaks, and trees large enough to hold up the sky. It was truly magnificent, a home suitable for unicorns, brave knights and wizards. But none of it looked familiar. ***


He rode into town very suddenly. One moment he was in the middle of nowhere, the next, he was on Main Street Hicksville. He stopped the bike abruptly, watching as chickens screamed and darted madly out of his way. Two horses were throwing themselves wildly at the end of their tethers, trying to escape the racket. Interestingly, there were no people on the street. Arrowsmith cut the engine, and now the only sounds were those of the squawking chickens and the snorting horses. He got off his bike and walked painfully over to one of the big animals, putting his hand out to touch the dappled grey hide. He patted the horses for a little while. They seemed to calm down now that the noise had stopped, but they were still sweating. They were very large, and they had faint marks on their necks and bodies that he thought could have been made by a harness. Plough horses, maybe, but Arrowsmith didn't know much about horses or ploughs. He gave the nervous animals a final pat, then walked back to his bike. He sat on Harley and looked around. He had been in little tourist trap towns before, but nothing like this. The street was empty. No one had come out to either say hi or shoot at him. He could see from one end of the tiny settlement to the other. The mountain road ran right through it, forking off at one point and going south, while the other road continued east and faded into the trees. Little houses were intermingled with little shops, their signs dangling in the wind, but the style was wrong. He was familiar enough with 'old-fashioned' buildings. He knew little about them, but he knew what they should look like. And these buildings just didn't look like that. They were wood and stone, mostly, and the doors were partly below ground, with steps leading down. They were low, more below ground than above, with thatch roofs, and long, narrow windows with multi-paned glass. The shops were flat on the ground, no steps or porches. There weren't even any sidewalks, just paths worn in the mountain dirt. Arrowsmith stood up and began pushing his bike down the street, looking at the signs on the shops. 'All sorts of stuff here,' he thought. 'There's a baker, a blacksmith, and one little building that looks as though it may be a school.' This thought was confirmed by a glimpse of small desks and a large wall slate. It was all so cute, he thought, so very picturesque. There was only one problem. It looked just a bit too authentic. Where were the placards? The little gift shops? The friendly people in period costume to explain how life was lived in the Middle Ages? Arrowsmith paused and looked around. "Where the fuck am I?" he muttered. He noticed a sign he thought might be just what he needed. It depicted some sort of frightfully ugly beast running away from an unseen pursuer. The doors of the building were wide open, and he smelled the warm scent of food cooking. Within, he could see low wooden tables and an inviting fireplace. It looked like a tavern. He left Harley outside, but within visual range. He limped into the tavern, noticing that he had to duck to get through the door. He hobbled over to the bar, leaning on it for support as he looked around. He saw no one.


"Hello?" he said, a little nervously. He was relieved at first, then frightened when he heard a voice in the back answer him. It was not what the voice said that frightened him, or even that the voice was speaking another language. It was the fact that he understood it perfectly. "Yeah, just hang on, be right out. What in the name of the Creator was that noise, do you know? Hope it's gone, nearly scared the..." The man stepped out of a back room, stopping his tirade as he saw Arrowsmith. The two just stared at each other. The barkeep was around a foot shorter than Arrowsmith, battle-scarred and missing an eye. He was wearing a soft leather apron over his clothes, which were also leather, and very simply made. The strong hands were holding a polishing cloth and tankard. They tightened around both, possibly preparing to throw them if need be. Arrowsmith extended a gloved hand towards him. "I'm John Arrowsmith. I'm lost." The barkeep ignored the hand. However, seeing the creature was not immediately dangerous, he walked around the bar to get a better look at what had come into his establishment. Arrowsmith stood quietly, balancing carefully on his one good leg. The barkeep stepped out from behind the counter, and both he and Arrowsmith kept a wary distance from one another. Again, Arrowsmith felt the surroundings were just a little too authentic, and the Tolkienesque garb on this man didn't ease the feeling. Nor did noticing that the furniture was all rather smaller than he was used to. His mind was scrambling for a reasonable explanation as to how he could speak this man's language, and it came up with one surprisingly quickly. He had recently had an accident, and he had a head injury. That could account for a great deal, and that was the reason he was going to cling to. He would suddenly wake up in a hospital and have a laugh about this. He hoped. The barkeep walked around Arrowsmith slowly, then shook his head. "Big fellow, aren't you? Where'd you come from?" "Up the road?" suggested Arrowsmith. It was more or less true. "You're a big one." The man didn't seem to have heard him. "Cree-ation on a pancake, the Creator must have had some left over that day, just decided to put it all in one ball. What's your name again?" "John Arrowsmith." "I'm Merc. Say, was that you making all that noise? Arrowsmith, hey? That's not Elvish, but with those long legs there has to be an Elf or two in your background. Half-Elves are usually little tiny things, though. Oh well, no law says you have to be. KHINNA! IT'S OKAY, IT'S NOT A DRAGON, JUST A REALLY BIG HALF-ELF!" Arrowsmith blinked. "Elf? There aren't any such things as Elves."


The two stared at each other, and once again the air became uneasy as each thought the other was crazy. Then a woman of about forty came through the same door Merc had, and stopped with a gasp as she saw Arrowsmith. Her jaw worked soundlessly for a moment as she gazed at him, then she shook her head. She declined mentioning his height, but she did notice he was limping. "Come here and sit down," she said, indicating a stool. "You are a mess, aren't you? Let me see that ankle. Here, we'll have to take that boot off..." Removal of the boot was a new experience in pain for Arrowsmith. He ground his teeth and held the counter edge as she took the boot off. What he really wanted to do was cry and howl at the top of his lungs, but he managed to keep quiet. In the meantime, a small crowd had gathered outside around Harley. Arrowsmith had been keeping an eye on the bike as Khinna wrapped his swollen and discolored ankle. The people seemed to truly have no clue what it was they were looking at. A little girl of about five eventually picked up a stick and nervously poked at the machine. "Hey, is my bike safe out there?" asked Arrowsmith, ready to defend Harley if need be. Merc turned and saw the bike for the first time. "What in Creation is that?!" Khinna straightened up, then turned to look out the door, wiping her hands on her apron. "You children leave that poor animal be!" she called. "It's probably tired and it may bite!" Arrowsmith watched the whole series of interactions nervously. These people didn't seem to be kidding, and it was becoming frightening. "Where am I?" he asked quietly. Khinna turned back to him, smiling. "The Galloping Troll Tavern in Chye Vale," she answered. She patted him gently on the cheek. "Hungry?" she asked. The question reminded him of the half-eaten deer he had seen earlier, and even though he was very hungry, his stomach pulled itself into a knot. "No," he said. The woman held eye contact with him, and he could tell that she understood he was lost and frightened. She stroked his long, gold-brown hair. "I'll get you some meat pie and some beer anyway," she said. "Just in case you change your mind." As she walked away, he heard Merc's voice from the porch as he talked to the group gathered in the failing light. "Oh, he's probably connected with that group at the mountain cabin in some way," he was saying. "It would be just like them to leave a three hundred pound half-Elf lying around for respectable folk to find. Especially that little skinny one with all the hair."


"Oh, you talk about them like they're bad people, Merc," said someone else. "Anyway, I'm going home. This is all very exciting, but I'm not going to go stare at him like he's an odd statue. And you wouldn't either, if you had the manners the Creator gave an Ogre." "Oh you know Merc," said a third voice, "Rude or polite, it's all fish to a Mycinocroft."

"A right humorous group, ain't ya?' said Merc. "Get along then, if you're not buying my beer then

stop taking up my space. ARROWSMITH! WHAT ARE YE GONNA DO WITH THIS THING

OF YOURS? DOES IT BITE?"

"Only if he’s teased!" Arrowsmith called back.

Khinna came out of the kitchen and smiled at him. "I'm not too wise about these things," she said

as she set down the pie and beer, "but I'd stay off that ankle a while if I were you. At least until our healer has a look at it. MERC!" she suddenly called. Arrowsmith winced. These people seemed to have no problem communicating long distance. "WHAT?" "GO AND FETCH THE SCHOOLTEACHER, AND TELL HIM TO BRING MAPS OF THE

AREA. WHEN IS THE MOONHOUND COMING INTO TOWN AGAIN?"

"WHEN SHE DAMN PLEASES, HOW SHOULD I KNOW?"

"THEN FETCH LYSIK GREY TOO!"

"ANYTHING ELSE, YER LADYSHIP?"

"A NEW PUB OWNER, THE ONE WE GOT NOW IS AN OLD BASTARD!"

Merc wandered off, grumbling. Khinna sat down near Arrowsmith. She had brought a mug of

beer for herself, and she took a drink of it. "We'll get you on the right track. Now, where are you

heading?"

'The Twilight Zone,' he thought, but didn't say. "William's Lake?" he said hopefully. He could

tell she didn't recognize the name.

"Is that east of here?" she said.

"No, I believe the last time I checked a map it was north of Vancouver."

"Well, I never heard of Vancouver, but there are no towns further north, not unless you mean the

small fishing villages the other side of the mountains."

The teacher must have lived very close by, because Merc returned just then with another man in

tow. He was small and graceful. He moved with liquid ease up onto the counter, dropping down


a black leather bag, to match his black leather clothing, no doubt. He dug through the bag a moment, then produced a long wooden case, which he passed to Arrowsmith. He draped himself in a feline pose along the counter top to watch him study the map. Arrowsmith thought the guy a little odd, but Khinna didn't seem to notice. Merc had left once more. "Is this an accurate map?" Arrowsmith asked as he pulled the cap off the cylinder. "Of course," said the little man in black. "I bought it myself not six months ago in White Palace. I may not know everything about maps, but I avoid the ones that still have the city of Palaklais on them." That was a joke, apparently, because both the man and Khinna laughed. Arrowsmith pulled out a roll of what seemed to be animal skin and laid it on the counter. It was a map, all right. Of what country, he didn't know. The worst part however was gazing at the ornate and unfamiliar written language and understanding it. Arrowsmith had heard of people suddenly collapsing into a faint, but never really believed such things happened. He thought it the stuff old movies were made of. However, his mind had just received a large shock, and it was already over-loaded. He suddenly felt very dizzy, and the floor beneath him tilted dangerously. He didn't suffer from fainting spells, and the thought crossed his mind that he may be having an aneurysm. Then he simply fell over. *** The next time he was aware of anything, he was lying in a soft bed, blankets pulled up around him. The room he was in was small and simply furnished. The walls and floor were made of unfinished wood, and the fireplace was of grey stone and mortar. A fire crackled and hissed quietly within it, adding to the sound of rain dripping through the branches of trees and striking forest earth. He felt strange all over: not sore or ill, just...odd and hollow. Hell, he'd almost lost his fucking mind. He knew he had, although he couldn't recall the incident, and had no real desire to. But he was better now, though still fragile. How long had it taken him to wake up? Well, better to be here than on Hastings Street. The room was warm and friendly, and the sounds within it pleasant. He could stay there forever. "Am I alive?" he asked the room. Someone sat on the foot of his bed. He looked down to see a young woman there. She smiled at him gently. Arrowsmith looked back at her. "What's your name?" "Lysik Grey," she said. "I'm lost."


She placed her hand on his. "I know," she said. "Life is never worse than when the gods are bored. But there are good folk in this town, and we will help you until you find your way again. You may wish, however, to consider staying here until winter has passed. You are in no shape to travel, and the snow comes early this far up the mountains." Arrowsmith nodded. "I'll think about it. I have to see where I wake up in the morning first." "Where did you wake up yesterday morning? "Well the day before yesterday I woke up at home, in my own bed, in Courtenay. My friends and father threw me a going away party in the garage. Then after the party I got on my bike and set out for a road trip. Some people let me sleep in their vehicle, so yesterday morning I was in a motor home at the side of the road. I was just leaving them, when I was knocked off the road by some maniac. I must have really hurt myself, because I don't know how I got onto the mountain. I spent the night up there, then followed the road here to the town." Arrowsmith shook his head. "I think that all happened yesterday. I might have been wandering around for days. But my head doesn't hurt. I don't know how I got here. I don't even know where 'here' is." "Try not to worry about it for tonight." she said. "Where's my bike?" "The beast did not wish to be led. It seemed asleep so we put an oilskin over it and left it where it was. What manner of creature is it?" "Harley's a motorcycle." Lysik nodded, though she plainly didn't know what that was. She rose to her feet. "Sleep," she said, picking up a candle by its simple copper holder. "I shall be back in the morning." Lysik Grey quietly left Arrowsmith in the room, closing the door after herself. He lay on the slightly short bed on his back, feeling his feet dangling, glaring around at the unfamiliar surroundings. "Sleep?" he growled. "How the hell am I gonna do that?"


Chapter Three

The wind shook the dripping branches of the pine trees as the rain fell heavily in the dark and ancient forest. The soft ground was wet and boggy, and the gnarled fallen limbs of dead trees were hidden in the moonless dark. The only sound was that of the wind whipping the branches, and the dark of the night was nearly perfect. It was a night for evil things to be loose, for folks to bar their doors and sleep with one eye toward the closet. There was not even so much as a flicker of lightning to illuminate anything that might be slithering across the floor towards a careless hand dangling over the edge of a bed. Small creatures huddled in their dens and were silent, and children wedged themselves between parents who pretended to sleep, but were paying careful attention to the noises in the wind. Four figures stopped, also listening to the wind. Three of them were wolves, shining silver-white in the darkness, even though there was no moon to illuminate them. The fourth was a woman. Her long red hair hung wet and tangled as she lifted her head to sample the wind. She moved as the wolves moved, circling, seeking something lost. Her booted feet made no sound in the sodden earth, and the long sword that hung across her back shone with the same light as the wolves accompanying her. At times it appeared that the great silhouette of a wolf overshadowed her, had taken possession of her, and that she was, for the time, no longer human. They found the trail they sought, and the four set off once more, clearing streams and logs they could not even see in the dark. They moved not so much with speed as with purpose, as though they knew that whatever they were stalking could not have gone far. A swollen stream appeared before them, a large tree lying in its depths. They cleared it as one, making no sound. The rain had washed away much of the scent of the Ogre, but not the traces of its passage. Broken branches, smashed trees and uprooted bushes lined its wake. It knew what was following it, and was moving with all haste. But it was bleeding heavily from its last encounter with them, and would have to stop eventually. It was trying to go as far as it could before then. It knew what it meant to run from a warrior of the Moon Goddess. There was a clearing ahead in the forest, and that was where the Ogre chose to make its stand. It was there waiting for the Moonhound and the three wolves when they broke cover, brandishing a log it had found. The group split up, dodging the clumsy blows of the stinking creature and taking up positions around it. The Ogre spun frantically, trying to swat at all of them at once. A strange and deadly dance began, the wolves nipping and ducking, the Moonhound pulling her sword and timing her blows, striking when the creature was distracted. She knew this dance, and had performed it many times with this group of wolves. She watched as the Ogre turned to try to smash one of the wolves, and quickly thrust the deadly sharp tip of her sword into its unguarded back. The Ogre missed its ill-aimed swing at the wolf. The club swung wide over her head, and she darted gracefully away. The Moonhound hit the Ogre with another blow, and the creature bellowed in rage and pain. The Moonhound's green eyes glittered in excitement, and once more


the silhouette of the great wolf seemed to overshadow her. She had none of the Ogre's size or bulk, but the warriors of the Goddess needed neither. Touched by their Goddess, they were the most feared hunters and fighters that Dargoth had ever known. A sudden overwhelming bloodlust enveloped her, and she let out a horrible, grating howl, more like something from a dire wolf than a human female. It was not enough to slash the beast; she had to get her teeth into it. Dropping her sword, she leapt onto the Ogre and clawed her way up its chest, sinking her teeth into its neck. The Ogre threw its club and grabbed her, tearing her from its throat. She refused to release her grip, and she took a huge chunk of flesh with her as she was pulled away. The Ogre hurled her, and she sailed through the air, striking a tree. She struck with a loud thud and fell to the ground, but the blow did nothing to slow her. She gave her head a shake, then, bellowing like a wild thing, she leapt at the Ogre again. The creature had its back towards her, its attention on the three snarling wolves. This time, when the Moonhound went for the Ogre, she used her sword, snatching it up from the ground as she rushed towards it. The silver-white blade shone with its own light as she swung it, connecting with meat and bone. The Ogre screamed, turning rapidly to swat at her. She ducked and rolled under the blow, moving to a different position before striking again. The blade arced down, opening up its stomach, spilling entrails. The Ogre staggered and fell heavily onto its back, mud and debris flying upwards from the force of its landing. The Moonhound dropped her sword once more and again leaped onto the creature. It tried frantically to grasp at her, knowing what she would do next. But the huge fists missed her, blood loss making the Ogre slow and clumsy. The Ogre felt her thrust her head into the wound, burrowing upwards beneath the huge rib cage and sinking her teeth into the wildly beating heart. Seconds later she erupted from a sea of blood and entrails, shaking the organ like a wolf with a rabbit. Still in the body of the Ogre, she dropped the heart and turned her face to the blackened sky, howling the victory of the kill. The wolves screamed with her, thanking the one who watched over them all for the evening's feast. They ate until they were full, then the Moonhound called into the woods for all wolves who were old or ill to come share the feed. They had been waiting for the cry, and a pack of about ten grey furry animals emerged from the trees to eat. The night had ended well; the Ogre would trouble them no more, and its body had been put to good use. The Moonhound flopped onto the ground a few feet from the Ogre, panting and sore. Now that the joy of the chase was over she realized just how badly she had been hurt when she had struck the tree. She had only a second or two to think about it, however, before one of the wolves she had hunted with came over to pick a good-natured fight. They wrestled and growled in the dirt, chewing ears and slobbering on one another, each laughing in her own way. "Was it good for you?" The Moonhound asked the wolf. She closed her eyes and laughed. "Always good when belly is full and meat is shared. But the night grows old. I will take meat now to my cubs. Do you take meat to your mate?" The Moonhound stood up and shook pine needles out of her hair. "My mate only eats plants."


"I always forget that," said the wolf. "I will eat meat in his honor." She laughed again. The Moonhound laughed too. "I'm going to my den now. Call me when you hunt again, sister." "Always! Daughter of Moon is welcome always to hunt with me." The Moonhound picked up her sword, wiping the blade off on her thigh. She sheathed it, then bounded off through the dark woods, pausing briefly at the stream she had crossed to rinse most of the blood and gore off of herself. She personally didn't mind the mess; it was a badge of honor, a sign that her hunt was successful. But it disturbed some people. She was tired and cold now, and the hunt had taken her quite a distance from her home. Chye Vale was closer. She could get warm and dry there, and rest a little before making the run back to the mountain cabin. It was past sunrise when she reached the little town. Children were just going to school, and the adults were all at their work as she prowled into the small community, hair matted, reeking of blood and death, spying the black-clad school teacher as she emerged from the dark forest. She knew the little man, he was the cousin of a friend, and she never wearied of bedevilling him. As she drew closer to him, she dropped into a hunting prowl. She stalked quickly and quietly up behind him, then pounced. He screamed in fright, and children scattered, giggling. The teacher hit the ground with a thud, pinned face down in the wet street. He seemed to know who had done this to him without even seeing the culprit. "Must you do that?" "I should think you'd be used to it by now." "I'm not!" He pulled away from her, getting to his feet. He stared down at his dirt-covered clothing, then looked at the Moonhound, horrified. "You're covered in blood and dirt. Always the same thing, you go run down some poor beast, then come bouncing into town and terrorize me, and then I have to walk around all day smelling like a slaughterhouse. Answer me this, is this some sort of very warped love affair we are having, and I just don't know about it?" She smiled. "I guess it must be, because the hunt just doesn't seem complete until I hear you scream." She puckered her lips. "Give us a kiss." "Go kiss your husband." He stepped back from her, dusting himself off, making a small sound of distress as he picked from his coat what appeared to be a section of vein. "Merc and Khinna were going to send for you this morning. It seems they think you may be able to aid a lost traveler who wandered into town yesterday." "Why do they think I can help him?" "I believe they think you know him."


The Moonhound sighed. "I'm not on a first-name basis with every lunatic, you know." "I'll try to believe that," said the teacher. He turned to his small charges. "All right, wee ones, into class. We can't spend all day out on the street playing with the smelly crazy woman." He went into the school with the smaller children, but the older girls and some of the boys hung back. The Moonhound stood before them, blood still evident on her face and clothing, the mark of her recent kill. But it was more than that. The Moon Goddess was not only a deity of battle and the hunt, she was also the bringer of rain and fertility. For girls just coming aware of their own womanhood, to see one of her warriors covered in the blood of the hunt was a powerful image, grittily female. It made the boys a little uncomfortable, touching upon mysteries they would never fully understand. The girls moved shyly towards the warrior, touching her hair, her bloodied clothes. One girl quickly ran home and came back, pulling a pregnant woman behind her. The woman touched the Moonhound's long hair, traces of blood appearing on her hand. She touched the blood to the pit of her throat, where the power of it could flow down into her own body. Then she gave the Moonhound a quick embrace before heading back to her daily chores. The girls also finally departed. The Moonhound jogged to the tavern. The small children watched her with awe through the schoolroom windows as she loped past. The boys simply backed up, giving her the respect she was due. Sometimes the boys boasted to one another that they could take her on, they could defeat her. But none of them openly challenged her. Nobody in his or her right mind would openly challenge a Wolf Warrior of the Moon Goddess. Especially not after ‘The Miner Incident.’ The miner in question had been working at the little silver mine down the mountain for about three months when he crossed paths with the Moonhound. He had heard of the Goddess' warriors, but he'd never met one, and he decided to butt heads with her. It was generally agreed that the miner had not been a bad fellow, just not too wise. He certainly hadn't expected the reaction he got from just one little slap on the backside. The Moonhound turned and launched herself at him, roaring like a demon. The miner always insisted that the Creator had protected him, making her miss her mark when she leapt, but the truth was, she simply wanted to frighten him into behaving better. He couldn't learn if he was dead. The Moonhound was a little amazed when the miner turned, scrambling like a burned cat out of the Galloping Troll and down the street. The stupidest Goblin knew that running from a Wolf Warrior just made things worse. Apparently, however, this fellow didn't. The hunt was on. She had chased him right out of the Galloping Troll, down the street, and to the heavy oak door of the house he was renting. The door closed seconds before she reached it, and she slammed into it, full force. Then she began hacking her way through it with her silver sword, managing to smash her way through a two-inch thick, iron bound door, while the man within screamed hysterically for help.


By the time she was through it, the miner was babbling with fear. She was further appeased when she saw the miner cowering on the floor. He had wet himself in sheer terror. She stalked over to the man and glared down at him. "You touch me again," she said quietly, "and I'll break a lot more than your front door." The miner left town that evening. The door was on display in the Galloping Troll, a large and solid construction with a three-foot hole blasted through the middle of it. No one annoyed the Moonhound again. "Hey Merc," she said as she entered the little tavern. "Get me a beer, will you? It's been a long hunt." Merc crossed his arms and glared at her, while she blinked back at him innocently, big green eyes wide. Her red hair hung in a wild tangle across her face and down around her throat like a unicorn's mane. She was large even for a woman, and solid muscle. There was no fat to soften her anywhere, just cable-like sinew and brawn from running and hunting for hours each day. She wasn't ugly; in fact, she was quite pretty. But the only word that properly described her was 'brute.' "Creation on a pancake, girl, what have you run down this time?" he said as he poured her a mug of beer. The Moonhound sat down, taking the mug. "I caught that Ogre that had been roaming around here." "Ogre?! You can't be serious! THOSE THINGS ARE DANGEROUS, WOMAN!" The Moonhound watched Merc with interest, sipping at her beer as he flapped his arms in panic and disbelief. Khinna opened the kitchen door and thrust her head out. "Merc! What are you yelling about?" "AN OGRE!" he yelled, still flapping in disbelief. "SHE ATE AN OGRE!" "Goblins taste better," the Moonhound remarked. "I like Goblins. They don't come up here though." "Moonhound!" exclaimed Khinna. "You shouldn't chase Ogres, they're dangerous! You could have been killed!" "You know as well as I that something had to be done about it," said the Moonhound. "Ogres are bad enough on their own, but in winter they're a nightmare. Within a week after the first heavy snow it would have been in town, eating horses and anything else it could get, including your own children. And how would you get away from it?" "I'm not complaining that you killed it," said Khinna. "I just don't want you getting hurt."


"Oh I did," she said. She hiked up her leather shirt and showed Khinna the blackened mash of split and oozing skin on her left side. "This is where I hit the tree when it threw me. I think I broke something. Actually, that's pretty ugly. Khinna, do you have any raw meat?" "The butcher slew a cow this morning." she said, shading her eyes from the hideous sight. "Why?" "Bring me some sliced on a plate, with a little pepper and lemon. I love beef." Khinna went to get the meat, while the Moonhound studied the wound. She placed her hand on it, closed her eyes, and began chanting, softly and quickly. Merc was standing not far off, listening to her praying quietly in a language he did not understand. He polished mugs and pretended to ignore her until she was finished. Then she lowered her shirt, but not before he noticed that the blackened area already looked much less evil than it had a moment ago. The Moonhound sipped her beer, then looked up expectantly as Khinna came out of the kitchen with the meat. "So, where's this lost traveler I heard about?" she asked, picking up a slice of meat and nibbling it. "He's asleep," said Khinna. "He's not very well. Lysik mended his ankle for him. He's terribly frightened. I was hoping he was a friend of someone's at your cabin, come to spend the winter. No one in town knows him." "Well, no one at the cabin is expecting anyone," she said. "If he's asleep, I won't bother him, especially if he's not well. I just came in to rest a little before going home, so I expect I will have left when he wakes." "Oh, there's another thing," said Merc. "The miners have decided that they want a second fight with you. Just for fun, mind, no one is to be eaten. Just a little friendly wager. I bet ten gold on you." "Nice of you to bet on me before I even had a chance to agree to the fight," said the Moonhound. "Well, it's all fine for the miners to bet against you, they don't have to live near you." The Moonhound laughed. "Fine, Merc, fine. Misty and I are coming into town in three days anyway, tell the miners I'll gnaw on their skulls then." She swallowed down the last of her meat, then tossed a coin onto the counter. "See you then, folks. Good hunting." "May the Creator watch over you!" Khinna called after her. "Get out of my tavern," grumbled Merc. ***


Arrowsmith was not asleep. He was in fact awake and listening to the discussion going on regarding himself in the common room of the rustic establishment. He heard Merc tell the woman to get out of his tavern, and heard her laugh before departing. "What she would do if she couldn't run, I'm sure I don't know," Merc said after she left. "When she goes to meet her goddess, she'll need her own forest." "I'll go take breakfast to our guest,” said Khinna. Arrowsmith winced as he heard Merc’s next remark. "Who's gonna pay for the big brute? That's what I'd like to know!" "Nobody," said Khinna merrily. "We're doing the Creator's work." Arrowsmith looked up when Khinna came in and smiled. He was sitting on his bed and leafing through some of his possessions. "Good morning," he said. He pointed to Harley, who was parked next to his bed. "How did he get in here?" "Well," said Khinna, setting down the tray she carried, "it didn't seem dangerous, and when it began to rain last night, I and another woman, Cora, pushed it in here." Arrowsmith nodded, still sifting slowly through his few things in a sad and distracted manner. Khinna sat down on the bed near him, reaching out to touch his hair. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Nothing," he said quietly, shaking his head. "It's just that I was sure I would wake up in a hospital bed this morning, and now I don't know if I care or not that I didn't." He laughed a little. "And I heard Merc yelling about who is going to pay for my sorry ass. I think if I take your advice and stay for the winter, I had better start worrying about it." "Well there's always work to be done, to be sure." said Khinna. "Oh man, I hate work," said Arrowsmith. "I wasn't born poor white trash so I could get a job. What kind of work?" "Oh, shoveling stalls, chopping wood, carrying water, washing clothes, scrubbing floors..." "In other words, work," said Arrowsmith. "Well, I know nothing about horses, so maybe I should stay away from there. But the other stuff I can do." Still, the prospect of physical labor didn't really please him. Then a thought occurred to him. "How often does this town get entertainment?"


Khinna laughed. "Never!" A gleam came into her eye, and she smiled. "Why?" "Well, maybe I can spend some of my working day singing in the bar instead of..." Khinna gasped, then grasped his arm. "You're not telling me you can sing!" "I can play an instrument, too." "John Arrowsmith, you must be from the gods. What songs do you know?" "A little of everything, actually, but I do know some good pub songs." "Grand! You can work in the common room, singing. We could never afford to hire a minstrel, but we can give you food and a room, and maybe a few silver a week. Oh, this is too wonderful!" Arrowsmith laughed. "Actually I'm just a lazy bastard who prefers to stay on his butt." "Well, suits me, as long as you sing while you sit. What do you play?" Arrowsmith reached for the small acoustic guitar he had strapped to his sissy bar. It was wrapped in a soft plastic case which would have saved it from the rain, but not from a fall. However, when he took it out of the case, it didn't even have a scratch. "Just let me get dressed, then I'll come out and you and Merc can hear me and decide if I'm good enough for your pub." Khinna snorted. "No offence, child, but this town is so starved for frolics that no one would care if you sounded like crows dying, as long as you could play something they haven't heard before." "Well I don't think I'm that bad." He stood up, then suddenly realized his ankle didn't hurt. He looked down, noticing it was no longer black and swollen. He decided he didn't want to think about this, and began searching for a clean shirt. Khinna left to await him in the common room. *** No one actually told Arrowsmith that he had the job, he pretty well determined that himself by early afternoon. Word seemed to have gotten out quickly about what was going on at the Troll, and soon the pub was full with singing, dancing, drinking customers. Merc and Khinna and the three women they had working as servers were hard pressed to keep up with the crowd, and work in the town appeared to be over for the day. Arrowsmith was joined by some other people with their own instruments, and soon the party had to move into the street; the little common room just couldn't hold the crowd. Bonfires were made in the street when evening came, and tables were brought out. Plates of food and kegs of drink were stacked on them, and despite the cool of the fall evening, the doors of the little houses were wide open to light the street. At one point, Arrowsmith found himself somehow dancing a very fast reel with Khinna. They were both drunk.


"So, do I sound better than dying crows?" he asked. She was breathless and laughing. "Much better! But you can't dance at all." "I could if the ground would stop moving." "Well just don't fall on me, I'm not sure I'd survive it." The party went quite late. Arrowsmith didn't know when it broke up, all he knew was he was suddenly in his bed in the tavern, wearing one boot, reeking of beer and wearing his t-shirt on his left arm. He was tired, and his ankle complained. So there were limits, he decided, to the healing arts here. Somehow he found that comforting as he lay in the perfect silence and darkness. He pulled his shirt off of his arm and tossed it into the dark, then sat up to remove his boot and rub his aching ankle. He thought about the party, and smiled. It was the first time he had been with that many people without a fight breaking out, or hearing about who had been busted recently, had overdosed recently, had died recently, et cetera. It had been fun, plain and simple. "I'll stay on awhile, I guess," he said sleepily to the darkness. Then he fell back into slumber once more. *** His dreams were restless that night, and strange. He dreamed of a forest, dark and ancient, and he was standing in the middle of it with his bike. He looked towards the sky, but all he could see were the branches of the enormous trees, all hung with lichen and growths. The floor was so deeply covered in fallen pine needles that his boots sank into it and made no noise. In the distance he could hear wolves howling, but the sound held no fear for him. Instead he looked towards the noise, a strange feeling of recognition coming over him. He opened his mouth to call a name, but he couldn't remember it. He stood there, trying to recall it, but it would not come to mind. Instead he just began shouting. "I'm over here!" he yelled, and suddenly the sound of the wolves became very loud. They were all around him; he could see their grey bodies darting like shadows about the trees. They were everywhere, flowing all around like water. Arrowsmith just ignored them and kept shouting, until suddenly he thought he heard the sound of hooves on the soft forest floor. "I'm here!" he yelled again, leaping about like a madman. The hooves drew closer and closer, then stopped. A soft voice came distantly through the trees. It was faint, drowned out by the wolves and the violent wind that suddenly came ripping through the forest. It seemed to be searching for him, and though he could not hear the voice clearly, Arrowsmith knew it was someone he loved, someone he wanted to see again very badly. But the voice was fading, and he didn't dare go further into the woods to follow it. All he could do was


listen to it fade away, then all slowly became black, until there was nothing but wolves howling

in the wind. The sound haunted Arrowsmith for the rest of the night.

He was awakened the next morning by Khinna. Arrowsmith opened his eyes to see her sitting on

the edge of his bed, shaking him gently. He stared at her with bleary confusion.

"What?" he said.

"It's time to get up," she said, smiling.

Arrowsmith stared at her a time longer, then turned his head to look out the window. "It's still

dark!" he announced indignantly.

"Yes, it is, and the guests will be up soon, so get out of that bed. The horses have to be fed and

we need wood for the kitchen fires."

"You have to be kidding. Please tell me you're kidding."

"I am not. What time do you usually get out of bed?"

"Midday, when I'm really ambitious. Didn't anyone ever tell you that morning is the work of evil

forces?"

"I'll keep that in mind. Now get up or you won't get your own breakfast."

Arrowsmith dragged his aching body into an upright position, feeling his muscles shriek in

protest. He reached up and gingerly touched his neck.

"Khinna?" he said.

She had been about to leave the room. She paused in the doorway to look at him. "Yes?"

"Are there a lot of wolves in this area? I thought I heard them last night."

"Oh yes, wolves all over the place, in town and out of it. Lovely creatures. Did they keep you up

all night?"

"Yes, they did."

"Well, you'll get used to them. Now hurry, breakfast will be ready soon." She left the room,

closing the door behind her.

"Wonderful," Arrowsmith muttered. "Wolves all over the place. I bet the whole town is made up

of vampires. I wish I knew something about wherever it is I am."


He rose slowly off of the bed, trying to convince his aching body to work. He put on a clean shirt, his favorite, a black t-shirt with the Sex Pistols depicted on it in all their glory, glaring morosely at the world. He gave his long hair a quick brushing and ambled out of his room to face the day, satisfied that the look on Johnny Rotten's face summed up his own feelings about being bounced out of bed at this hour. He could hear people in the kitchen, and they greeted him as he entered the room. Khinna gave him a big smile, which faded a little when she got a look at what he was wearing. However she declined comment. "Wood," she said, and he curled his lip and went out to fetch some. She smiled, shaking her head as she stirred the large bowl of batter she held. *** The days passed quickly at the Galloping Troll, Arrowsmith scarcely noticed the passage of time. He was either hauling heavy items, performing in the common room, eating or sleeping. It was a simple day, and there wasn't a lot of time for him to roam around in his own head as was his wont, but he didn't mind. His days were pleasantly chaotic in a predictable sort of way, and he was perfectly happy. Night, however, was a different beast. He was dreaming of the forest all the time, and always the woods were full of wolves. Some nights the dreams were worse than usual, when the woods would be dangerous, and the sound of hooves meant that whoever was approaching was not anyone he wanted to find him. He roamed those trees every night. Sometimes he would find beautiful rivers and waterfalls, other times he would wander into darkened areas where fearful things hid and watched him. When that happened he would awake in a sweat and stare about at the confines of his small room, his eyes resting on the familiar form of his motorcycle. It always took him a long time to fall asleep once more.


Chapter Four

Misteria Livingstone Foxsworth stared at the carnage before him, slowly shaking his head. All about lay splintered wood and churned up mud. Chickens ran around with joyous abandon. They pounced on worms and small insects, occasionally leaping aside with a screech to avoid the pigs, who were charging through what was left of the garden, tearing up ripe vegetables and oinking happily. Off to one side, aloof and removed from all the chaos, stood the instigator of this mess. Miss Mosey the cow looked at Misty with serene brown eyes. She chewed what she had in her mouth, then calmly lowered her head, helping herself to more leafy vegetables. "Cow, you are in it now. You are going to be jerky by the end of the day. Do you hear me? You are lunch." Miss Mosey just shook her head and ignored him. She had heard similar threats for the last six years, she was not about to start believing them now. Misty stared down at what was left of the garden and sighed. He told himself it was not worth getting annoyed about, all that had been left were a few ragged vegetables, the very last of a late harvest. He decided to start the cleanup by getting the pigs and chickens back into their respective homes. "Creator take that stinking cow," he muttered, shooing chickens. This scenario happened at least once a year. Miss Mosey would get out of her yard, then decide to execute a prison break for the other animals. Being as large as she was, she would just walk through the fences and there was very little anyone could do about it. Misty would liked to have eaten her just to get the point across once and for all. Suddenly, a smoky grey body flashed by. There was a blood-curdling squawk and an explosion of red feathers. The remaining chickens fled in all directions, flapping and shrieking. "Simon, you forsaken beast!" he yelled at the departing animal. The grey wolf paused to give Misty a guilty look, then kept going with his prize. By now Misty was completely fed up. "Someone get out here and help me with this mess!" he roared at the sky. "What are you yelling about?" said a voice from behind him. Misty turned to see the Moonhound standing there. "What do you mean, what am I yelling about? Look at this mess. The cow has torn the fences down, there are pigs and chickens everywhere, and Simon just took off with one of the hens. Am I supposed to be happy about this?" "No," she said. "Probably not." "Well so glad you think so," he said. "Are you going to help me clean this?"


"Cleaning is half-Elf work, blond one." His dark blue eyes narrowed. "Oh really?” "Really," she said. "You know, we could just go hide and let someone else find this and clean it." "Ooooh, that is tempting," he said, an evil grin crossing his aquiline features. "Nah. That's not fair. Come on, help me get the chickens under control." They herded the chickens and pigs out of the destroyed garden and into their enclosures. The pigpen was not too badly damaged. Two railings had been knocked down and needed to be fixed. However, the yard around the chicken coop would have to be completely replaced. The cow seemed to have gone through it at least three times. Misty put the chickens into the coop and closed the small door behind them. The birds actually seemed relieved to see the inside of their little house after their adventures. He gave them some feed to help calm them down, then turned to look at the Moonhound. He reached up one strong hand to push his golden hair out of his face. "How are we supposed to go to town with the fences all broken down?" "We have a whole house full of people, Misty. Wess and Monshikka can fix it, Lord Sylvannamyth will help. And Blackbird can fall asleep supervising. Come along, we have things to do. I hitched up the wagon, we'd best get going. I don't fancy making the return trip home in the dark." He nodded. "You're right. I'll just go let them know the fences are down." "All right, I'll meet you in the wagon." The two parted ways, Misty making his way up the narrow forest trail towards the sprawling cabin. The building was strange and misshapen, new parts added on to old, until it formed an oddly upheaved shack. The original cabin was of stone, the rest of it was made of heavy logs. The roof rose up in several levels, and boasted sporadic ornamentation. Completing the picture were windows of varying heights and sizes, and three chimneys thrusting out of the roof. It was an artistic nightmare, but strong and dry. Misty wondered sometimes who had first built the place before they had come to live in it. There was no doubt that it was very old, the stone steps leading up to the wondrously angled purple front door were worn from the passage of time and many feet. Some of the logs in the wall had rotted straight through, and needed replacing. The roof was of many varying shades of grey, depending on the age of the tiles and shingles, and at one point, the far left stone wall had been covered in pink plaster. Flakes of it still remained, giving the wall a speckled look. Above the front door was an ancient metal sign. It was almost destroyed by rust and age, but it could still be read. It said, 'apt. 700.' Nobody knew what it meant.


Misty opened the purple, semi-rectangular door and leaned into the kitchen. "Pigs are out!" he

yelled. "Bye!"

"Wait a moment," snapped a voice. A tall albino man walked into view. Misty sighed, staring up

at the ceiling.

Monshikka Starlit approached Misty, his white hair hanging in disarray before his beautiful, strongly etched face. He was wearing an old pair of breeches, and a wool sweater that was two sized too large for him. In his left hand he held a dust rag, and his beaded headband was coming loose. Despite all of this, he still looked like the nobleman he was. He had a coolness and refinement that did not come by accident. Misty frequently wondered what he was doing there. The prince narrowed his eyes and stared down his straight nose at Misty. "What is this about the pigs?"

"Mosey smashed down the fences again. The Moonhound and I are going to Chye Vale and we

want to be back before nightfall. You and Wess are going to have to fix them."

Monshikka fixed Misty with that 'you're such a peasant' look he always got when annoyed. "I suppose we can." He pulled a folded piece of parchment out of his back pocket and snapped it towards Misty, who took it. "What's this?"

"A list I compiled of some of the more important things we need."

Misty sighed. "Blackie, I know what we need."

"I'm certain you do, Misty. But you frequently forget. And don't call me Blackie." He crossed his

arms and stared down at Misty, something he was very good at. "Now, can you read all of the

words, dear, even the big ones?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Misty. "Have fun in the pigpen."

"A right jolly time, I'm sure. Be careful on the road."

"Right," Misty said as he began heading for the path. "See you later tonight." Monshikka waved at Misty as he bounded towards the wagon. He climbed up beside the Moonhound and passed her the list. She glanced at it. "What's this?"

"Monshikka wants to make sure we get what we go for."


"Really? That's quite kind of him, considering that I am only going to beat the tarpickins out of a

miner, and have a mug of ale at the Troll."

Misty took the list back and frowned at it. "That's not on here."

"A mere oversight, I am sure."

"Quite right. He also forgot to mention that I am to get friendly with the barmaids."

"Good thing you remembered for him."

Misty laughed. "Yes it is. I also remembered to bring my lute. Shall I play?"

"Yes, by all means."

The Moonhound shook the reins, and the two shaggy brown workhorses started down the

familiar road.

They travelled for hours, steering the wagon gently down the winding mountain road, through the towering trees. Sometimes the road would bend and take them close to the edge of the mountain. There they would find themselves looking out over the great expanse of the Grey Haunts Forest, all the way down to the plain that met the great ocean of trees. The sunlight would strike them with all of its glorious warmth, and their voices would echo down the mountainside. Then the road would bend again, and the waves of green would cover them once more with cool seclusion. *** The two sang for quite some time, accompanied by Misty's lute, until they drew near to the town. Then they fell silent. Bandits sometimes waited in ambush near the town, and the Moonhound never liked letting them figure out who was driving the wagon in advance. It was too much fun watching them abruptly reverse their attack into a retreat when they realized what they were up

against.

The pair came into town, halting their wagon before the feed store. The Moonhound hopped

down from her seat and stretched, yawning. She looked over at Misty, who had climbed down

from his own seat and was now talking to the big brown horses.

"Misty!" she called out, and he turned his bright blue eyes towards her.

"What?"

"The Troll first, or shall we make Monshikka proud and do our chores first?"

"That's a tough one." he said, and laughed. She smiled at him, loving his warmth.


Suddenly the two of them heard a few bars of music come out of the tavern. Misty looked in the direction of the sound with interest. "Sounds like Merc hired a minstrel," he said, as someone began to sing. "Can't be," said the Moonhound. "Minstrels have to be paid. Never knew Merc to part with a penny willingly." "Well then, someone is working off his bar tab." A thoughtful look crossed Misty's face. "Y'know, if we get our chores finished quickly, then we could listen to this man sing before we go home, instead of having to leave the tavern to pick up supplies." "I agree," said the Moonhound. "You go to the mercantile, I'll get the flour." Misty nodded, and the two set off in opposite directions. The Moonhound began jogging towards the little mill, while Misty went thundering up the stairs of the mercantile. When they met on the porch of the Galloping Troll, their chores were complete and their horses were munching feed under a large shade tree. The afternoon belonged to them. They bounded into the tavern. "I'm here!" the Moonhound sang out happily. "Where's the man I'm supposed to kill?" *** Arrowsmith was taking a break at that moment. He was eating a sandwich and talking with one of the serving women. They seemed glad to have him around, though one woman in particular, Cora, was just a little too fawning for his liking. She was constantly telling him how big and strong and wonderful he was. Arrowsmith had noticed the men seemed somewhat smaller than the women, though nobody seemed to be over five and a half feet tall. So perhaps that was part of her fascination, but he would rather she found someone else to gush over. Every time he managed to shake her for a few minutes he was certain he could hear a distant sound like someone ripping duct tape off of wallpaper. He noticed Merc wave as someone walked into the room, then Arrowsmith suddenly raised his head like a stallion scenting a mare, looking at the pair with great interest. The expression on Cora's face told him she was not much pleased with this turn of events. Merc grinned, just watching from his vantage point at the bar. "That's the Moonhound," said Merc happily, and most of the smile on Arrowsmith's face fell off. The large, gold-brown eyes turned towards the shattered door, proudly displayed at the other end of the room. He'd heard enough 'Moonhound' stories to keep him awake for a week. "Who's her friend?" Arrowsmith asked, still looking at the door. "Misty Foxsworth. He's a good pup."


"Boyfriend?" "Loyal sidekick." Arrowsmith nodded. He seemed to have forgotten about Cora as he turned his attention to the table where the pair was seated. Merc was pouring them each a tankard of ale, but before Cora could pick up the steins Arrowsmith scooped them up and began walking towards the table. Cora watched him go, an angry gleam in her eyes. "Hi there, folks," said Arrowsmith as he came up to the table. They turned to look at who was speaking, and both started in shock at the enormous being before them, and his strange garb. Misty looked him up and down once, as though he could not believe what his eyes were telling him. The Moonhound looked him over several times, then grinned. "Hello, breakfast," she said. Arrowsmith smiled at her as he set down the mugs, trying not to stare at her blond friend. He was very unusual looking, at least to Arrowsmith. He had hair down to his waist, and it shone true gold. Not the murky brownish-blond or pale yellow he was used to, but a rich, shining gold. His eyes were a dark, sapphire blue, and his skin unbelievably fair, almost white, but with a slightly golden hue to it. He was built strongly, with broad shoulders, and a neck like a bull's. His hands also were large and strong. He looked like someone who was used to hard work. But his facial features were rather fine, and though they did nothing to mar his looks, the two seemed an odd combination. "Haven't seen you guys in here before," said Arrowsmith. Misty leaned over to look at Arrowsmith's razor-edged motorcycle boots. "We were just thinking the same thing about you," he said. "You must be the stranger Merc and Khinna tried to blame on me," said the Moonhound. He laughed, then nodded. "Yeah I must be. I'm Arrowsmith. And you, I take it, are the Moonhound." "I are," she said. She cocked a thumb at the door. "You must have heard that story already." "Yeah, I have. I hear you're here today to do that to another miner." "They ought to just leave you alone and thank the Creator that he lived to tell the tale," said Misty. "One of them is going to get himself killed." "Oh this is just a friendly wager," said the Moonhound. "No one is going to get killed if he doesn't deserve it." She looked at Arrowsmith. "So what's your story? Where are you from?"


"Uh," said Arrowsmith, "well, it doesn't seem to be a place that's on any of the local maps."

"We won't hold that against you," said Misty.

"Vancouver Island. Ever hear of it?"

"Is that anywhere near Terrhin Oak?"

"Not that I know. Isn't Terrhin Oak near Ireland? Sounds like an Irish name."

"No, it's off the coast of Palace Realm."

"Never heard of it," said Arrowsmith. "No one seems to have heard of the place I came from,

and they don't have any idea how I can get back there. It would be easier to figure things out if I knew how I came here. I wandered into the area when I had a head injury." "That's how most people come to Chye Vale," said Misty.

They laughed. "Well, good luck in your travels," said the Moonhound. "Are you going to stay

around long?"

"A while I guess. I'll hang around until spring, anyway."

"Good thought," said Misty. "The winters around here aren't to be taken lightly. The weather is

mild now, but in another few weeks the snow will be up to the rafters."

Arrowsmith nodded. "Well I'd better get back to work. Merc gets nervous if he thinks the staff

are drinking for free. Are you going to be hanging around awhile?" he asked Misty.

"We're just waiting for the miners to show up," said Misty. "But we'll be here for a couple hours

yet."

Arrowsmith nodded, then backed up a pace. "Well, have fun," he said simply, then turned and

walked away. *** The Moonhound watched him go. He moved lightly, like a dancer, stepping across the floor on

long slender legs. She slowly tightened her grip on the table's edge, grinning.

"Oh Holy Goddess of the Moon, give me strength!"

Misty leaned towards her, smiling at his friend as she watched Arrowsmith cross the floor.

"Moonhound, considering that the Goddess you worship is a fertility Goddess, one would have to ask you what you want her to give you strength for."


"That is my secret and you can't have it," she said "As your friend, I feel it is my duty to inform you that there is a barmaid glaring at you angrily." "So, let her get a sword and we'll work this out in the street. He is beautiful!" "He's huge," said Misty. "Bigger than anyone I ever saw. Even bigger than Monshikka, and he's pretty tall. Maybe he's not full human. Do you think there's an Elven parent in his background?" "No," said the Moonhound. "Half-Elves always have their human parent's stature. Maybe an Ogre, but I find that really hard to believe. Could be he's just an exceptionally tall human." "Maybe. I wouldn't want to be the woman who bore that baby, let me tell you," said Misty. "No worry there. I don't think you'll be birthing too many babies, myself." The Moonhound pressed the end of Misty's nose with a fingertip. "But he seems a friendly sort. Let's see if we can't get him to sit with us after the fight." Arrowsmith meanwhile sat down at his place near the counter and picked up his guitar. He didn't notice Cora glaring at him as he continued to look towards the table. He did however notice the group of men who came in a few minutes later. There were five of them, and they were all filthy. They wore heavy leather outfits, worn soft in places, and they had heavy scarves for keeping the mine dust out of their noses and collars while they worked. They seemed a jovial group, laughing and slapping dirt off of one another. Arrowsmith noticed the Moonhound giving them a bored glance before disregarding them, continuing her conversation with Misty. Her demeanour suggested to him that she was a trained warrior as opposed to a mere street fighter. There was a focused coldness about her, and he didn’t think that grey and black garb she had on was just the first thing she found on the floor when she fell out of bed in the morning. Likewise he did not think that luminous silver blade on her hip was just her favorite toad-poker. She carried herself like a seasoned veteran, and he suspected that faint reek of carrion wafting off her was not simply bad perfume. "Merc!" said one miner. "Give us a mug of that pixie piss you try to pass off as ale. We're thirsty." "Here you are, Barin," said Merc, pouring five mugs of ale. "So which one of you lads is going to take on the warrior?" "He's outside, watering his horse," said the man. "I hope he doesn't hurt her too much." Merc snorted. "Any of you boys ever run up against a warrior of the Goddess?" "Come on, Merc, tell us the truth. You ran with them when you were a mercenary in Two-FiftyMile-House. They can't be that dangerous."


Merc shrugged. "That's what I thought 'til one of them tore half my face off." He pointed to his

eye patch.

The men seemed unimpressed. "Well, we'll see what this girl's made of," said a third man. "But I

doubt she'll beat this boy. He's big as a house."

Arrowsmith sensed that was his cue, and slid off of his stool and stood up, roaming over to where Merc and the miners stood. He came to stand behind Merc, looking down at the five men before him. They had gone white, and they were just staring, mouths hanging open. Merc grinned and cocked a thumb at Arrowsmith. "Good," said Merc. "Maybe he'll be big enough to take on this lad."

“Bloody shitcakes!” said Barin.

“John Arrowsmith, actually,” said Arrowsmith.

The men were still staring when another member of the group walked into the tavern. He saw

Arrowsmith, and paused ever so slightly, then recovered his composure swiftly and walked to his

companions. He made a short, quick bow to Merc.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Aldin. I'm the one who's going to be defeating your fighter and taking

your gold this afternoon."

The men laughed. Arrowsmith smiled as he noticed the Moonhound still speaking to Misty,

showing no interest in the blustering miner.

"Well, Aldin," said Merc, "your opponent will be with you in just a moment."

"I hope she's a good loser," said Aldin. "Well, wherever she is, we'll wait for her in the street."

The men left the tavern, the Moonhound watching them go. "Rather sure of themselves, aren't

they?" she said.

Merc was all smiles. "Yup! And it's going to be a world of fun watching you rip his guts out!"

"Hopefully it won't come to that," said Misty.

"It may have to," said the Moonhound. "I haven't eaten yet, and I'm hungry."

"I thought I saw you take after a rock skipper," said Misty as they stood up.

"The little nasty went down a hole," she said. "Besides, you ever eat one of those? Nothing but

little bones with some incidental meat wrapped around them."


Arrowsmith followed the rest of the group out of the inn. He was more than a little interested in this woman's fighting and eating habits. She was put together like a boa constrictor, solid muscle from one end to the other. He didn't know if she would win or not, but he doubted she would be real easy to defeat. He stopped on the porch next to Misty, watching the opponents take their positions. Lysik Grey suddenly appeared at Arrowsmith's side, and she linked her arm through his. Arrowsmith glanced down at her, then smiled. "Hey, long time no see," he said. "What brings you out?" She turned her bright, pretty eyes towards Arrowsmith. "I've got two taupins on this fight!" "What? You? Sorry, but you don't strike me as a fan of blood sports." "I'm not," said Lysik. "But I'm a priestess of the Moon Goddess, and the Moonhound is one of the Goddess' holy warriors. I have a duty to be here." "Does your duty include betting?" "It all goes to the Temple, child," she said primly. She looked up at Arrowsmith, a little concerned. "You have never seen one of her warriors in combat before, have you?" "No," said Arrowsmith. "Why?" "Most people throw up the first time." “Oh yay,” he said, curling his lip. Arrowsmith watched the two square off in the street. The man she was fighting did seem to be bigger than the norm. He also seemed just a little too sure of himself. Arrowsmith narrowed his eyes slightly. This dirtbag had all the swagger of someone who would not think twice of using every filthy trick he had to win what was supposed to be a friendly competition. The little black-clad schoolteacher bounced up to Lysik, his long red hair coming loose from its simple black wooden clip. He was without his long cloak at the moment, and Arrowsmith saw a brooch pinned to his tunic. It was an eight-pointed star, made of some sort of white crystal. In the belt about his waist was thrust a dagger. It was strangely made, curved much like a boomerang, and about eighteen inches long. Another eight-pointed star was inset into the hilt. He and Lysik screeched and hugged each other. The locals were a friendly bunch, Arrowsmith had noticed. They hugged, they kissed, they took baths and naps together, ate from each other's plates and drank from each other's mugs. In fact, a saying for people they didn't trust was, "I wouldn't take a nap with him\her." It drove him crazy. More than once he'd had somebody come crashing into his bath. They couldn't understand why it bugged him. Lysik and her friend exchanged quick pleasantries, then he skittered off, like a ferret with a prize. Arrowsmith watched him go as Lysik clutched his arm.


"Isn't he just too precious for words? I'm going to marry that man. Of course, he doesn't know that yet. Oh I'm sorry, I should have introduced you. That was Anakher Snoweaver. He just moved here from the North Plains to teach school. We were really lucky to get him. It's hard enough for a small town to get a Thief, never mind one from the House of Snoweaver. People have to pay to get one of them, and I mean pay big. The only reason he's here is because the Master Thief happens to live around here somewhere, and Anakher is his cousin." "Hold it," said Arrowsmith. "Just back up." Lysik looked at him brightly as he tried to sort out what he'd just heard. "You wanted a thief teaching your kids? This is a good thing?" "Well he's a Snoweaver, and a priest of Marakim. He's not just some common trash we found lying on the road." Arrowsmith stared at her helplessly. "Promise me that at some point you will explain this to me." Lysik giggled. “Are you not familiar with the Children of the Dawn Thief?” “Well… I’m not really from around here.” “Marakim lived centuries ago. He believed things should be balanced. It’s all a bit much to discuss here and now, but his descendants and followers still work to this day to ensure no family or small community finds itself in such dire circumstances that all they know is despair and poverty. They do great work, but, they are rather… shall we say… single-minded in their purpose. They are thieves, not matrons seeking donations at parties. They will see their duties done, and Snoweaver is among the eldest and most prestigious of Clans. The Master Thief is of their house, and he dwells near here, which is how we managed to have Anakher, and the school. They are beloved, and their diligence has spared many from starvation in the street. Still, I suppose that is small consolation to the merchant who spies five of them bearing down upon his caravan.” Merc walked into the middle of the dusty street and motioned for quiet. He didn't have to wait long; Arrowsmith had never seen a fight crowd this restrained. "First one unable to continue the fight loses!" he announced, then walked onto the ground-level porch of his inn, sitting on a rail. The Moonhound and Aldin began circling each other. He moved in a typical fight stance, but her movements were a little different, more beast-like. In fact, she moved like a wolf. It was disturbing to watch, unnatural. It made Arrowsmith think of werewolves, but not the Hollywood ones that roared and lumbered. It made him think of the ones the ancient Europeans must have feared. She lunged in suddenly, and instead of returning the move, Aldin surprised her with a kick. He caught her off guard, and the blow hit her square in the face. She staggered back a pace, shaking her head. Blood trailed from her lip, and she reached up to touch it. She looked down at her fingers, then slowly raised her head to look at him. He was grinning at her.


Arrowsmith heard the growling noise, but at first couldn't place it. He glanced about for a dog, then suddenly realized that the noise was coming from the Moonhound. It was low and savage, and sounded like nothing human, or even of that world. It was the way he always thought a demon would sound. The Moonhound didn't look too damaged by the blow. However it had definitely made her angry. She and Aldin began squaring off once more. She lunged again, and once more Aldin kicked. But the Moonhound it seemed hadn't earned her reputation by being a slow learner. She got around the kick and headed straight for his face. She fought the way she had been trained, like the wolf that symbolized her Goddess. The style was fast and animalistic, not the way a human would fight at all. She got the miner by the head and jerked him off of his feet the way a wolf would pull down a deer. He hit the ground with a heavy thud. He swung heavily at her, but his fist encountered nothing. He rolled and lunged at where he thought she must be, and suddenly found himself pounded down to the ground again. “She doesn’t move right,” said Arrowsmith, feeling uneasy. “No, she moves the way she was trained,” said Misty, “and she has never been trained in nonlethal combat. The purpose of battle is not to subdue, it is to kill and bring flesh to the table. Warriors of the Goddess eat what they kill, regardless of what it may be, and the Moonhound has eaten everything from rats to grave robbers.” Arrowsmith watched the battle, feeling cold, beginning at last to truly understand that he was indeed someplace wholly foreign. The Moonhound was winning the fight, but Arrowsmith could tell it was frustrating her. Simply dumping Aldin into the dust was purposeless. She no longer seemed to hear what was occurring around her: not the crowd, not the sound of the miner hitting the soft, churned earth of the road, not even the sound of his voice as it suddenly changed to a very real plea for help as he realised she had abruptly gone from embarrassing him to mauling him. Arrowsmith very definitely heard a horrible twig-like snap as something broke. Aldin screamed, the bone in his arm tearing through skin. The smell of blood seemed to work her into a frenzy, and like an animal she went for his throat, tearing flesh. Lysik was the first to reach her, Anakher a close second. Lysik placed an arm across the Moonhound's shoulders and somehow managed to convince her to let go, and Anakher got Aldin away from her as fast as possible. He brought the man onto the porch, where his injuries were immediately seen to. Apart from his broken arm and some savage, bruised and bloody lacerations around his throat, he seemed alright. "I told you," said Merc. "But you never listen to me." Aldin swallowed and managed a weak smile. "I promise never to doubt you again." "Too late for that now, you're dead," said Merc. "Pretty pathetic fight, too. You could have at least tried to stay out of her way."


Arrowsmith watched the Moonhound as she paced in the street. She seemed to be calming down, but she kept glancing over at Aldin with a flat, crazed gleam in her eyes. Lysik kept gently distracting her, and finally the Moonhound seemed to give up on the idea of killing Aldin anyway. Arrowsmith turned and wandered back into the tavern. He walked to his stool and picked up his guitar. He felt cold, and his numbed hands were sweaty. The only word he could think of for what he had seen was 'disturbing,' but even that didn't quite express it. He sat down hard on the stool and ran his hand over his face. He felt shaken to the point where he truly believed he was going to be sick. He had seen bloody fights before, had even participated in a few that involved chains, chairs and broken bottles. But to watch someone maul another person like an animal with just their hands and teeth was a little more than he could deal with. The Moonhound seemed more her old self when Lysik led her inside. She was friendly again, making jokes and talking about prior battles. She sat at a table with Lysik and Misty and ordered a plate of raw sliced lamb and a mug of ale. Arrowsmith abruptly found something else to stare at. He had no urge to watch anyone eat raw meat. The miners weren't in the best of moods. They arranged themselves at the counter, grumbling, while Anakher led Aldin slowly down the road to the Healer's shack. It seemed they had been certain the battle would come out in their favor. The fight between Aldin and the Moonhound was supposed to have been friendly, but Arrowsmith could tell that the fight that was brewing now wouldn't be. Then the Moonhound called him over to her table. As he walked towards her, he made a mental note to sit next to her so he could avoid watching her eat. "That was really unsettling," he said as he sat down. She shrugged. "I wasn't trained to battle for competition. I was trained by a priestess of the Goddess to fight for the Goddess. We are taught as warriors that the only reason to use force is to either feed or defend our families. I'm sorry I agreed to this. I won't in the future." She looked at him with brilliant green eyes, her lower lip turning black and blue. "They'll probably want to take you on at some point." Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah, big guys like me often end up in fights for no good reason. I don't like beating up people just to prove I can do it." "Me either," said the Moonhound. "That's not what the Goddess put us on the world for. We're here to guard her priestesses and Temples, and maintain the balance between men and women. Not to get caught up in men’s penis-waving competitions." "No offense, my lady," said Misty, "But I dare say that is one competition you wouldn't have much of a chance in." She laughed. "No but I'd be happy to judge it, my little Elf."


Arrowsmith shifted his gaze to the large-boned blond. "You're an Elf?" he asked cautiously.

Misty didn't seem to pick up on the nervousness in his voice. "Half, yes. My father was an Elf."

"That's where he gets his pretty eyes," said Moonhound. "And all that hair. Haven't you seen an

Elf before?"

'Not since my last acid trip,' thought Arrowsmith. He shook his head.

"Well they don't come through the mountains very often. But we have Mycinocroft up here.

They like to play in the streams and eat the trout. We seem to have more of them than is common because we don't allow hunting of them. Actually, Prince Monshikka was the one who worked to stop the hunting. Probably didn't like the idea of two of his friends getting their hides nailed to a wall. I don't like it either. I don't think people should hunt anything capable of conversation." "Says she who eats bandits," said Misty.

"Course not," said Arrowsmith. Then he asked, "What's a Mycinocroft?"

They stared at him, then looked at each other. "The wolf people," said Misty. "Haven't you heard

of them?"

"Look," said Arrowsmith, "where I come from, there are no such things as Elves, Ogres, or

Trolls. Apparently they do seem to exist here, at least from what I've heard, and I'm still not

convinced that I'm not just lying in a hospital somewhere with tubes up my nose. No, I have

never heard of Mycinocroft."

"Why would someone stick a tube up your nose?" asked the Moonhound.

"Yeah, that's what I'd like to know too," said Misty. "Sounds like a bizarre custom."

Arrowsmith sighed. "Never mind."

The Moonhound raised her head suddenly, then looked at Arrowsmith. "Looks like that fight

between you and the miners is going to be sooner than we thought."

Arrowsmith looked at the small group approaching him, and sighed. His adopted father, Mother,

had always taught Arrowsmith it was better to be tough than act tough, and being tough didn't

mean fighting with every loser who wanted a brawl. But Arrowsmith didn't think he was going to

be able to worm out of this. The five miners walked up to Arrowsmith, a little drunker and a little

angrier than they had been a short time ago.

"So, what about you?" one of them said.

"What about me?" said Arrowsmith.


"How about giving us a chance to win some of our gold back?" "How?" The five looked at each other, then one of them stepped forward. "Three gold says you can't beat Ralamar." "Look, I don't have that kind of cash, guys, so why don't you just get a drink and calm down." Ralamar looked at his friends. "He's scared of us," he said. Arrowsmith sighed heavily and stood up. Next to the local people he was almost a giant. Ralamar stared up at him, drunk and belligerent. "I am not afraid of you," said Arrowsmith. "I am afraid of going to jail for the rest of my life for tearing your arm off and shoving it up your butt. Now why don't you go sit down before I do something to you that you won't like." Ralamar looked a little more sober than he had a moment ago, but he also looked angry. He threw a punch, and it connected with Arrowsmith's jaw. The blow didn't really hurt. It was more startling than anything. It was enough, however, to make Arrowsmith mad. Arrowsmith's large fist sent Ralamar backward onto a table. It didn't break the way tables in the movies did, and Ralamar struck it hard. He lay on his back, sprawled across it like a dead toad, unmoving. Arrowsmith sat down. He'd had enough of this man. It was obvious that he was no real competition, and Arrowsmith didn't want to beat up on a man who couldn't hope to defeat him. Ralamar’s friends lifted him from the table and carried him out of the tavern. *** Misty and the Moonhound sat with Arrowsmith until they had to leave the Troll. The Moonhound slid her arm through Misty's as the two stepped into the street. They blinked at the setting sun through their drunken haze with a certain amount of disbelief. The great orange ball sank slowly, majestically, behind the tall green trees. The Moonhound looked at Misty with mildly concerned eyes. "Think we can get home before dark?" "Not unless one of us can fly." The Moonhound lit the lamps on the wagon. Now that the sun was going down they would be the only source of light to travel by. They climbed onto the wide seat and set off down the mountain road at a gentle trot, traveling as far as they were able before nightfall. Then they slowed their paced and rode along in the dark, Misty gently playing his lute. Small animals frequently scuttled across their path, and once a large owl winged silently by, startling the horses.


They reached a crossroads, where the road that took them home met the larger route that led out of the mountains, running down its side like a river, branching off into little tributaries that led to Two-Fifty-Mile-House, the Kingdom of Kirianna, and the city of White Palace. Usually they saw no one on the road, especially not at this hour, but this time they could make out the shape of a horseman. He came up the road and turned down the lane that would take him into the heart of the Grey Haunts Forest. He didn't seem to notice Misty and the Moonhound. "Is that Infamous?" she asked. Misty shook his head. "I don't know, could be a highwayman." "Somehow I doubt it. If he's a highwayman, why is he going into the forest? Who's he going to rob in there?" "Maybe he's a lost highwayman." The Moonhound glared at Misty for a long moment, then turned her attention to the person head of them. "Infamous! Is that you?" The figure halted his horse and turned to look over his shoulder. "Moonhound?" "Infamous, you rat! It is you! Get over here so I can squeeze the beans out of you." Infamous Keeper turned his little grey horse around, heading towards the wagon as the Moonhound pulled the horses to a stop and got out to meet him. He stopped next to her and slowly, painfully, got off of his horse. She very nearly had to catch him as he got down. "Are you all right?" she said, her voice full of concern. "I'm fine," he said. Her hands pushed back his heavy curtain of corded auburn hair. The Moonhound drew in her breath as she saw the thin cuts along his throat, deep and slightly bruised around the edges. She noticed the slashes went down into his collar, and that they seemed to be all over his arms as well. "What happened?" she asked. "Oh, nothing much," he said as she helped him onto the wagon. "I went through a window a little faster than I should have, and fell into a nice big ball of thief-wire somebody had thoughtfully left out. Took me hours to get out of it. Thought for a little while I was going to be dog meat. I cut myself up pretty badly, but I got compensation from Sir Taris for it. Well, actually he didn't want to, but being the forgiving person I am, I told him that if he didn't, he'd never see his family crest again. So he paid me extra and then brought in a healer to mend my wounds." "But you're still all cut up," said Misty.


"Yes, well, the Healer turned out to be an assassin. After he tried to stab me with a poisoned dagger, I cut his throat and left. But not before helping myself to good Sir Taris' vaults and informing Prince Dherrin as to what sort of a rat he had under his roof." "And what did he do?" asked the Moonhound. "Oh, well, Dherrin paid all of my expenses. And he gave me this." Infamous opened his pack and dug through its contents, finally pulling out an object. It was fairly large, roughly the size of a serving platter and approximately the same shape. It was made of what looked to be gold and silver. The main part of it was the twisted form of a sun dragon with wings outstretched, driving its claws into the backs of two warhorses, made of shining black metal. In the jewelled teeth of the dragon was held a long sword, and written around the edge of the whole affair on what looked to be a scroll, were the words, 'Noble are the Sun Warriors.' "Is that what I think it is?" said the Moonhound. "If you think it's Taris' family crest, then yes, it is." "What are you going to do with it?" asked Misty. Infamous smiled at Misty, fine lines appearing around his black eyes when he did so. "What does it look like?" he asked softly, holding the crest up for inspection. Misty stared at the great showy device for a moment. "Truth to tell, it looks like a serving platter." "And that's just what we're going to use it for," he said. He tossed the item back into his bag. The Moonhound laughed out loud, putting an arm around Infamous' shoulders and kissing his face. "It's good to have you home again," she said. Infamous grinned back at her, watching as she tied his horse to the back of the wagon. This done, she returned to her seat and took up the reins once again, driving towards home. Infamous fell asleep on the way home. He did it without much fanfare; one moment he was sitting up, the next he was a pile of clothes and hair in Misty's lap. His thin little body took up surprisingly little room, and he didn't weigh enough for Misty to even really notice he was there. Clad as he was, all in black, it was almost as though Infamous Keeper had vanished back into the night. "Well, he won't be up running around tonight," remarked Misty, smiling. "Of course, it would be nice if he'd fallen asleep in your lap."


"Why would he do that when you're here?" said the Moonhound. She grinned at the blond man, who stared back at her, looking none too happy about the comment she had just made. "Are we going to be home soon?" he asked. "I can't tell where we are in this dark. I hate riding home at night, I always feel as though Ogres are sneaking up on me." "Misty, you know as well as I do that it is a physical impossibility for Ogres to sneak. Stomp, crash, roar and bang they can do, but not sneak." "Call it an unreasonable fear, then. I can't help it. When I was growing up with the Elven tribe south of Kirianna, we were always being bothered by Ogres. I think they can smell Elves. Anyway, they always came after dark, and while they do make a lot of noise, they're not so stupid that they can't use it to their advantage. They would have one group come up on one side of us, to crash and bang and howl, then while we were dealing with them, they would have another group hiding somewhere close at hand to snap up the wounded or unwary." Misty shivered. "I hate Ogres." "Well, no need to worry. I'll protect you," said the Moonhound. "And look, there's home right up ahead, you can see the lights." "Good," said Misty. "My fears were starting to run away with me." As the Moonhound halted the wagon in the little yard, the door of the rambling cabin flew open. In the warm yellow glow of the fireplace light that filled the doorway, there stood a small silhouette, one hand resting on the doorframe. "Moonhound?" a voice said. The Moonhound turned to see who had called her name, then grinned at the figure in the door. "Hello, little mage, yes, it is I." She pointed at Misty, who was still seated on the wagon with Infamous on his lap. "It's all Misty's fault we're late." "What?!" exclaimed Misty. With the sudden increase in noise, Infamous stirred and woke up, blinking sleepily at all about him. "Are we home?" he asked. Blackbird stepped out of the cabin and into the yard, his strange, violet eyes fixed on Infamous. He smiled at the slightly befuddled man on the wagon. "Great Creator," he said, "you found the thief." Infamous climbed off of the wagon, rubbing his eyes and yawning while Blackbird crossed the yard to greet first the Moonhound, then him. Infamous hugged Blackbird in return, wincing as his cuts ached. "Hello, Blackbird, I missed you too. Now let me go, I'm in a lot of pain."


Blackbird backed up, concern in his eyes. "You're hurt? Well, come on, you shouldn't be standing out here in the cold like this. It's autumn, for Creator's sake, get inside." Infamous allowed himself to be dragged inside. They entered the large kitchen, which was almost too hot to be tolerable. Blackbird pulled a rustic wooden chair away from the rough-hewn table, its legs scraping on the worn, flagstone floor. "Sit," he instructed Infamous, shoving him down into the chair. Then, before Infamous could say anything, Blackbird yanked his leather tunic and roughly woven shirt over his head, dropping them onto the table. "Blackbird!" yelled Infamous in protest, his strange, rope-like hair now standing at all angles. He glared at the little man angrily, not certain he like being mothered. He had a mother once, and he hadn't much cared for her, either. Blackbird, however, had not heard Infamous' yell of protest; he was too busy staring at the bloody mess of cuts all over his neck, back, arms and chest. He slowly brought his hand up to his mouth, shaking his head. "Good Creation!" exclaimed a voice, echoing Blackbird's thoughts. Monshikka stepped into the kitchen. He had come to yell at Misty and the Moonhound for being so late, and at Infamous just for being Infamous, but he found the words sticking in his throat. "Hello, Blackie," said Infamous, staring at him amused. The words that would not come a moment ago now began to fly out of his mouth, while Blackbird scurried to heat water. "Infamous Keeper, you plague-ridden, garbage-eating roach! What have you been doing to yourself?" "To myself! What do you mean, to myself? Does this look like fun?" he roared back, indicating the slash marks. "Of course you did it to yourself! If you would give up all of your filthy disreputable ways these things wouldn't happen!" "Spoken like a true Kiriannan, Blackie. Or is that Prince Blackie?" Infamous' eyes glittered as they narrowed at Monshikka. "Perhaps princes that live in little cabins on mountain tops instead of in castles had best not yell at Master Thieves about disreputable things." Monshikka glared poisonously at Infamous, then turned and stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later there was an explosive bang as he threw his bedroom door closed. "Infamous is home, I see," said a voice. Wesselik wandered into the kitchen, filling his pipe.


"I wish you two would leave each other alone," said Blackbird. "I can't," mumbled Infamous. "His face makes me angry." "Where are Misty and the Moonhound?" asked Wesselik. "Outside, putting the animals to bed and the supplies away," said Blackbird. He was inspecting Infamous' cuts and shaking his head. "Wess, would you mind sending the Moonhound in here to look at these? She knows more about healing than I do." Wess nodded and roamed out of the house, moving in his leisurely way. A short time after he left, the Moonhound appeared. "Infamous," she sighed as she stared at the mess all over his body, "I honestly don't know how you survive the things you get into." "You mean you don't know why he's allowed to survive!" yelled Monshikka from within the cabin's depths. "Monshikka, you only say those things because secretly you want my body!" Infamous shouted back. The bedroom door slammed again. Lord Sylvannamyth, the quietest of the cabin's seven occupants, roamed past Infamous, the Moonhound, and Blackbird, blankets in hand. He walked out of the cabin, apparently seeking peace in the barn. "Hello, Sly," sang Infamous. The strangely wolfish-looking man did not return a greeting, but quietly went on his way. The Moonhound shook her head, smiling. She bent down to give Infamous a kiss on his cheek. "It's good to have you home again, Master Thief," she said. Infamous smiled at her, his flat black eyes looking a little softer now. The Moonhound smiled back at him, but, as always, she was struck by how truly drawn and weary Infamous' face was. Like Misty, there was Elven blood in him, but one would never know by looking at him. Except, she thought, perhaps by his size. He was not as tall as many men, and although he was sinewy and strong, he was so slight that the Moonhound was fairly certain Monshikka could fit both of his hands around his waist. Of course, she mused, Monshikka would rather put his hands around his throat. She touched Infamous' face, running her hand over the high cheekbones and finely tapered jaw. He had beautiful features, something else he owed to his Elven mother. They were delicate, except for the slightly hawkish nose, but even it was not overly prominent. In fact, Infamous Keeper was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen, except she was one of the very few people who ever got a good look at his face. All most people ever saw of Infamous Keeper was a lot of hair and two very nasty black eyes glaring suspiciously at them.


"Well you're certainly a mess," she said quietly. "What's thief-wire, anyway?" "A fine, flat wire, extremely thin and flexible, and completely invisible at night," said Infamous. "It's deadly stuff. I can tell you, if it had been properly strung across that window, and not just lying on the floor like it was, I wouldn't be sitting here telling you about it. As it was, I hardly escaped. It took me hours to cut my way out of it. Stuff clings worse than an ex-lover." Blackbird laughed, and the Moonhound grinned as she began pulling herbs out of a cupboard. As she began mixing them into a paste in a small bowl full of hot water, she said, “What's that saying of yours? 'All thieves find their way home eventually.'" "That," said Infamous, "is part of the doctrine of Marakim, father of all thieves, and what that saying actually boils down to is: 'thief, you are going to be dead one day.'" Blackbird shook his head. "Maybe you should find another god to worship," he said. "Certainly," said Infamous. "Right after you get another wife." "Marakim is a decent god," said the Moonhound. "He cares for the impoverished, and children as well as thieves. He's not without his redeeming features. Of course, we all know that the Moon Goddess is a far superior deity." On this note, Blackbird rose to his feet. "I have to leave now, I get nervous when caught in the midst of debates between worshippers of a thieving god and a warrior-fertility god." "That's goddess!" yelled the Moonhound at Blackbird's retreating back. "Coward!" added Infamous. "I don't hear either of you," said Blackbird as he left the room. Misty charged into the kitchen like a warhorse, dropping Infamous' pack to the floor and hanging his cloak up on a peg near the door. "I'm hungry!" he yelled at no one in particular, and began digging through the cupboards for something to eat. Wess strolled in after him, quietly closing the door and bolting it. Misty found a honey muffin and, by some great force of will, managed to stick the entire thing into his mouth. As he sat down at the table, attempting to chew it, Monshikka chose that moment to reappear. "Misty!" he roared. "Leave him alone," said the Moonhound. "If he speaks with that in his mouth we'll all wear it." "I'm waiting for him to sneeze, personally," said Infamous.


Misty chomped happily on his muffin, saying nothing. Wess filled his pipe, while Monshikka began making himself some tea. The Moonhound used a warm, damp cloth to clean the thin but deep cuts all over Infamous' body, then smeared them with the herb paste to take out any infection. The cuts did not look new, but they looked as though they had been broken open repeatedly, and not permitted to heal. "Infamous," she said softly, "you're nothing but an overgrown child. Look at this mess." Infamous just closed his eyes and smiled, enjoying the familiar sounds and smells all around him. It was good to be home. *** At first, Arrowsmith couldn't understand why it seemed the entire staff of the Galloping Troll was in his room. He stared at them, puzzled, shivering as the sweat dried on his body. As he reached down to pull the covers up higher, Merc waved a large rusty knife. "What in great holy creation were you yelling at?" he shouted. "I thought it must have been wighthounds with all the noise you were making! I thought you were having your throat slit!" Gradually, Arrowsmith began to recall bits of the nightmare he had been having, and realized he must have been screaming in his sleep. "I had a bad dream," he said quietly. Merc dropped the knife to his side and sighed. "Is that all! You scared us, boy, and maybe half the town as well!" "Sorry," said Arrowsmith quietly. He reached for his cigarettes and took one out of the package, lighting it. 'Only three packs left after this,' he thought, 'then I have to quit whether I like it or not.' Khinna sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Most of the people behind her, including Merc, began to shuffle out of the room, heading for their own beds now that the emergency was over. Cora remained, sitting close to Arrowsmith. "What was the dream about?" Khinna asked. Arrowsmith drew on his cigarette, trying to steady his hands. "I keep having this dream," he said, "about a forest. All of the trees are enormous, unlike any I've ever seen, and they're all overhung with lichen and have branches so big you can't see the sky. The dream is sometimes different, but the forest is always the same. And I can hear wolves all over the place. I wasn't afraid of the wolves, but there was something in the underbrush. All I could see at first was its red eyes. But then it raised itself up, and it had three heads. It looked like a dog, but the black fur was all covered in mats and tangles, and it had sores all over its body, running sores, I could smell them. It had eight legs. It leapt for me, and I guess that's when I began to scream. It said something to me, too, something I don't understand at all." Arrowsmith paused in his story to take another drag


off of his cigarette. Cora and Khinna waited. "It said, 'the jewel for my master, the thief for me,

the cold of the earth for you.'"

"That's terrible!" said Cora.

"You don't have any idea what it means?" said Khinna.

Arrowsmith shook his head. "No, I have no idea at all. But that thing has been stalking me in my

dreams for a while now, I'm sure of it. At least since I came to this town." The three were silent

for a time, thinking about the nightmare.

Finally Khinna stood up. "Well, I wish I could say something helpful, but I doubt that. I'll let you

get back to sleep."

"If I can sleep," said Arrowsmith. Khinna smiled at him sympathetically, placing a hand on his

shoulder.

"I could stay with you for a while," Cora suddenly said.

Arrowsmith and Khinna both looked at her as she stood there, hands behind her back and trying

to look innocent. Khinna seemed amused, but said nothing.

"I don't think that would be very appropriate, Cora," said Arrowsmith, a little amused at her

words. "But thank you for your offer."

Cora didn't look pleased with this at all, and turned and walked away. Just as she was about to

leave the room, she paused and turned to face him.

"I'll wager you would let me stay if I was that Moonhound woman!" she snapped, then turned

and left.

Arrowsmith stared at the doorway she had gone through, confused. "Did I miss something?" he

asked Khinna. "Is there something going on here that I am not aware of?"

Khinna patted him on the shoulder. "I think she likes you."

Arrowsmith blinked thoughtfully, then drew on his cigarette once more. "Oh," he said.

"Do you like her?" asked Khinna.

"I am completely neutral towards her."

"And the Moonhound?"

"I am completely neutral on the issue of the Moonhound, too. And I think the hour is far too late for you and me to be discussing this. Good night."


Khinna laughed. "Yes, quite right. Good night, Arrowsmith. I hope you sleep well." He flopped down to his pillow, sighing as Khinna closed the door behind herself. He drifted into sleep quickly. The dream-monster did not return again that night. *** Arrowsmith awoke with a restless feeling, just before dawn the next morning. He sat up in his bed to look out of his small window at the first faint traces of day showing feebly in the sky. He felt anxious about something, but he didn't know what. He had been happy in the little tavern, really happy, for perhaps the first time in his life. But now something was beginning to nibble at him. He began to feel as though there was some place he should be going to. He gathered up some clothes and a towel and went out to the bathhouse. He walked along the thin little path to the small building slowly, staring at all of the plant life all about him. The grey light of pre-dawn made everything the same color as the old war photographs in his grandfather's bottom drawer, the one that he also kept his dirty magazines in. However, unlike the people in those pictures, and his grandfather, the plants were alive. They nodded in dew-covered sleep, awaiting the new day as Arrowsmith stepped between them quietly in bare feet, heading for the little stone shack. He glanced, as always, at the door to see if there was a lock, but there wasn't. "Of course," muttered Arrowsmith. "Why put a lock on the door, when everybody in the whole town takes a bath in the same tub anyway?" 'The locals,' as Arrowsmith was beginning to think of them, were an odd bunch, and the more time he spent with them the more he realized this. More than once he thought if he'd had any learning in the field of anthropology, then he could write a book about them. Or maybe just a handful of letters and mail them to David Suzuki. They were gentle and usually polite. They thought bartering and haggling over prices was rude behavior, and none of them did it. The less one asked of them, the more one got. Demanding things of them did no good at all. They could be unmovable as a mountain if they felt pressured. They had their own time and way of doing things, and they all respected each other's schedule. The baker was up at dawn; the shoemaker was up at the crack of noon. That was just they way things were done. By the time he finished his bath and dressed, he was starting to think that perhaps the restless feeling was simply a leftover piece of his nightmare. There was no place he had to be, especially right now with winter coming on. He was starting to get a fair pile of silver pieces, taupins, they were called, which he kept in a little bag in his top drawer. The end of autumn was no time to get happy feet, he decided. He'd stay until spring, and then go for a look around at the strange new world he'd fallen into, just him and his motorcycle. Khinna was starting breakfast as he roamed into the kitchen. He set about helping her prepare the breakfast for their guests. "How did you sleep last night?" she asked.


"Fine," said Arrowsmith. "I didn't have any more nightmares. But I woke up with the strangest feeling, like the way you feel when you're late for something. I couldn't shake it at first, I just kept thinking there was something I was supposed to be doing." He shrugged. "Going a little mad, I suppose." Khinna laughed. "Then you'll be just like everyone else around here, I suppose. Be a dear and check the biscuits, will you?" Arrowsmith nodded and walked over to the large flat sheet of iron in the fireplace that the biscuits were baking on. They were a delicate shade of gold, and fat. Arrowsmith grinned. "Hey, are they supposed to be black and smoking?" "What!" Khinna screeched. She turned and looked at Arrowsmith, who stood grinning next to the just-ready biscuits. "Brat," she said. "How dare you frighten me." He shrugged. "It'll keep you young." She swatted him with a towel, and the two of them laughed. After a short time in Khinna's presence he forgot all about his nightmare, and the three-headed demon that had frightened him so badly.


Chapter Five

It was almost three weeks before Arrowsmith saw Misty again. The blond came thundering into the Galloping Troll like a Great Dane puppy, big, ungainly, and loud. Arrowsmith was in the middle of a song when he came bouncing in, followed by a disapproving-looking albino man. "Hello, Arrowsmith!" Misty sang out, with no thought about his rudeness. Arrowsmith just grinned back and finished his song before answering. "Hello, Misty," he said, once more struck by the man's strange beauty. "What brings you into town?" "My wagon," he answered, all bright eyes and innocence, blinking at Arrowsmith from over top of his mug. The albino man rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, walking away. Arrowsmith had to grit his teeth as several 'blond' jokes ran through his head. "Really," he said. Misty nodded happily, blond hair flying all over the place. He blew into the foam of his beer, sending a small bit of it flying. Misty Foxsworth was half-Elf; he had 'cute' down to an art form. "Actually," he said, "Monshikka and I are looking for a body to hire." "Really," said Arrowsmith. "What kind of a body?" "Temporary hired hand. Winter is getting close, and yesterday a tree decided to die on our barn. Boom. So we need someone to help out. Well, we have seven people living up in that cabin, I suppose we could do it ourselves, but Blackbird is too little, and you can't tell Lord Sylvannamyth to do anything, and the only two competent sane people won't be back for four days, they're getting the horses down to winter pastures." "That only adds up to six, what about number seven?" "Thief of Marakim," said Misty with a dismissing wave of his hand, as though that explained everything. Then he blinked at Arrowsmith with mock innocence. "You wouldn't happen to know any large men who might want to earn a little extra silver, would you?" "Oh, I get it," said Arrowsmith. "You need a big guy to do the heavy stuff, and I'm the biggest guy you can think of." "You're not the biggest guy I could think of. I could never think up anyone of your size. You're the biggest guy in the country." "I already have a job. Sorry."


"Five taupins a week, and your food and bed. And we won't make you sing all night with no beer." Arrowsmith stared at Misty. "Five taupins a week? I don't earn that in two weeks here. How long a job are we talking?" "A little over a week, perhaps two. Certainly no more than that. I'm sure Merc could spare you." Arrowsmith leaned against the counter and thought about Misty's offer. It was a lot of money, he'd been in town long enough to know that. It would also be a chance to see how these people functioned as a family. His time so far on this world had been spent at the Troll, and although he liked it well enough, he wasn't too thrilled about living at his workplace. He wanted to see how the locals ran their homes. He looked over his shoulder towards Merc, who was staring back at him. "I heard what he said," Merc snapped before Arrowsmith could say anything. "What happens if there is a snowfall? Then you'll be stuck on a mountain and I won't have any entertainment for the miners." "The miners went home, Merc," said Arrowsmith. "They won't be back until spring." Khinna had also heard the conversation, and she now came to Arrowsmith's defense. "Oh, let the boy go. You'd have him playing to an empty room. Let him earn some extra pay before winter comes. It certainly won't do anyone any harm." Merc glared at her for a moment, then turned his one good eye towards Arrowsmith. He pointed at Misty. "He and all of his friends are mad, I just want you to know. Stone cold crazy, each and every one of them." "Merc!" exclaimed Khinna. "It's true," he muttered, studying the mug he was polishing. Khinna smiled at Arrowsmith. "You can go if you like," she said. "Now that the mine has closed for winter there is nothing for you to do here. There won't be any overnight guests for a while." Arrowsmith looked from Khinna to Misty. "So, go get your bag," Misty said. "Monshikka and I will wait." Arrowsmith shrugged. "Okay. I'll be back in a moment." He left the common room and went to his own small chamber. He walked into it and stared at the mess. It was a very small mess; he no longer had a lot of possessions, but he certainly had not planned on going anywhere. Finally he just began tossing clothes into his saddlebags, packing everything he owned onto Harley.


He changed into a few of the warmer clothes he'd bought. Cloth, he'd been told, was hard to find, and highly expensive. Most clothes were made of wool or leather, and the locals were masters at creating very fine and soft leather. Arrowsmith had acquired a pair of leather pants and a wool sweater, both of which needed to be made for his size. The pants fit well, but the sweater itched and smelled like a sheep, and he never wore it without something under it. He yanked it over his head and struggled into it, then looked around for anything he may have missed. Satisfied he had everything, he closed the saddlebags and pushed Harley out of the room. Harley rolled along the wooden floor agreeably as Arrowsmith pushed him into the common room. His red and gold paint gleamed in the sunlight, save for the scraped patches. Arrowsmith would have sworn that the damage had been worse, but it didn't seem to be as bad as he had thought. He pushed the bike into the center of the room, then leaned it on its kickstand. Picking his leather jacket up off of the seat, he grinned at Misty. "All ready to go," he said, putting on the heavy jacket with its draperies of chain. Misty stared at Harley warily. "What is that?" "Oh. Misty, this is Harley. Harley, this is Misty. We're going to be working for him for the next two weeks." Harley, in typical motorcycle fashion, said nothing. Misty continued to stare at the bike. "Hello," he said uncertainly. Monshikka walked over to the machine, studying it carefully. Merc just shook his head and sighed. "Well, I guess you should do all right for yourself after all, Arrowsmith. I'd forgotten you're a little odd, too." "Yes, I am." He threw one long leg over the back of his bike and sat on the leather seat. "So, how do I get to your place?" "Aren't you following us?" asked Misty. "Well, Harley moves faster than a horse. I thought I would go on ahead, then wait for you." Misty was still giving the motorcycle a questioning look. "Just follow the road out of town. Turn left outside of this inn and keep going. You'll reach a crossroads, just go right across it. If you keep going in a straight line, you'll get there." "Right," said Arrowsmith. Then, before Merc could tell him not to, he kicked the bike into life. Its low snarl filled the room, making the floorboards shake. Merc yelled at him, waving his polishing cloth. Arrowsmith just smiled and waved, then rode out of the building. He turned left, as Misty had told him, and followed the road out of town and into the woods.


The cool autumn air smelled sweetly of golden leaves, and the sky was the purest shade of blue he had ever seen. He drove slowly over the dirt road, looking at the few remaining splashes of gold and red on the trees. They were nearly naked now, but still beautiful. There was nothing to mar the beauty of the land. No ugly tourist attractions, no garbage, no buildings, fences, or dead cars left to rust in a ditch. Arrowsmith had been to many beautiful places in his life, but always something had ruined the perfection of the land. Usually it was the black thread of power lines tying down the sky, or suddenly happening across a pile of shattered glass and beer cans where some kids had thrown a party. But this time there was nothing to ruin the magic. There was only him and his motorcycle, and the ecstasy of knowing this wasn't a dream. He reached the crossroads, slowing down to check both ways before crossing, and was brought up short by what he saw. He reached down to turn the motorcycle's great engine off, and a sudden silence fell all around. One road kept on to the woods, but this was not what he was looking at. It was the road that crossed the way. It gracefully dropped down the mountainside, falling to the plain far below. The sky opened up into a huge expanse, filling the world with clear blue that went on forever. Far away to the left he could see the edge of the mountains, a darker blue than the sky, and capped with snow. To the right, nothing but open wild meadow, dotted with patches of color. A silver river snaked through the meadow, running off of the mountains and on its way to other places, disappearing from view. For a long time, Arrowsmith did not move. He stared at the world around himself, just marvelling at its beauty. He felt a strange familiarity with this road, as though he had seen this sight once a very long time ago. He looked at everything with renewed interest, and for the briefest moment he thought he remembered something, and then the thought was gone. Finally he gave himself a shake and started the bike once more, following the road into the woods. The sudden dark after the brightness of the open road was a bit startling, as was the closeness of the aged trees. The road was softer here, less easy to follow. Arrowsmith rode carefully, following the winding track as it made its way higher up the mountain. He was a little nervous here; there was something about the area he didn't much care for. Once again, he stopped the bike. He regretted shutting the engine off the moment he did it. The silence was overwhelming. Nothing moved in the great trees, and he dismounted to take a look around. He didn't see anything to make him nervous; there was just a feeling of wrongness in the air. Something had happened here, or would happen. The idea suddenly struck him that he had died there once, a long time ago. Feeling a panic he did not understand, he got on his motorcycle and rode straight to his destination with no more stops. He reached the cabin so suddenly he almost hit it. Chickens scattered in a cloud before his front tire, and he stared at the building before him with some amazement. Dali and Picasso would have had a ball with the place. In fact, they may have built it. "Holy crap," he muttered as he cut the engine and got off of the bike. He studied the strange, angled building, then shook his head. Nothing like a little do-it-yourself construction to keep the neighbours talking. He recalled Misty saying there should be other people somewhere, and he began walking around in search of them. Behind the cabin he found


where the animals were kept. He immediately walked over to a fat black pig, which was studying him through the rails of its pen. "Hi, piggy," said Arrowsmith amiably. He reached over the fence to rub the creature's hairy snout, and two more pigs came jogging over to see what was going on. Arrowsmith liked animals, so he just kept patting noses, snorting and squeaking at them while they grunted cheerfully, waving their piggy tails. "Such stimulating conversation," said a soft velvet voice from behind him. Arrowsmith sighed heavily, and turned around. The being before him was not quite five feet tall, and extremely slender. He honestly couldn't tell whether the dainty porcelain creature was male or female as it gazed at him with strange violet eyes. Tiny white hands extended out of the robe it was wearing and clasped together. The long, glossy blue-black hair fell heavily around the small, heart-shaped face. Whatever it was, it was very pretty, and seemed to be amused at him. "Hello," it said, smiling. "Hi. I'm John Arrowsmith. Misty came into town and hired me to help put your barn back together." "Oh! Oh good, we can use the help." The little being extended a little hand, which Arrowsmith was truly afraid to take for fear he would break it. "I'm Blackbird. Please, come in. Unless you would rather talk to the pigs?" "No, I think the pigs and I have run out of things to talk about." Blackbird smiled and linked a thin arm through Arrowsmith's. "Come then, I've just finished making lunch, you can have some with me." Arrowsmith walked to the front of the cabin with Blackbird, who paused briefly to stare at Harley. Then they went in through the tilted front door. Arrowsmith had to bend down to get in, but he was getting used to that. "Please sit down," said Blackbird, pulling a chair out for Arrowsmith. He sat down on the chair carefully, wincing as it creaked beneath him, and looked about at the room. The kitchen was just as strangely shaped inside as out. It probably was supposed to be a rectangle, but the sides sloped inwards, giving it a slightly triangular shape. The floor was slate, and very smooth. The walls were rough stone, but the cupboards were polished and well crafted. A long counter ran underneath the large, warped glass window. Crystals dangled before the window, sending rainbows through the room. A warm, herbal smell filled the air, emanating from the drying plants that were tied together in bunches and hung from the ceiling beams. Arrowsmith could also smell the rich scent of the soup that came from an iron pot that hung over the kitchen fire. Blackbird set out two bowls of soup, and also a plate of hot biscuits, just taken


from the oven. A tankard of cold spring water completed the meal, and Blackbird sat down at the table with Arrowsmith. "Misty and Monshikka only went into town this morning; I wasn't expecting them back for a while. How did you get here so fast? "Harley, my motorcycle. He's quite a bit faster than a horse. I thought since I was hired I should get up here and start." "Well, I can see no one has informed you of the house rules," said Blackbird. Arrowsmith paused in his eating to look at the person before him. "House rules?" he asked. "Nobody works their first day on the job here. First days are for meetings, a time to get to know one another. You can start work in the morning. More soup?" "Sure, thanks," He stared at Blackbird as the small being dished out more food. He still couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but he suspected female. "Misty said there were other people around." "Yes. Lord Sylvannamyth is around here somewhere, and the Thief will be in as soon as he climbs down from whatever tree he is currently up and smells food. I hope you don't mind eccentrics, this cabin is full of them." "No, I don't mind," he said. Blackbird leaned forward suddenly, noticing the raven tattoo on Arrowsmith's hand. "Oh, you'll have to forgive my rudeness for not greeting you properly. I didn't know you were a fellow priest of Hercandoloff." "Harry who?" Blackbird looked at Arrowsmith with large violet eyes. "Hercandoloff, the god of academia and magic. That is his mark." The little person pulled up a sleeve and showed Arrowsmith an equally little arm. Just above the wrist there was a raven in a circle, crossed by a lightning bolt. It was the same tattoo. "I'm not!” said Arrowsmith, staring in disbelief at the tattoo. “I mean, he's probably a great deity and all, but I dreamed about this symbol. I liked it so much I had a friend of mine put it on my hand. I never heard of...Hercandoloff." Blackbird's soft violet eyes seemed to be searching for something in his eyes and manner, but then the small being sat back and picked up the cup of water. "Perhaps it was a prophetic dream. Perhaps you were meant to come here."


Suddenly Arrowsmith felt some sort of a headrush, as though something was trying to make itself known. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the feeling to go away. "Are you all right?" Blackbird asked gently. "Yeah, fine," said Arrowsmith. "Just a dizzy spell. I mean I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." "Well it never pays to let these things go," said Blackbird. "I'll have my wife look at you when she gets back. The Moonhound is a most accomplished healer." Arrowsmith almost fell off of his chair. "You're the Moonhound's husband?" "I am, yes. And while I may not be what someone would picture for her mate, I can assure you that if you'd asked me four years ago whom I planned to marry, I'm certain a warrior of the Moon Goddess would not have been my first choice. And I know I would not have been hers. Anyway," said Blackbird, "we shall have her look at you. Since she's so good at breaking people, it only makes sense that she would be good at putting them back together." There came a stirring from within the depths of the cabin, and Arrowsmith heard the soft tread of booted feet moving on the slate floor. The sound paused a little way from the door, as though someone was not quite sure if he wanted to come into the room. "Infamous, is that you?" said Blackbird. "Lunch is ready, come out and have some." Arrowsmith was now looking at the doorway in interest, and a moment later out came a small, wiry man with the most spectacular set of dreadlocks he had ever seen. They were thin and fine, carefully maintained, and went in a heavy dark auburn curtain right down to his waist. They were beaded from about halfway up with silver and onyx, and seemed to frame his whole body, which was slim and sinewy. He moved, slow and cat-like, into the kitchen, flat black shark's eyes fixed dead on Arrowsmith. 'That's him,' thought Arrowsmith, 'That's the Thief.' He rose to his feet to greet him, and was startled by the way the smaller man cringed back from him, like a wild animal. Blackbird quickly rose and intervened in the situation. "Infamous, this is John Arrowsmith, he's here to help fix the roof. Arrowsmith, this is Infamous Keeper." "Hi," said Arrowsmith lamely, and Infamous seemed to unwind a little. "Hello," he said back, his voice quiet and cautious. He turned his dark eyes to Blackbird. "Did I hear you say lunch was ready? And did you make it?" "Yes on both counts," said Blackbird, sitting down once more. "Oh lovely. Vegetables."


"Yes," said Blackbird. "Vegetables. And if you don't like it I can always get Lord Sylvannamyth to cook." "No thanks," said Infamous. "Lord Sly's idea of cooking is to beat something until it more or less ceases to wiggle." "That's disgusting," said Arrowsmith. "Yes, well, just wait until the first time you see him eat," said Infamous. He sat down at the table with his bowl. "Just never bother him while he's eating." "I'll remember that," muttered Arrowsmith. He watched Infamous as he ate his lunch. He was put together like a snake, all muscle from one end to the other. He was wearing on a chain around his neck an eight-pointed star, made of some sort of sparkling gem. Arrowsmith knew little about gems, but it looked like diamond to him. Infamous also had, thrust into his belt, an angle-bladed dagger, shaped something like a boomerang. It was about eighteen inches long, inscribed all over with strange runes and pictographs. There was another eight-pointed star inset into the hilt. It looked just like Anakher’s, but far more finely made, and much, much older. After lunch was eaten, Infamous sat back in his chair and pulled out a beautiful bone and gold pipe, which he began to fill. Arrowsmith looked at the pipe and grinned, shaking his head. He could only guess how that had made its way to the cabin. It didn't look like anything he had seen for sale in Chye Vale. Infamous seemed to guess what he was thinking and smiled. "Infamous is a high priest of his temple," said Blackbird. "He is also the Master Thief." "So should I bow first, or just throw everything I own on the table now?" Both Infamous and Blackbird laughed, and for a brief moment Arrowsmith saw the Infamous behind the nasty eyes. "We don't take from our friends," said Infamous. "Or the poor. We take from the wealthy to sustain our temples, and those who need it. Marakim likes balance." The Master Thief finished filling his pipe, and began trying to light it with a twig from the fire. Almost without thinking, Arrowsmith pulled out his Zippo lighter and snapped it open. Infamous stared at the lighter, then looked at Arrowsmith. "Good trick," he said dryly, and leaned forward to allow Arrowsmith to light the pipe for him. Blackbird looked from Arrowsmith to Infamous, smiling quietly to himself. As he rose to gather the lunch dishes, he wondered how long it would take them to realize that they knew each other.


Chapter Six

Harley was stabled in an empty horse stall. After throwing a tarp over the bike and patting the horse in the next stall, Arrowsmith went into the cabin once more. He stowed his things in a warm, hay filled attic, already feeling much more at home. The Thief had gone on to other things, and Blackbird was just finishing tidying up the kitchen. He had met Infamous' three tame wolves, and he liked them well enough. They were currently following their master around, and occasionally Arrowsmith could hear him either trip over them or tell them to get lost. He would have liked to have learned more about the religion Infamous practiced, but it would have to wait awhile. He didn't want to plague his hosts with an endless stream of questions. Misty and Monshikka came rolling in a few hours later. Misty came bouncing into the kitchen, eyes bright and hair flying. "Hi, people!" he yelled. "Drop everything you're doing and bask in my wonderful glow!" "Maybe later," said Blackbird, sipping his tea. Monshikka strolled in after Misty. "Must you act like a child?" "I'm an Elf. It's in my blood. HONEY MUFFINS!" he bellowed as he thrust his hand into an earthenware pot. He pulled out a muffin and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. Infamous came strolling into the room just then with his three jolly wolves, who were bouncing excitedly from all the noise. He stared coldly at Monshikka. "Well, well, if it isn't Prince Crabgrass. Found that laxative you've been seeking all of your life?" Monshikka whirled around to confront Infamous, while Misty suddenly covered his mouth and ran out of the room. And in the midst of it all, sat Blackbird, serenely sipping his tea. "Good to have the kids home," he said, smiling. "More tea, Arrowsmith?" "Is the place always like this?" he asked as he held out his mug. "Yes. I'm afraid so." Blackbird turned to look at Infamous and Monshikka. "Supper will be ready soon. Infamous, would you go get some wine out of the cellar?" "Why send him to the cellar?" snapped Monshikka. "Just pull out his miserable liver and squeeze it." "We could do that," said Blackbird, "but we can't hardly serve it to a guest."


Silence filled the room. Infamous blinked at Blackbird for a moment, then turned and went to get the wine. Monshikka stood uncomfortably after he left, then turned to Arrowsmith and offered a short, formal bow. "Please forgive my behavior." He offered a short, formal bow. "We were not properly introduced earlier. I am Monshikka Starlit." Arrowsmith rose to his looming six feet four, having to bend his head to avoid hitting the ceiling. He was about to extend his hand to Monshikka, but Blackbird reached out to gently stay the motion. Puzzled, but deciding Blackbird likely knew something he didn’t, Arrowsmith withdrew his hand. "John Arrowsmith." Monshikka smiled, then sat down at the table, as did Arrowsmith. A moment later Infamous came out of the cellar in a cloud of furry bodies with two bottles of wine. He set them on the table, and was opening one when Misty finally reappeared, now cleaned up and under control. A peace settled over the house, and Infamous began setting out the supper he had made earlier. These people ate well, Arrowsmith noticed, and he thought he knew who was responsible for that. Most of the things Infamous had been pulling out for supper were not coming out of the cupboard or pantry; they were coming out of his room. What amazed him the most was the solid gold serving platter. It looked like somebody's family crest. Arrowsmith picked up a gold dinner fork and looked at it, then at Infamous, who smiled back at him. "Being a Master Thief has its advantages, I see." "You should see his room," said Misty. "It looks like a king's tomb." "Be glad to show you," said Infamous. "I'd love to see it," said Arrowsmith. He picked up his matching gold goblet with its ring of rubies. It was heavy, and incredibly beautiful, like something from a dragon's hoard. "I have to compliment you on your taste in other people's belongings." "He's good," said Misty. "You should see what he stole for Blackbird and the Moonhound when they got married. A bed. And I mean a bed. It must weigh seven hundred pounds. Made of solid oak and gilded in gold. The headboard is carved with warriors on horses, and it has a canopy you could use for a tent. Then there is the feather mattress. Not to mention the four gold eagles on top of the posts, each clutching a diamond you could use for a sling stone." "How did you manage that?" asked Arrowsmith, staring at the little man. "Big pockets," said Infamous, taking a bite of baked lamb. "But how...?" "Eat your supper," said Infamous, looking pleased with himself.


Arrowsmith ate his supper and drank his wine. They were well into their third bottle when he was shown the mighty bed. He wasn't over his shock of seeing that when he was dragged next by Infamous and Misty into Infamous' bedroom. It was like stepping into a jewelry box. Artwork hung on the walls, and the mantle of the small fireplace sported open boxes of gems and finery. The bed, not quite as fine as Blackbird's, was covered in silk quilts and fine furs, as was the embroidered couch underneath the window on the far side of the little room. The floor was thick with soft woven rugs. There wasn't a bare spot in the whole place. "Holy shit!" exclaimed Arrowsmith, staring at the room. Misty leapt onto the bed, and literally vanished from view as quilts and furs flew up around him. Infamous opened a large wardrobe with a casual air, and Arrowsmith saw that it was no longer a wardrobe. It had been converted into a sort of combination bar and pantry. One side was various wines and alcohols, the other was all of those delicacies Infamous had been pulling out for dinner. "Man," said Arrowsmith. "I gotta get me a Master Thief for my old age." "Infamous is available," said Misty casually, lying on the pile of silk quilts and pillows. "His boyfriend has forsaken him." "Well, thank you for sharing that with the world," said Infamous sharply. "Oh, he was a hound and you know it," said Misty. "If he had not left when he did I was going to do him an injury. He had no right to treat you the way he did." "Well, I thank you for your concern over my feelings, but there are things in this world I would rather think of than Betris." "Quite right," said Misty. He held up his goblet. "Good host, my glass is empty." "Oh, hey, you people been sharing things with me all night, let me get something to pass around," said Arrowsmith. "As long as we can drink it," said Misty. Arrowsmith went up to the loft to fetch a bottle of ouzo he had been saving, then grabbed his guitar as well and came back downstairs. He went into Infamous' room and passed him the bottle. "Ouzo!" he said. "Blood of the Gods." Infamous opened the bottle and sniffed. "Smells good. Let's give it to the Elf. That way, if he dies, it's no real loss."


Blackbird thrust his head into the bedroom just then. "Monshikka and I are both on our ways to our respective beds. Is this little party going to go all night?" "I certainly hope so," said Misty. "Well, be quiet." "Of course," said Misty. "Goodnight." Blackbird left the room, and the moment he did everyone forgot his request for quiet. The three all positioned themselves on the bed and set about the serious task of consuming ouzo. They were almost at the end of the bottle when Arrowsmith finally decided to start asking some questions. "Do you guys mind if I ask you a few things? Even if they seem sort of obvious to you?" Infamous was sitting with one arm linked around Misty's neck, his wine goblet tilted dangerously. "Sure," he said happily. "Anything you want." For a long time, Arrowsmith paused, feeling a little worried despite the wine and ouzo. As far as he could tell, this was a medieval society, and asking strange questions might just be a dandy excuse to have a public hanging. Misty and Infamous blinked with interest at Arrowsmith. Infamous' hand began idly working its way down Misty's chest, and the blond slapped it away. "Well?" Infamous said. "You seemed awfully worked up about something. I should like to tell you that you've no need to be frightened." Arrowsmith nodded. "I don't know anything about the ways of the people here, and I've only got the history of my world to go on. I guess I keep expecting I will do something to get my head cut off. Also I should mention... there are no Elves where I come from." "Well, you can bring your people this one," said Misty, thrusting Infamous away. "I think he has designs on my virtue." "I wasn't aware you had any virtue," said Infamous. "I'll protect you," said Arrowsmith. "He's only little, how much trouble can he be?" Infamous flopped liquidly onto Arrowsmith's lap and gazed up at him, blinking those black eyes. He grinned. "I'm harmless!" he said. Arrowsmith reached down and pulled the angle-bladed dagger out of Infamous' belt. "So what is this thing? The little weirdo in town has one just like it." "He's no weirdo, he's a relative of mine," said Infamous. "And that's a sacred weapon. Give it back or I'll stick it up your nose."


"Again with the nose," said Misty, rubbing the end of his own. Arrowsmith set the dagger down on a table near the bed. "And the star on your cloak?" "That is a sacred symbol of Marakim," Infamous raised his head and squinted at Arrowsmith's right hand. "Hey! How come you have the symbol of the Wizard of the White Palace on your hand?" "I had a dream about it. I didn't know it was significant." "Don't tell Blackbird that," said Misty. “Don't tell him he looks like a girl, either. He'll flatten you." "That tiny little thing? He looks like he'd break if I sneezed on him." "He would," said Infamous. "But never mess with a worshipper of Hercandoloff. They can do ugly, ugly things to a person." Misty burped quietly. "Turn you into a fruit bat, he will." "So he's a wizard," said Arrowsmith. He didn't actually believe Blackbird was a wizard, but he was certain the locals did. "Yes and no," said Infamous. "There are no true wizards on Dargoth anymore, not since the time of the Crystal Mages. Their magic comes from the Wells of Magic, and the natural streams of green energy that flow through the land. What kind of magic a person can use depends on what sort they devote their life to. The Moonhound's magic is all healing and agricultural magic, because that is what her Goddess' concerns are. Hercandoloff is a god of knowledge. He can wield offensive as well as defensive magics, and some of his spells are pretty ugly. Hercandoloff was also the only mage to walk this land with the ability to loan out some of his magic to certain followers. That is probably how he reached his status as a god. A living god, I should add. He reincarnates every once in a while just to make sure we are behaving ourselves. The Moonhound can fix broken bones, stuff like that. But Blackbird can turn you into a bug and step on you." "What about you? You're a high priest. Can you use magic?" Arrowsmith found all this talk about magic amusing. It just seemed to prove to him how backward these people were. Warm and friendly, but primitive. Infamous hiccupped, then waved the empty ouzo bottle. "Sure! I can make wine disappear." "Besides that." "Yes, actually. But Marakim only allows spells that help us be good thieves. I can't turn anybody into a bug or heal a wound."


"No," said Misty. "He can just do boring stuff, like see in the dark and run through walls." Infamous grinned. "Among other stuff. Misty, be a love and get another bottle of wine, will you?" "Wait a minute," said Arrowsmith. In the words of dear old Uncle Smash, his 'bullshit tank was running over.' "You can run through walls?" Infamous blinked up at him, obviously catching the tone in Arrowsmith's voice. "Yes. Of course." "Right now?" The Master Thief sat up, and Arrowsmith could tell the little man's hackles were up. "Yes. Right now. Are you implying something?" There was something very weird about Infamous all of a sudden. A moment ago he had been drunk and floppy, content to soak up booze and make non-threatening passes at his handsome friend. Suddenly he seemed to be a creature of age and shadow, almost surreal. The flat black eyes glittered green, just for a second. "No," said Arrowsmith levelly. "I have just never seen anything like that. I mean I have run into people who claim to be able..." Infamous stood up. It suddenly occurred to Arrowsmith that, as a High Priest, Infamous had no choice except to prove the power of his god. Misty uncorked a bottle of wine and took a drink, grinning. Infamous stood, facing the far wall. There was a dresser before it, piled with expensive clothing and trinkets. Arrowsmith doubted that he would see anything very earth-shattering. Probably just a huge cloud of 'magic' smoke and the thief would slip out a door. He took the bottle Misty offered and had a drink. Infamous stood for a few minutes. He seemed to be putting himself into a sort of trance state. Then he took a black scarf from off of a chair and wrapped it around his eyes, tying it. Again he stood, silent. Arrowsmith was startled when he bolted forward. He was a creature of dream, almost intangible, and silent. Even though Arrowsmith saw him cross the room, he heard no sound. The pillows and rugs did not rustle as he ran across them. It was like being awake to appreciate a nightmare, and Arrowsmith dropped the wine and stood bolt upright as the fluttering shadow that had been Infamous Keeper passed straight through the cluttered dresser and out of the room. "Holy shit!" he yelled. "Nope," said Misty, grinning, "Holy Thief."


Misty got the wine. Arrowsmith was still standing in the middle of the room, staring, when Infamous sauntered in through the bedroom door. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the wall. "How did you do that?" he asked, still staring at the wall Infamous had gone through. Infamous stood beside Arrowsmith, peering at the wall as though trying to see what the large man was staring at. He gave him a sidelong glance. "Magic. I told you. I don't know where you're from, John Arrowsmith, but that's the most excited I have ever seen anyone get over a simple spell." Infamous dropped onto the bed. He shifted into a more comfortable position and watched as Misty filled a cup for him. "Look," Misty said as he filled another cup for Arrowsmith. "We don't really care where you are from. Accept us for what we are, and we will do the same for you. Of course, our ways are a little more complex than that, but that is the only rule you have to worry about for now. Pick up your...lute," Misty waved a hand at the guitar, "and we will play and sing." Arrowsmith stared at the wall for a moment longer, then turned to look at Infamous and Misty. They blinked at him cutely, innocently, like a couple of demonic Care Bears. He nodded, still a little shaken. "All right," he said softly. They played and sang for a little while, until Infamous passed out. Arrowsmith had to admire his poise; he remained sitting up, his head against his pillows, and his wine goblet still held upright. Misty took the goblet from his hand, then loosened the collar of his shirt. They piled quilts and furs on top of him before leaving the room, taking the wine with them. Closing the bedroom door quietly, they crept into the kitchen to raid the cupboards. Armed with cheese and smoked fish, they pulled down the stairs that led up to the loft above the kitchen. They went up into the small room, crawling through the deep hay to where Arrowsmith had his bed. The idea was to drink more and play music, but they had no sooner poured themselves another glass of wine and settled down when they both fell asleep. Warm and content in the piles of hay, neither twitched a muscle for the rest of the night. *** Morning came and went, and the afternoon arrived and trickled gently on. Misty and Arrowsmith slept in the hay peacefully. A spider perched for a moment on Arrowsmith's large shoulder, then crawled down once more in search of another place to be. The day wore on pleasantly, neither noticing its passing. Infamous awoke within his cocoon of blankets and stared blearily at the alarmed amber eyes of Simon, the wolf's large grey ears tilted at a frantic angle. The animal had to go out, and he had to go out now. Infamous sighed and patted him on the head. "Come on, kids, daddy will let you out," The thief yawned and stretched his serpentine body, feeling each muscle as he did so. Shaking his hair out of his face, he opened the bedroom door, his animals rushing down the hallway with thundering paws.


The kitchen was empty. Monshikka would have been up and about his business hours ago, and Blackbird as well. However, Blackbird was not a strong individual, and was probably in his room, napping. Infamous assumed that Arrowsmith and Misty would be out at the barn by now, but when he opened the door to let the wolves out, he noticed Arrowsmith's heavy boots still on the mat. Infamous' eyes glittered as a crooked smile crossed his thin lips. He had no objection to waking large, handsome men. Closing the door, he reached up for the rope to the loft steps and pulled the ladder down. He bounded into the loft, then stopped short as he noticed Arrowsmith's was not the only body there. There was no mistaking the person beside him for anyone other than Misty. Not with that river of gold hair. Infamous felt his hackles rise. *** Misty seemed to sense another presence, and he raised his head to look at Infamous. He met the thief's penetrating black gaze, and had the eerie feeling that he had done something to earn his wrath. For a long moment, neither said anything. "It is growing late in the day," Infamous said, and Misty did not miss the touch of ice in his voice. "I will make breakfast." Misty watched Infamous disappear down the trap door, then felt Arrowsmith stir next to him. "What time is it?" he asked, his voice rusty from sleep. "Late," said Misty, still staring at the trap door. "We have overslept." "Oh wonderful," Arrowsmith rolled onto his side and sat up, blinking. "I thought I heard someone come in. Did I?" "Yes, Infamous was up here. And when a thief of Marakim is up before you, then you have slept far too late. Come on, he's making breakfast." Arrowsmith nodded. "You go down, I'll be there in a moment." "All right," said Misty, even though he would have rather cut off his left hand than go down alone to face Infamous. He loved Infamous dearly, and had known him many years, but there was a crazy streak in the little man that was not to be taken lightly. Misty climbed down the stairs into the kitchen, and was immediately confronted by the thief. He found himself nose to nose with him the moment he released the ladder and turned around. He stared into the flat black eyes, feeling just the slightest bit cold. "I have one word for you, golden boy," said Infamous. "'Mine.'" "I don't want him!" said Misty. "You of all people should know that!"


"So how come I find you two in the loft together?" "We fell asleep! Listen, assuming he is even inclined the same way you are, I can assure you that I am not. If you want him, you may have him." "Just stay out of my way. I am very tired of men asking me your name," snapped Infamous. "I am out of your way. And if you would start seeking the company of a somewhat more upright variety of men, we wouldn't have these bizarre knife-point conversations. And while we're on the subject, I'd like to mention that I am more than a little weary of you blaming the dishonorable intentions of your lovers on me!" Infamous blinked in surprise, then shook his head and sighed. "All right," he said quietly, then turned and walked away, heading for the hearth to build up the fire. Misty watched him for a moment, then went to his own room. He changed into his work clothes, and returned to the kitchen to find Infamous subdued and apologetic. Misty walked over to him and placed an arm about his narrow shoulders, squeezing him slightly. Infamous put his head on Misty's shoulder. "Aren't we cute," he said sardonically. "I certainly am," said Misty. Infamous stepped on his foot, and Misty squawked in pain and surprise. *** Breakfast was sausages, eggs, tea and fresh bread. Misty ate his bread as it was, but watched with interest as Arrowsmith browned his in the fire, then smeared his egg yolk on it. It wasn't something that had ever occurred to him to do, and as he and the large man were shoved out the door he made a note to try it. They made good use of what little was left of the day. The huge tree was too large to move, so with axes and saws they began chopping it into smaller sections to haul away. However darkness fell with astounding speed, and the day was done. The two gamely worked after nightfall, but then found themselves staggering blindly along the homeward path in the perfect forest darkness. Fortunately, Misty pointed out, Monshikka would have been gone all day and wouldn't have any idea that the two had only worked three hours. Misty and Arrowsmith went to bed much earlier that night, and in their own rooms. They were awakened at sunrise by Blackbird, who had breakfast waiting. Gently, he coerced the two out of bed and into the kitchen, where he watched them eat and then pushed them out the door. Misty and Arrowsmith dutifully went down the hill to the barn, then crawled into the hayloft and went back to sleep for three hours. After all, the tree wasn't going anywhere. They were rudely thrown out of a perfectly decent nap by Monshikka, and after that the day was begun in earnest. ***


The Moonhound and Wesselik came home after two days, and with her arrival, the goofing-off stopped. She had a military mind, and a way of scaring a person into making an effort. She reminded Arrowsmith of a drill sergeant with a cause, and with her and Wess working alongside them, the work got done. The tree was cut up and taken away, and the structure began to once more take shape. The weather was beginning to turn, and that also made them work harder. Soon it would snow, and Arrowsmith didn't know if he wanted to be stuck on that mountain for the winter. These people were all decent enough, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Merc was right and they were all slightly mad. Infamous Keeper was definitely mad, Arrowsmith thought as he banged shingles into place on the roof. He had proof of that. Cora had shown up earlier that day, riding a little brown horse and carrying a basket of things she had brought for him. Arrowsmith was pleasantly surprised that anyone down at the Troll had missed him during the week and a half he had been gone, and said so. Cora smiled and said she thought about him a lot, and asked if he ever thought about her. "Well, sure, of course," said Arrowsmith, because Popsicle had taught him not to tell people who brought him presents that they never crossed his mind. Cora smiled pleasantly and took his arm, leading him a little way from the barn. They sat on a large rock, and that was when the Master Thief showed up, staring at the two of them like a fox on the hunt. This was not an unusual event; the man seemed to be constantly turning up, and Arrowsmith had the funny feeling that Infamous was stalking him. This was a little annoying, because by now Arrowsmith had sighted his own game, and having Infamous tagging after him made it a little hard to strike up new relationships. He rose to his feet to say something to that effect, when Cora linked her arm through Arrowsmith's and shot Infamous a smug, challenging smirk. Arrowsmith did not see the smirk. All he saw was Infamous Keeper clear twenty feet of ground as if by magic to leap on Cora. One second he was opening his mouth to speak; the next he was knocked flat on his back, hearing the two of them tear at each other like dogs. Cora was a barmaid, and probably could have held her own, but then the Moonhound stepped in and broke up the fight. Once she had Infamous by the back of the neck, Cora stomped off, enraged. The Moonhound dragged Infamous up to the cabin, and Misty, who was still laughing, came over to help Arrowsmith up to his feet. "What in Christ's name was all of that about?!" yelled Arrowsmith, brushing off his jeans. Misty giggled helplessly. "I think Infamous likes you. I think Cora likes you too." "Well, I think they're both freaking nuts!" Misty laughed louder, then slapped Arrowsmith on the back. "Come on, let's get back to work before the Moonhound catches us doing nothing."


So they had gone back to work, finishing the roof under the slate-grey sky. They would be finished with the task by the end of the day, and Infamous' little fit had convinced Arrowsmith that winter would be best spent at the Troll. Tonight he would collect his money, and in the morning he and Harley would go back down the mountain to Chye Vale. Two weeks of these loonies was more than enough. Misty let out a triumphant whoop from inside the hayloft, where he had been fixing its floor. Arrowsmith sat back on his own heels and looked over the expanse of new shingles, unable to believe they were actually done. He stood up slowly and stiffly, rubbing one knee, his back sending twinges of pain up and down itself. Arrowsmith walked over to the trap door that led to the loft and climbed down the ladder. Misty was hopping about in some sort of pagan Elven victory dance that involved a lot of stomping. Below them, Arrowsmith could hear the cows mooing uncertainly, wondering if the roof was going to fall in again. Arrowsmith was far too sore to bounce, but he was more than happy to watch Misty do it. He smiled wearily as Misty and his hair danced around the loft. "We did it! We did it!" he chanted happily. "This stupid Creator-forsaken roof is done and we don't have to look at it anymore!" He ceased bouncing and looked at Arrowsmith through a veil of gold hair. "And now for the traditional Elven thanksgiving, performed whenever hideously long and tedious jobs are done." 'Oh-oh,' thought Arrowsmith. That was when the armload of hay struck him in the face. Retaliation, of course, was the only thing for the insult, and the battle was on. Hay and bodies flew, all weariness seeming to have left the two as they took turns stuffing the scratchy grass down one another's clothing. The play was short-lived, however, when something in Arrowsmith's back announced that it had enough for one day, and he fell over into the hay with the grandmother of all spasms. Misty stumbled over to look at Arrowsmith, still giggling. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Do I look like I'm all right?" yelled Arrowsmith, who was also still laughing, which didn't make his back feel any better. "No," said Misty happily. He thumped down onto the floor next to Arrowsmith, hay sticking out of his hair at crazy angles. Arrowsmith grinned at him fondly. Misty was certainly his own creature, no denying that, and Arrowsmith had really developed an affection for him over the time he had been at the cabin. He thought perhaps if Misty asked him to, he would even stay in this cabin full of mad people for the winter. Maybe, if Misty had some idea how much he liked him, he would ask. Arrowsmith reached up one large hand and caught hold of the collar of his shirt, and pulled Misty gently down, drawing him into his arms. He was warm, and, unfortunately, smelled like he had been working all day. That was fine, Arrowsmith was sure he didn't smell so wonderful himself. He stared into the dark sapphire blue of his eyes for a long moment, then leaned forward and kissed him, tangling his hands into Misty's long golden hair. He held the kiss for a while,


then released Misty when he felt him pull back. The two considered each other in silence, as

though seeing each other for the first time.

"That isn't the usual ending of the traditional Elven thanksgiving," Misty said quietly.

"I'm not surprised," said Arrowsmith. "But I really like you."

Misty drew back from Arrowsmith and sat up, looking down at the large man. "I really like you

too, but you're asking me for something I can't give you."

The silence fell again, but it was more thoughtful than uncomfortable. Then Misty rose to his

feet, reaching down to take Arrowsmith's hand. "We should be going. Can you stand?"

Slowly Arrowsmith got to his feet. His back ached almost unbearably, but he could make it back

to the cabin. Misty helped him to get out of the loft, then allowed him to lean on him as they

went carefully up the hill to the cabin.

"I'm sorry," said Arrowsmith. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

"You ought to be, forcing me to carry you home." Misty looked up at him, smiling. "Don't be

sorry," he said quietly. "You didn't gain a lover, but you still have a friend."

Arrowsmith smiled back at him, then kissed him on top of his head. "Thanks. But forgive me if I

don't give up right away."

"I'll forgive you. But can I make a suggestion?"

"Misty, I would take suggestions from you any day of the week."

"Infamous has been dying for you to notice him. He's really crazy about you."

"Shorten that sentence, will you? Infamous is really crazy. And how did he earn a handle like

‘Infamous’ anyway?"

"It was just a suggestion. And he's not really crazy, just a little bent around the edges. He's got a

very big heart."

"Uh-huh, and a great personality. He's bug-shit crazy and ugly to boot."

"All right, fine, yes. Infamous Keeper is mad and probably not the most beautiful man, but he is

my friend. Would it hurt you so very much to talk to him once in a while? You may change your

opinion about him."

Arrowsmith caved in. He didn't want Misty angry with him, and there was still the probability

that he was going to Chye Vale in the morning. He could talk to Infamous Keeper for one night.


"Okay," he said. "You could be right. But I want you, not him." "You can't have me," said Misty, not unkindly. "And if you keep this up, I'll drop you and make you crawl back to the cabin." They entered the warm kitchen, and immediately there were concerned people all around the two. Arrowsmith was helped into a chair before the fire. As sat down, he heard Misty explain to the rest of the household that Arrowsmith had hurt his back, and Arrowsmith heard himself say it wasn't that bad, even though he felt like he was on fire. He hung onto Misty's hand as though it was a lifeline, frightened more by the question of what they would do to fix him than the actual pain. He doubted he had anything more serious than a strained muscle, but he was in a semi-medieval society, and every now and then unnerving questions came to mind. Such as, did they treat warts by amputating the limb? Then Infamous appeared, silently and from nowhere, to ask tentatively how he felt. Arrowsmith assured him that he was going to be fine, he had worked like a dog all day then started horsing around and strained himself, that was all. "Oh good, he's helpless," said the Moonhound. "Let's do terrible things to him." "That is not what I was hoping to hear," said Arrowsmith, grimacing. He touched a hand to his back, feeling a hot spot. "I hurt myself," he pouted. The Moonhound sat down behind him on the floor, placing her hand on the injured muscle. "Well, we can have this fixed in a moment," she said quietly as she examined his back. She peered around the chair at Infamous. "Get me a big axe, will you? And make sure it's a rusty one." Arrowsmith watched Infamous carefully to see if this woman was joking. If she wasn't, he was going to learn to levitate and fly out of that room, injured back or not. Infamous just laughed and made no motion to get the axe. Arrowsmith heard her speaking slowly and quietly, just under his range of hearing. Then he felt a healing warmth flood through his body, and with it, the pain just seemed to wash out of him. A surprised look crossed his face, and cautiously he sat forward, waiting for the vicious ache to return. It was gone completely. "Hey!" he said. "How did you do that? It doesn't hurt anymore." "Old fighter's trick," she said, getting to her feet and crossing to a chair. "No great magic." 'There's that word again,' he thought. "Well, it feels a lot better. Thanks. I probably wouldn't have been able to leave in the morning if you hadn't done that. You'll have to show me how you did that some time." "Sure," she said, and smiled.


"You're leaving in the morning?" said Infamous. "Afraid so," said Arrowsmith. "The barn is done. I told Merc I would be back." He glanced towards Misty, but the half-Elf said nothing. "Well," said the Moonhound, "we should pay you for your work, and after that feed you supper and get you drunk as thanks for coming up here to help with the work." "Sounds good to me," said Arrowsmith. "I just recalled something," she said as Monshikka began setting the table, "that barmaid who was up here, Cora?" "Yes?" said Arrowsmith. "Well before I had to pull Infamous off of her, she told me to tell you that when you get back you'll have to find another place to live for awhile." "Oh really?" said Arrowsmith. "And why is that?" He half suspected that Cora was just trying to make things difficult for him. The Moonhound put her booted feet on the hearth and began filling a small pipe she had taken out of a belt pouch. "Tavern caught fire. Nothing big, but it ruined some of the rooms on the bottom floor, including yours I believe. She said you could room with her." Arrowsmith thought about that. A strange feeling came over him, as though he had just realized he knew this was going to happen. Later on that night as he lay in the attic loft, staring out of the large round window, he still couldn't shake the feeling. It made him wonder all the more about the patch of ground on the mountain where he felt he had died. There was something very strange happening, but for the life of him he could not figure it out. Eventually he just fell asleep, not noticing the first white flakes that began to fall softly on the shiny green needles of the pine trees.


Chapter Seven

Blackbird was simply a little knot under the covers when the Moonhound finally came to bed. She closed the door softly so not to wake him, smiling at his tiny form. Oh there were bigger and tougher men in the world than Karjetta Sai Tophet Nightshade, that was a given. But most people didn't see in him what she did; they all just thought he was an undersized little fellow with strange ideas. But the Moonhound knew him. She knew him very well. He made a small, inquisitive squeak when she climbed into bed and put her arm around him. For a moment she thought she had managed not to wake him, but then he raised his head and stared at her, puzzled. Blackbird was never great at conversation when awakened. He squeaked again, and she just agreed with him. Satisfied, he put his head down and went back to wherever it was little wizards went in their dreams. The Moonhound put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, but sleep did not come to her. She had things on her mind, and with Blackbird asleep she would have to work them out on her own. She never woke him unless there was an emergency of sorts. He was too frail, and tired easily. He needed his sleep. So Blackbird slept while the Moonhound watched the snowfall outside the bedroom window. They had real glass windows, thanks to the Thief. She loved them, even though they were hard to keep clean and let all of the warmth out in winter. They were wonderful, and she could always put on another blanket. She did much of her thinking this way, lying in the dark and gazing out of the window, with Blackbird and the coals of the fire to keep her warm. It was the best way to work out the issues of the day. She pulled the covers a little higher over him, a protective, almost possessive gesture. Blackbird squeaked with a little more authority this time, and she tried hard not to laugh. "You're wiggling," he said accusingly. "And you're too cute for words." "I am not cute. Great and powerful mages are not cute." "I'm sorry, but you're cute." He rolled towards her, lying close. "Fine, I'm cute. I'm adorable. Remind me to change myself into a pink furry bunny first thing in the morning. Just tell me what is keeping you awake." "Arrowsmith is the last member of the household to come home, isn't he?" "Yes, he is. We're finally all here. Well, except for Blue, but he hasn't been home for seven of our lifetimes."


The Moonhound nodded, then put her arms around Blackbird, pulling him closer. "It's snowing," she said, smiling a little. "So much for Arrowsmith's ideas about going home in the morning." Blackbird raised his head and looked at the Moonhound. "You know, I think that barmaid set that fire. I realize that tavern fires are not uncommon, but funny it started at the back of the inn, away from the kitchen." The Moonhound shrugged. "People who are in love do odd things. She would obviously do anything to have him." "Good luck," said Blackbird. "Misty told me that Arrowsmith kissed him today in the hayloft." The Moonhound nodded. "I'd kiss Misty in the hayloft." "Well, I had better not find out you've been kissing Misty. I'm certain that Elf has been with every woman from here to Two-Fifty-Mile-House. He's probably got a disease." The Moonhound laughed. "That's my mage, always willing to defend my honor." "My lady, you are more than capable of defending your own honor. I've seen you in fights." She smiled and stroked his long black hair. "So tell me what will happen now, within this house. When do they start to Recall?" "Monshikka already has, as have we. And Wesselik, and Lord Sylvannamyth. So that just leaves Misty, Infamous and Arrowsmith." "Can't we encourage them to remember in some way?" "No, they have to do it on their own. It will be all right. We have time, and we're all home. Winter is here at last, and that is the best time to Recall." The Moonhound adjusted the covers about herself. The fire was dying, and she was reluctant to fix it just yet. "It's strange, though, to have nine lifetime's worth of memories and experiences in my head. I remember so much, so many things." "Most of them good, I hope." "Yes, most of them very good. And do you know what I have the most vivid recollection of? I remember, two lives ago, you were trying to create spells that would make our fruit trees grow faster. And you were so pleased with what you had that you went into the front yard and cast your spell on the apple tree. Suddenly there was this stench of rotten fruit, the tree was now about a thousand years old, and the apples were lying all over the ground like big round balls of slime. You were so angry that you stomped off to the tool shed and came back with this huge axe that you couldn't even lift. And when I asked you what you were going to do with it, you said that it was your counter-spell."


"It worked, didn't it?" "Yes, the axe was very effective. I still remember the both of us trying to explain to the rest of the house why we had chopped down a perfectly good apple tree." "Well at least I learned to leave the spiritual tree-magic to you. I'll stick with my alchemy and wizard-magic. Besides, I just came up with this wonderful new spell. It will make the pigs grow much faster..." She took her pillow and hit him with it, and after that the battle was on. Blackbird wasn't strong, but he was fast, and he certainly gave as good as he got. She, however, was a little more cautious when it came to hitting him back. Blackbird broke bones the way some people broke fingernails. All she had to do was accidentally knock him off the bed and he could easily be hurt. This, of course, did not discourage him from hitting her back with all of his might. Which wasn't much. The bedroom door suddenly flew open, and Misty thrust his head into the room. "You children settle down in here!" The Moonhound threw her pillow at him. It hit the door as he quickly closed it, and she heard him walk off down the hall, singing something in Elvish. The Moonhound went to fetch her pillow. Picking it up, she tossed it onto the bed, then went to fix the fire. Finally she climbed once more into bed and pulled the covers over the both of them. They pressed close to each other, and she kissed him gently. "You women are all alike," Blackbird said, his eyes glittering mischievously in the semidarkness. "Just because you have a naked man in your bed you think you can do whatever you like to him." "Would you like me to leave?" "Don't you dare." *** Dawn came, a soft silver-grey that spread over the white and green of the forest. Arrowsmith slept in the hay, curled tightly into a ball, awaiting the eventual warming of the cabin from the kitchen fire. Like a hibernating animal, he would not move until the temperature rose. Certainly he wasn't going to wake up to watch his breath in the air. So he remained a lump, dreaming about trying to find the thermostat for the heater. He awoke with a scream as something wet and ice-cold hit his back. He threw off the covers and hunted for the object, finding a huge, oozing, dripping, snowball. He stared at it in shock for a moment, unable to grasp where it could have come from. He looked up to see Infamous and Misty looking at him with straight faces.


"It snowed," said Misty. Arrowsmith at first could just look from one to the other, still trying to organize his thoughts, while the snowball melted in his hand. A cold splatter of water on his leg helped him decide how best to handle the situation. "You're both dead," he said, and the two fiends bolted for the hatch. Arrowsmith paused just long enough to pull on his jeans, then tore after them. Infamous headed for the depths of the cabin, while Misty darted outside. Arrowsmith had only a second to decide which one to pursue, then went after Infamous. He soon found, however, that catching thieves was a job best left to somebody else. It seemed that whenever he had him cornered, Infamous was suddenly somewhere else. At least twice Arrowsmith would have sworn he saw him simply dematerialize into a shadow. He was beginning to think he should have just gone after Misty, even risking being pelted with snowballs from a hidden position... Snowballs... Snow... Had it snowed last night? Arrowsmith left off his futile quest to throttle Infamous and ran to the front door. Grasping the handle, he threw the door open, thrust his head out, then screamed at what he saw. Snow! Three feet deep on the ground and more of it pouring down from the pearl sky. Not lazy slow flakes, but the kind that falls fat and fast, so that one almost hears them strike the ground in the perfect winter silence. The trees were obscured grey giants, and the rest of the world beyond the small yard was simply gone. There was not a breath of wind, not another sound to be heard, save for Misty burrowing in the fluff like a huge and clumsy gopher. Arrowsmith screamed again, just to get his point across. Infamous sped past him and into the snow, wolves in hot pursuit. "Come play!" he yelled. "I'm stuck here!" Arrowsmith complained loudly. Monshikka appeared next to him, holding a cup of tea. "I know just how you feel," he said dryly. Arrowsmith sighed, then closed the door. He walked over to the kitchen fire and sat before it on a rough-hewn chair. "What will I do now?" he asked Monshikka. "I'm assuming I can't get down the mountain." The albino man seated himself and refilled his teacup. "No, you are quite trapped," he said. Arrowsmith stared at the teapot, wishing they had coffee. He picked up a blue glazed mug and filled it with steaming liquid from the pot. He thought briefly about Cora, and wondered if


maybe being stuck here for the winter would not be such a bad thing after all. He knew he didn't want to deal with her, this way he wouldn't have to. Also, he wouldn't have Merc following him around constantly thinking up ways for Arrowsmith to justify his presence at the Troll. Arrowsmith thought about Trolls. "Are there such things as Trolls?" he asked. Monshikka gave him that 'where-are-you-from' look that Arrowsmith was already familiar with. "Of course there are," he said in his refined voice. "Are they active in winter?" "Not Trolls, but Ogres can become quite the problem, especially if it is a harsh winter." "Goody," said Arrowsmith morosely. "You are a good deal safer up here than in the town," said Monshikka. "The dump in winter is an absolute monster meeting place, I can assure you. Breakfast is ready, why don't you have some?" "I have to get dressed first," said Arrowsmith, realizing he was cold. He rose to his feet and headed for the ladder that went up to his loft. He dressed in his scratchy sweater, which he was really beginning to hate, and his favorite jeans, which were more patch and oil than fabric. He pulled on his heavy motorcycle boots, then went downstairs once more into the warm, teascented kitchen. His boots clomped heavily on the stone floor as he walked to the cooking fire to see what was in the pot that hung over it. He stared morosely at the bubbling oatmeal. "Today is Blackbird's day to cook, isn't it?" "Yes, it is," Monshikka. "A magical array of vegetarian dishes concocted to confuse and frighten. Odd that a man who refuses to eat anything even distantly connected with an animal would marry a woman who eats nothing but meat." "I've seen her eat bread." "I've seen wolves eat birthday cake, but they could hardly survive on it. The bulk of her diet must be fresh raw meat, killed by her own hands. The Moon Goddess is a caring and giving goddess, but she is also demanding. Blackbird probably became a vegetarian after the first time he saw her hunt." "Hope I never have to." Misty and Infamous came tearing into the cabin, white with snow. Infamous banged the door shut, then flung off his cloak and hung it by the door. By now, the rest of the household was awake, and they came to the table, one and two at a time. Lord Sylvannamyth prowled into the kitchen like a leftover nightmare and began tossing sausages into a frying pan. He never seemed to eat anything other than meat, Arrowsmith noticed, lamb and mutton especially, but at least he


cooked his. He never spoke either. He scared Arrowsmith, who could smell 'crazy' on the man like an open sore. Finally everyone was assembled, and they ate their breakfast in pleasant semisilence. Except for Lord Sylvannamyth, who ate like a demented jaguar. Arrowsmith wasn't sure he liked the way the man's eyes whirled counter-clockwise in his head. "Was that you I heard shrieking this morning?" the Moonhound asked Arrowsmith, while Lord Sylvannamyth made certain his food was dead. "Yeah, Misty and Infamous decided I needed a snowball on my back." Blackbird laughed. "Better you than me." "Gee, thanks." "So what will you do now?" asked Monshikka, neatly biting into a biscuit. "You will be stranded here until spring, at least." Arrowsmith shrugged. "I don't know. If you people can stand my company, then I'll probably just do whatever it is you do up here all winter." "You mean, hunt small rodents in the barn?" said the Moonhound. "No." "Well, that's what I do." By the time the morning meal was over, the weather had turned from bad to wretched. The wind had started, and it now moaned and pulled at the shutters, rattling doors and windows like a live thing. Infamous' three wolves, Simon, Sebastian, and Khanin, were furry balls by the kitchen fire, thinking nothing about their wild brethren out in the gale. Misty went out briefly to fetch a tiny and venerable brown pony, bringing it into the kitchen as well. Arrowsmith wasn't certain what he thought about this, but nobody else seemed to have a problem with it. He decided it was an Elf-thing, and let it go. *** The snow fell for days. It covered the world in a thick glittering mat, hiding the smaller

structures entirely. Twice daily, someone would have to go out and shovel paths to the stables,

the pens, and the shacks where the wood and frozen meat were kept. Arrowsmith had always

considered himself a pretty tough guy, but what these people went through on a daily basis was

more than he could keep up with. Day began with digging one's way to the animals’ enclosures,

then feeding them. The chickens had to be kept warm, and that involved going out several times

a day to throw a little coal into their miniature stove. Then there was cooking, cleaning, fishing,

chopping, stoking fires, and whatever else needed doing. They called winter Thuha dei Antanum,

which meant Time of the Dead. It was a sacred season, the death before the rebirth of the world.

Arrowsmith didn't know that being dead was going to be so much god-damned work.


The one saving grace was the bathing chamber. It seemed part of the mountain range was made up of dormant volcanoes, because there were hot springs all over the place. One year Misty and the Moonhound had taken it upon themselves to divert the run-off from one of these springs. They made a stone-lined pit with a simple drainage system, a hole for water to run in, and another hole to allow the excess to drain off. Then they built a room around the pit with a simple earth floor and three huge windows. Flowers grew in there, strange tropical ones from very far away. Soft grasses covered the floor, and little trees stood guard at either side of the huge windows. A brown rabbit named Bun-Bun lived in there to keep the grass down. Arrowsmith gathered that he was Wess' pet. Vents had been cut into the walls to let out some of the steam. Tiny birds would fly in through them, and spend the winter eating rare berries and trilling. The same family of chickadees had been wintering there for years, and were so tame that they would land mere inches from the bathers in the tub to eat and drink from their dishes. Arrowsmith still had to cope with other people climbing into his bath, but hot water and singing birds were a pleasant change from cold water in a damp shack, which is what he had at the Troll. He kept expecting to see unicorns in there, and it was his favorite place to end the day. "Misty?” he said. He was lounging in the deeper end of the pool, his head tipped back, his long brown hair trailing in the softly steaming water. A glass of white wine tilted dangerously in his left hand. He had to wait a moment to get a response. "What?" The blond was in the same pose at a slightly more shallow point of the pool. "You're half-Elf, right?" "Yes." "How do you know you're half-Elf?" "My father told me. He was an Elf." "How do you know he was telling you the truth?" "‘Cause all the other Elves said he was." "But how do you know they were Elves?" "’Cause they were around eight feet tall, had long gold hair, midnight-blue eyes, and they ran around in the forest and said they were Elves." Nothing moved in the pond for a long moment, then Arrowsmith raised his head. "Eight feet tall?" "Yes." "I thought Elves were little tiny things, like six inches."


"Those are fairies, unless it doesn't have wings. Then it is a gnome. Unless it is green, in which case it is a sprite. Unless it is green, not moving, and very, very smelly, in which case it is a dead sprite." "I'm sure the National Geographic Society would be very interested in your notes on differing races." "Let them catch their own fairies." A chickadee chirped a single soft and sleepy note. The snow had stopped, and outside the tall windows a silver-blue moon glowed gently over a white and silent world. There was a quiet splash as Misty moved his hand towards his wine. A pair of luminous green eyes appeared outside the window, then two more pair appeared to look in at the people in the tub. It was a small group of wolves, most likely Infamous' little pack. Khanin was getting quite round, and had declared the space under one of Infamous' covered tables as her own. Khanin was a friendly, inquisitive animal, but Arrowsmith didn't think he would like to have a half-wild wolf and her babies in his bedroom. The pack moved on, Sebastian and Khanin side by side, Simon trailing behind. The bathing room door opened, and Wess stepped into the warm steaming chamber. He hung his towel on a low wooden rack near the pool, and began removing his clothes, revealing a large and intricate tattoo on his back of a dragon entwined with a briar of thorny roses. He stepped into the pool, and accepted the glass of white wine Misty passed him. "So what is tonight's tub topic?" said Wess. "Fairies," said Arrowsmith. Wess chuckled quietly. "Still doubting your surroundings, John Arrowsmith?" "I don't know," said Arrowsmith. "Where I grew up, the only reality was what I saw in my backyard. Me, my family, and whatever was there. Now I come here, and everyone is trying to show me a place where there is magic and intelligent non-human races and gods I've never even heard of, and frankly, as much as I want to believe in all of it, it's hard." Wess nodded. "I see. Well. I suppose it's not hard to see why you should have a difficult time adjusting to all of this. It was a bit of an adjustment for our ancestors, too. It is hard to learn to rely on magic when one has grown accustomed to machines." Arrowsmith sat up and looked over at Wess. "Machines? You know about machines?" The refined older man sipped his wine, running one hand over his slightly greying brown hair. "Most Dargothians do, though they have not seen them in almost a full one thousand years. It was the great mage Hercandoloff who banished them from the world, and brought back the natural magic. Your metal friend Harley is an ancient artifact to us."


"But the people in town didn't know what he was." "No, I don't suppose they did. If I were to go to the ruins of the holy city of Palaklais and bring back something from the forges of the Wizard-King, chances are they would not know what that was either, but it does not make it less ancient. Our land is scattered with the decomposing remains of machines. You see, our land has survived through several ages. First was the Age of the Crystal Mages, and without them, we would not be having this conversation. They existed ten thousand years ago. There were nine of them, and they brought to Dargoth the knowledge of magic. For five thousand years the descendants of these mages ruled the kingdom from the Crystal Keep, which used to be at the center of the capital city of our land, but now is lost. But then the alchemists came; with alchemy comes science and with science comes digging into matters best left alone. By this time, the Crystal Mages had been destroyed..." "How?" asked Arrowsmith. Wess had a way of telling stories as thought he was talking to himself, slowly and quietly. It had an almost hypnotic effect on any one listening. Arrowsmith could listen to Wess tell stories for hours. Wess smiled. "Hush, child, one tale at a time. The Mages were destroyed, as was Crystal Keep. The First Age of Dargoth was gone, and now came the Age of Science. Now, science is not a bad thing, nothing is evil unto itself, it is what people do with it. And of course it all started out harmlessly. Extracting the beneficial elements from herbs to make medicine, large kites for aerial surveillance of land, silly stuff, much of that we still use. But things began to progress faster and faster. Motorcycles, the great metal war dragons, horseless carts…" "You mean cars." "Cars, yes, artificial intelligence, colonies on other worlds, global links through mechanical minds, all sorts of garbage. And, of course, most people can find any excuse to justify anything. Even when we slashed down an entire forest that once stretched from the Palaklais Mountains to the North Sea to the edge of Palace Realm for who-recalls-what, we justified it. And in all the dirt and stench and confinement, we began to go mad and self-destruct. But like any madman, we didn't know we were self-destructing because we were all mad. So we frothed and foamed and slew each other with our precious machines, and couldn't find a way out of the mess even though the answer was looming there in front of us big as the oil slicks that killed our seas." Wess sipped his wine. The brown rabbit hopped over to him, shaking its long ears and begging for a treat. Wess gave it a piece of sweetroot before continuing. "That was the Second Age, and it went on for about four thousand years. It blended a bit with the Third Age, but we finally convinced it to go away. Now, Hercandoloff was born at this time. Well, we assume he was born. Historical records list him as the adopted son of a wealthy merchant, but there is no record of his real parents. He was abandoned at an orphanage one night, abused and unloved. He caught an illness that night, and even though he survived it, the filth of the air and water combined with the disease and made him very fragile, and tiny."


Arrowsmith thought about that. He also had been abandoned, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of empathy. He refilled his wine glass as Wess continued to speak. "So Hercandoloff was mostly confined to life indoors. His adopted father and mother began seeking out rare books for him, as he seemed to like reading. How they managed to get hold of the Tome of the Crystal Mages is not known, but books like that have a way of being found when they need to be. And Hercandoloff, whoever he was, must have had some of the blood of the Mages in him, because he could make the spells in the book work. He began studying anything he could get his hands on about the Crystal Mages, mostly just fragments and bits of old myths. But he managed to piece together enough information about them to determine how they worked their magic. In the meantime he had met a woman, well, a girl, really, neither of them were more than sixteen or seventeen, and, like any teenagers with a cause they ran away together to journey the world to find the Crystal Mages." "Who was the girl?" asked Arrowsmith. "History gives her name as Snow Wolf, a very popular name in the First Age, but almost unheard of by then. And a formidable little vixen she was, and had no intention of being Recalled through history merely as the wife of the last mage to walk Dargoth. No, while he was unraveling the history of the Mages, she began to dig up what she could about an ancient and forgotten WarriorFertility Goddess. I suspect the two of them were rather laughed at, conducting rites and praying to gods everyone else had forgotten. They finally built themselves a hidden cabin in the woods, and lived there for several years, but then something made them move on, traveling ancient paths to the strange and mystic Palaklais Mountains, still feared even today. However, by then they had picked up seven more friends, all sick and tired of the smell and death and endless hopeless destruction. They began building a city, constructing it in the way the Crystal Mages had built their Keep. Others began to join, also tired of the decay. They began calling Hercandoloff the Wizard-King, and now with so many to help, he left the building to them and began crafting spells to find the source of the power of the Mages. In the eighty-third year of Palaklais, just after the completion of the Halls of the King, he found it. "Historians say there was no warning, just a sudden huge explosion of lights, green, violet, gold, blue, all the colors of nature and earth, a spring of natural magic, shooting forth out of a well dug just for that purpose and spreading out all over the land, laying waste to all the machines, clearing the air and water. Unfortunately, it is true, many people died. They would have died anyway, there being no food or water left to support them, but the gods of nature demand balance, and took the spirits from the people to give to the animals so that things were more carefully balanced. Never again has the population of Dargoth been as huge as it was, but we live in what is truly a golden age. We have balance, and people are diligent about reminding their young why things are the way they are. We recall machines, John Arrowsmith. We just don't want them back." Silence fell softly within the room, while Arrowsmith thought about what Wess had said. He was once more feeling that strange, disconnected sensation, as though something was desperately trying to make itself known. He sipped his wine, a little frightened. He wanted to know what he was trying to recall, but at the same time he didn't.


A strange rattling sound caught his attention, like the noise of a dragonfly's wings, and he heard Misty quietly say, "Look!" "Poor little thing is probably thirsty," said Wess. "Misty, put some water in that glass, would you?" Arrowsmith slowly turned his head and looked at the thing Misty and Wess were discussing. He watched as Misty carefully held the wine glass, while a tiny winged being hovered uncertainly over it, darting to one side of the glass, then the other, the translucent pair of insect wings making the rattling sound. Finally deciding that the situation was safe, the little creature landed inside the glass, drinking first, then fluttering and splashing playfully. Misty looked up at Arrowsmith, smiling. "It's a fairy," he said. Arrowsmith drew close, peering at the little creature. It was female, and besides having wings, she had a pair of blue-tipped antennas. As she splashed, a second fairy flew in through the vent and wove his way like an inebriated aircraft to where his little friend was. Arrowsmith watched him hover, flitting rather like a humming bird. "Can they understand us?" he asked quietly. "Not as far as anyone can tell," said Misty as the male buzzed over to a berry bush, perching on it to eat. "We know they build shelters for the winter, and that a pair will stay together for as long as they live.” “They are intelligent," said Wess. "They just seem to be oblivious to anything that doesn't directly affect their little lives. This pair will probably stay here all winter. They'll build a tiny house in the berry shrubs and have babies. Fairies usually have three at once." "Not to be rude," said Arrowsmith, "but they do look a lot like a bug. Won't the birds eat them?" "No," said Misty. "For one thing, they taste horrible." "Misty Foxsworth!" exclaimed Wess. "How would you know?" "I was eight, all right?" "Elves eating fairies, I never heard such a thing. Well at least we know now why the birds seem to have an aversion to eating them." The female drew herself out of the wine glass, shaking her transparent wings vigorously. Water sprayed in a fine mist, then she fluttered over to where her male companion sat. Arrowsmith watched them feed each other fruit from the shrub. He was still feeling ill, but he was having the


strangest thought. He felt that he knew why he was ill, and that it was because he was suppressing something in his mind, something large. "Your story is true, isn't it?" said Arrowsmith. Wess stared at Arrowsmith, concern in his brown eyes. "Yes, it is. Child, you look awful." "I feel awful." Arrowsmith was beginning to pant, as though he was going to vomit. Images were swirling somewhere just out of reach of his sight...or memory. Then the strain became too much for him, and he collapsed into the depths of the warm pool.


Chapter Eight

Arrowsmith awoke sometime in the early morning. It was dark outside, real country dark, not city dark with streetlights all over. He couldn't see his hand before his face, but he could tell that someone was in bed beside him. His body felt as though it had been relieved of all of its bones, and it took a good deal of effort to roll over and stare into the black at whomever was there. As he finally did so, he was confronted by a pair of softly glowing green eyes. The eyes of half-Elves glowed in the dark, Arrowsmith knew, just as he also knew he couldn't possibly be lucky enough to have the eyes belong to Misty. "Infamous?" he said. "What are you doing here?" "Wess told you a story, and apparently it almost proved fatal. So, since you were unconscious and I am a disreputable person who can't be trusted with a broken tinderbox, they asked me to watch over you. How are you?" Arrowsmith closed his eyes and put his hands to his head. "I feel pretty drained, and weak, but I guess I'm okay. What happened to me?" "You just fell over. What were you two talking about?" "He was telling me about the man who brought the magic back to Dargoth. I was going to ask him how accurate the story was, and suddenly I woke up here. I don't remember anything else." "Then I must assume it was the gods striking you down for asking Wess if his story was true. The man is a collector of historical knowledge; if he told me that the Great River was dug three thousand years ago by a hundred crazed gnomes and a goat, I'd smile and say, 'Of course it was.' The man knows everything there is to know about this land." Arrowsmith chuckled quietly. "And was it dug by a hundred crazed gnomes and a goat?" "I don't know. I'll have to ask Wess. But I'm pretty sure it was actually dug by a thousand blue rabbits and their pet moose, Gilbert." "I'm sure Wess will be more than happy to confirm your belief." He closed his eyes, mentally checking himself over. He felt fine, but healthy people didn't just fall over and not wake up for hours on end. It was frightening, and Arrowsmith was more than a little shaken by what had happened. Infamous seemed to sense this, and he placed a gentle hand on Arrowsmith's arm. "Are you all right?" "I don't know. I'm a little worried. This wasn't the first time. It started just shortly after I came here. At first I thought it meant I had a head injury, but now I just don't know. I feel perfectly


fine, then all of a sudden I fall over. I should have mentioned it to someone sooner, I suppose. But the funny thing is, every time it happens, I feel like I'm just about to remember something. Then the next thing I know I'm on my face." "Do you want me to stay here tonight?" Arrowsmith thought about that. His first response was to say no, but something in the back of his mind told him not to send the thief away. "Stay," he said. "I'd like you to stay." Infamous lay down beside him and pulled the blankets up around his neck. There was something strangely familiar about the movement, and for a brief flicker he thought he recalled lying in this loft before, with Infamous asleep next to him. He tried to chase the thought, and catch it, but too swiftly it was gone. "Infamous?" said Arrowsmith. "Can I ask you something very strange?" The little man wriggled under the covers, trying to get comfortable. "Certainly." "Do I know you? Have I been here before? I keep getting these strange feelings that I know this place." For a long time Infamous said nothing. "I don't know. Sometimes I feel the same way about you, that you are so very familiar. But that doesn't make any sense, does it? I never saw you before you came to the cabin." Arrowsmith thought about riding up the mountain, and the eerie feeling he had died on that road, somehow he knew that. Arrowsmith pushed the unsettling thought out of his mind. "Good night, Infamous," he said, and closed his eyes and went back to sleep. *** Infamous waited until Arrowsmith was asleep, then silently slipped out of bed and crossed the hayloft. The silence with which he could move was spectral; he made no sound, disturbed no piece of hay. He just seemed to drift, like some preternatural being, across the room and down the stairs. From there, he moved toward Blackbird's room. He prowled down the hall to the bedroom door, alerting not so much as a mouse. He reached out to open the door, finding it locked. A faint smile crossed his lips. He left the door and went into his own room, retrieving a slim black bag. This in hand, he went back to Blackbird's door, pausing just long enough to open the bag and select a long, slender lock pick. The door was open within seconds. Infamous pocketed the lock pick and went into the room.


Blackbird awoke suddenly to find Infamous perched on him like a gargoyle, staring down at him with softly glowing green eyes. At first the wizard squawked in fright, stirring the Moonhound, but then he fell back to his pillow and sighed. "Infamous..." he said wearily.

"I just have one question," said Infamous brightly.

"Did you pick the lock on the door?"

"Well how else was I supposed to get in here?"

"You weren't!" growled the Moonhound, still face down in her pillow.

Infamous snorted. "Get a better lock." He flopped down between the two, lying on his side and

blinking into the dark at Blackbird, while the wizard and his wife muttered growls and protests.

Finally, Blackbird sat up and stared down at Infamous.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"Oh, now that's a big question to ask a thief, dear."

"He didn't mean in the philosophical context!" yelled the Moonhound. "Ask and get out, or I'll

have your liver with onions for breakfast!"

"Coming from anyone other than you," said Infamous, "I'd think that an empty threat." He turned

to Blackbird, cocking his head to one side. "Have we all been here before?" he asked.

Blackbird adjusted his blankets and flopped down onto his side. "Been where?" he asked.

"Here, in this cabin. Have we been alive before?"

Blackbird's eyes opened, and he slowly rolled over to look at Infamous. The Thief blinked at him

with interest. From behind him, the Moonhound raised her head and looked at Blackbird, a slight

smile on her face.

"What makes you ask that?" said Blackbird.

"Well, Arrowsmith and I just had the most fascinating discussion, and we both have the same

idea that we know each other. Interesting, huh?"

"So, what makes you think I know anything about this?"

"Because you're being evasive."

"He's got a point there," said the Moonhound, sitting up.


Blackbird glared at her in the dark, then looked down at Infamous once more. "Go back to bed," he said to him quietly. "There is nothing I can tell you, this is something you will have to discover yourself." Infamous felt a coldness wash over him, and he looked at the wizard warily. For once, he didn't have anything to say for himself. He had expected to be thumped with a pillow and tossed out of the room, after which he could go back to bed without worry. He had not expected Blackbird to be serious about this. Quietly, he got up, moving off of the bed. He stood for a moment, looking at Blackbird, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he turned and silently breezed out of the room and on to his own chamber. He had much to think about. He closed the chamber door behind him and flopped face down onto his extravagant bed, fur and silk momentarily taking flight before settling around him once more. He lay on his stomach, chin resting on his folded forearms, thinking. He reached one hand over to the carved nightstand with its inlay of seashell and silver, and idly filled a crystal goblet from a gold and ivory flagon. He sipped the wine from the glass, his thoughts of the odd comment that Blackbird had made. What couldn't he tell him? Did that mean there was some validity to the comment? He would have liked to have gone down to his temple and ask Marakim about this revelation, but with the snow as deep as it was, there was no getting to it again until spring. And, truth to tell, Infamous was a little afraid to ask at this point for fear of finding out he was right. He sipped a little more wine, then rolled off of his bed to fix the fire and get away from the disturbing thoughts that plagued him. The thoughts, however, followed him. Infamous built up the fire, then lit his gold and bone pipe and sat down in a quilt-and-pillow-draped chair, smoking and thinking. He was not an unintelligent man, and it didn't take him long to start making equations. He and Arrowsmith both had the feeling they had known one another, and when he broached the subject with the mage, he said it was nothing he could talk about. Therefore, they had been there before, because there was nothing Blackbird liked better than going on forever about anything, and in this case silence was damning. But how could this have come about? It was impossible, and that was that, and nothing short of divine intervention could bring nine people back from the... Nine? Where had that number come from? There were eight people in this cabin... "There were nine once," a voice said quietly in Infamous' mind, "but the Bard left seven hundred years ago, and where he went, we do not know..." Infamous began to shiver, and he set down his pipe and glass to pull the covers about himself. He was not cold, but he began to shake violently as he felt himself falling into the depths of his own mind, finding doors and paths there he had never seen. Outwardly he seemed to have fallen asleep after one shivering sigh, but inwardly he was more alert than he had been in his life. He was flying like a dragon into strange depths, into strange places in time. He did not move again until late morning. He awoke where he had dozed off, in his favorite chair. He felt as though he had been through a grinding mill. He reached up cautiously to push


his hair out of his face, wondering if the revelations of the night before were real. He searched about in his mind, and found the nine lifetimes' worth of memories still there, and he moaned quietly. At least, he thought, he now knew whom he had to blame for this mess, and it was pretty cold comfort to find it was his own fault. But he had loved Hercandoloff, and had wanted to stay and help him maintain his kingdom forevermore, guarding its secrets and magics. He was more than just a Master Thief; he was the First of all Thieves, descended in a straight line from Marakim's mortal body to stand by the Wizard Hercandoloff. He was ancient and immortal, born to forever run the night, and when all had passed and turned to dust, the Court of Hercandoloff would stand. Infamous rose to his feet and shook himself. He felt so strong, so alive. There was a whole new winter outside, a whole new lifetime in which to play in the snow, time enough to be alive. A gleam came to the thief's black eyes. Poor Arrowsmith could resist all he liked; the big brute didn't have a chance. After all, they had been lovers close on to eight hundred years, and if it took him a few months to Recall that, well then so be it. He could wait. Infamous bounced out of his bedroom and thundered down the hall to Blackbird's bedroom. He burst into the room and leapt onto the bed, landing on all fours above Blackbird. The Wizard awoke as soon as Infamous hit the bed, and he stared up at him with trepidation. Infamous grinned down at him, dreadlocks hanging down around his face. "Hi, Herc, did you miss me?" he asked, then bent down and kissed him. Blackbird squeaked, then tried to push the thief away, succeeding only in throwing them both of them off of the bed. "Get thee gone, you madman!" yelled Blackbird, violet eyes bright with anger. Infamous grinned at him. "You're very cute when you are contemplating murder. Give us another kiss." "Get away! Ak!" Blackbird squirmed, trying to get away from Infamous. "Moonhound!" Infamous stared down at the little wizard he was holding helpless in a knot of blankets within his arms. The eyes were almost glowing with wrath, and his cheeks were flushed. The glossy blue-black hair hung in a tangled curtain around his shoulders, and a few fine wisps slid down before his face. Infamous smiled at him gently. "Surely that is no way to talk to the child you raised with your own hand, my Lord?" At first Blackbird did not understand, but then the wrath faded, and he smiled. "Ilenya Skywolf," he said softly, "you cretin. Though may I say, out of all the names I have called you before, Infamous Keeper suits you the best." Infamous laughed, and the two embraced, sitting together quietly on the floor near the dying embers within the small fireplace. Blackbird smiled and rested his head on Infamous' shoulder,


glad to find him in such a good humor. All through the ages, Ilenya had reacted either one of two ways to Recalling, he was either happy about it, or morbidly depressed for weeks. This time around, he seemed pretty cheerful. "So, who else remembers?" said Infamous, squeezing Blackbird a little. "Everyone, except Arrowsmith and Misty. And don't you tell them." "Oh I know better than that." Infamous kissed Blackbird on the top of the head. "Besides, I'm going to be far too busy annoying Monshikka." *** Arrowsmith woke to the sounds of a small controlled riot going on beneath him. He could hear Monshikka roaring at Infamous, and Infamous laughing. There was a lot of crashing and banging as well, no telling what that was, and then the Moonhound arrived to tell them all to shut up or she would start busting some heads. The noise continued unabated. He climbed out of bed and dressed, then went downstairs to see what the commotion was all about. He found it was just the usual breakfast-time uprising. He elbowed his way into the carnage to see if there was anything left at the table. "Hey, look!" yelled Infamous happily. "The dead walk!" "Oh I like that," said Arrowsmith. "How many times have we had breakfast while you were nothing more than a snoring corpse?" Infamous waved a hand dismissively, then shoved the bread and butter over to him. "Here," he said. "Eat." Arrowsmith stared down into the butter dish at the sunny yellow penis, sculpted artistically. "What is this?" he asked. "Why?" said Infamous. "Don't you have one?" "Well, yeah, but not like that." "Is he finished playing in the butter?" asked the Moonhound. She picked up a piece of bread and a knife, then leaned forward and sliced the head off of the penis. As she smeared it onto her bread, she said, "This is the only house I know of where you have to wait until someone finishes playing in the butter before you can eat." She bit into the bread. Arrowsmith gazed at her for a long moment as she ate. "Y'know, I don't even want to think about the implications of what you just did." The Moonhound snorted with laughter, covering her mouth with one hand. Infamous, meanwhile, stared at her, plainly affronted.


"You ate my masterpiece!" he declared indignantly. "I think you mean, masterpenis," said Blackbird, slicing into his pancakes. "The lady is obviously telling you to get your mind out of the butter," said Misty. "Cretins," muttered Infamous. "All of you. I'll just have to erect a new one." Arrowsmith slowly shook his head, then sighed as he began serving himself from the great platters of food on the table. "Appalling," he said. "Amazing, really, how far a person can travel and still hear low humor." "I quite agree," said Monshikka, placing his fork and knife neatly on his plate. He stood up to leave the table. "I think there ought to be a punalty." There was an immediate silence, which remained for several seconds. "Did he just make a joke?" asked Misty. "I believe he did," said Wess. "And I'm sure I'll live to regret it," said Monshikka, placing his plate on the counter next to a wooden tub full of hot water. He stepped regally out of the room, head high, long white hair held back from his strong face by a thin leather headband, beaded with white polished stones. "He walks like royalty," said Arrowsmith, when Monshikka was gone. "Not surprising," said Infamous. "He is. A prince, to be exact. Why is he up here? He's decided to mix with the common folk awhile, builds character, you know.” "And you are as common as one can get, Infamous," Monshikka called from within the cabin's depths. Infamous dropped his fork and stood up. "Excuse me," he said, "I have to go hurt that man." Arrowsmith finished his breakfast, then brought his plate over to the washing tub. It was his day to do the household chores, a day he rather liked. It was nice to have time to himself while the others were outside, hunting, ice-fishing, tending the animals, or, in Infamous' case, stalking and bedevilling a small colony of Gnomes just down the way. They apparently had gotten wind of a private vault Infamous had in the area. Although the vault had been moved months ago, it was not in the nature of the Thief to let the little pests know this. They kept searching, and Infamous and his wolves kept right on terrorizing them. This day, as Arrowsmith watched Infamous head into the snow, he had a feeling the Gnomes were in for a special surprise. He had mentioned to Infamous that he had never seen a Gnome, and he was pretty sure Infamous hadn't left with that large bag just for decoration's sake. He went upstairs to get his CD player, and grabbed some


music to go with it. It was a fine bright sunny day, and he was looking forward to having it to himself. Privacy was hard to come by in the cabin. Wess was still sitting at the table and smoking his pipe when Arrowsmith came downstairs. He set up the small player with its little speakers, then put on a disc: the Moody Blues. Wess smiled as he watched Arrowsmith wait for the music to start before going to do the dishes. "Life here must be rather close for you." Arrowsmith nodded. "Yeah. In the others places where I lived I could leave during the winter." Wess nodded. "And what will you do when spring arrives? Will you stay on?" "I don't know. I doubt it. I have an urge to get on my bike and go tour the country. Never been on another planet before. But I would like very much to come back here someday, if nobody minded." Arrowsmith suddenly thought about running out of gas in the middle of a plain somewhere, and having to abandon Harley to the elements. It was true the bike got great mileage, he'd built him that way. But even Harley's mileage wasn't good enough to go forever. Likewise the batteries were bound to go any day on the CD player, and that would be the end of that toy. Well, if the CD player died, so be it, but he'd push Harley a thousand miles if he had to, just so the bike could be a decoration in his bedroom somewhere. "Pry him from my cold, dead, gripping hands," muttered Arrowsmith, then grinned. Wess had his eyes closed and did not seem to hear the comment. He drew on his pipe. "I quite like this music, reminds me of something I just can't recall. Very pretty." He was silent for a time longer. "Well, if you plan on going to look around, the two places I recommend are TwoFifty-Mile-House and White Palace. The latter for its unsurpassed beauty, and the former because it has the finest candy-makers on Dargoth. Good chocolate, bad wine. The worst wine. Infamous loves the stuff. Frankly I'd rather drink horse urine." Arrowsmith laughed. "I'll remember that." Wess smiled. "Just be careful, the roads can be dangerous, and I don't think Infamous would like anything to happen to you." "Yeah, well, anything on the road that wants to rob me or eat me is gonna have to catch me first, and I don't think Harley will let that happen." "Just as long as Harley brings you back here one day, that's fine." "Oh I'll be back," said Arrowsmith, placing the last of the clean dishes on the counter. He rinsed a cloth with the soapy water, then wrung it out to wipe the table. "I like this place, it feels more like home than anywhere I've ever been. You people are almost like family to me, which is kind of a strange thing to say, I suppose, I haven't really known you that long. But I also want to see some of the country."


"Well, take this advice from me. There is a land far to the south called Silverwood. You'll know it when you reach it, because everything you see will be dead. Even if it is still moving." Arrowsmith looked over his shoulder at Wess. "Oh come on, you can't scare me with that stuff." "I am serious, Arrowsmith. Very serious. It is a dead, cursed land. Once it was a beautiful kingdom, ruled by Elves. Now it is dead. The queen of that land, Takeshta, made it so, by using some form of alchemy. Rumor has it she even managed to survive hundreds of years beyond her normal life by turning herself into a lich. Stay out of Silverwood." "Okay, I'll stay out of Silverwood. I still don't believe you, but if the country is dead and polluted then I won't go there." The kitchen door flew open suddenly, and Infamous came bouncing in. He was clutching a wriggling bag, and had a wicked smile on his face. "Wanna see what I caught?" he said, an evil glint in his eyes. Wess took his pipe out of his mouth and turned to face Infamous. "You didn't catch one of those poor little Gnomes, did you?" "Of course not!" said Infamous, placing the bag gently on the table and opening it. "I caught three of them." From out of the sack crawled three dazed and disheveled little figures, none of them more than a foot tall, all clad in white and dark green. They got to their feet unsteadily, then looked around the kitchen, their eyes all finally coming to rest on Arrowsmith. From their perspective, he must have been the size of a mountain. Finally one of the Gnomes spoke. "So this is why you kidnapped us? To feed us to a half-Ogre?" he bellowed in his little voice. He thrust his bearded chin out at Arrowsmith. "Uh...no," said Arrowsmith, completely uncertain as to what to do. "I'm going to catch some more," said Infamous happily, and left with his bag once again before anyone could stop him. As the Gnomes shouted at one another unhappily about the whole situation, Wess just shook his head and began refilling his pipe. "Are you quite certain you want to come back one day, John Arrowsmith?" As Arrowsmith stared down at the unhappy Gnomes, he said, "I'm wondering."


Chapter Nine

Blackbird made his way down the hall, yawning, his robe clutched tightly around his small body. He was shivering, and wanted nothing more than to climb into a hot bath. He reached the bathing chamber, opened the door, then stopped. The tub was empty, and the room was cold. He sighed. This happened occasionally, when some bit of debris clogged the in-flow. Shivering,

he made his way to the kitchen and pulled on his boots. Arrowsmith, Infamous and the

Moonhound watched the tiny mage grapple with his footwear.

“And just where are you going?” asked the Moonhound.

“Pipe into the tub is clogged,” he said, pulling on his cloak. He reached for the door handle.

“No you don’t!” said the Moonhound. She caught him and passed him to Arrowsmith. “Tiny

wizards stay indoors!”

“I can unplug a drain!”

“Yes you can. But not in late winter in a snowfall. Arrowsmith, guard him.”

He saluted her. “Jawoll, mein Kommandant!”

“Now, see here…” began Blackbird. The Moonhound caught him and set him in Arrowsmith’s

lap.

“Guard!” she said firmly to Arrowsmith. “Infamous, come with me.”

Infamous shrugged. He rose to get his cape, then followed her out the door. Arrowsmith turned

his head to look at the very small, frail man seated on his knee.

“We could do a ventriloquist act.”

“I could turn you into a smoking grease spot on the floor.”

“Grouchy little thing, aren’t you?”

Blackbird raised his hands and pointed his fingers at Arrowsmith. There came a very faint, blue

crackle of light. “Grease spot.”

Arrowsmith watched the light. “Okay, no teasing the wizard.”


***

The Moonhound walked to the back of the bathing chamber, and stopped. The little runoff

stream that fed the tub was dry. She heard Infamous come to stand beside her.

“I wonder what happened to the stream?” he said.

“Well, only one way to find out. Let’s go look.”

More than just the small runoff stream was blocked; as they went further behind the house, they

saw the natural runoff had been stopped up as well, and the spring itself was piled with debris.

“Oh, well, this is nice!” said the Moonhound. “What happened here?”

Infamous suddenly felt a strange sensation creep over him as he looked at the spring. The

Moonhound walked carefully into its depths and began removing the debris, but he could only

stare at the mess.

“It’s a trap,” he whispered.

The Moonhound tossed a branch aside, then looked at Infamous. “What did you say?”

He began looking around, muttering; “Trap trap trap trap trap….”

“Infamous, who would trap a hot spring?”

“Ask why, not who. Dead of winter, far enough from the cabin to not escape quickly, things

running around who may not have had enough to eat lately…”

All of Infamous’ senses were heightened, and he wanted nothing more than to bolt. The

Moonhound perhaps was not concerned, but Marakim had ways of letting his priests know things

were not right. Infamous moved into the pond, looking about. He drew his angle-bladed dagger,

and the Moonhound straightened, noticing his discomfort.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s just go…”

The Ogre lumbered out of the woods quickly, heading towards them and brandishing a club.

Without pause, the Moonhound lunged towards the creature, unarmed but fearless. Infamous threw his dagger. The silvery weapon skimmed past the creature’s head and beyond. Then it reversed direction and came slicing back, slamming into the back of the Ogre’s neck and felling it. The Moonhound bounded out of the way as the Ogre crashed down like a tree, sending heated water in all directions. She looked over at Infamous. “Let a wolf know you’re going to do something like that!” “I told you something was… wrong…”


Two more came lumbering out of the woods. They paused, growling. Then, from behind them came eight shorter, hairy whitish creatures. The Moonhound growled quietly. Infamous pulled a large, black-bladed dagger out of his boot, and began quietly edging back. The Moonhound lunged towards one of the Ogres, landing on its chest and tearing into its throat with her teeth. The pale dwarves swarmed toward Infamous and he lightly dodged them, stabbing two of them in the throat. The dwarf-creatures were not discouraged by the death of two of their group, but they did become a little more cautious in their advance. Infamous knew these beings, and liked them less than the Ogres. They were a cursed race, living in nomadic tribes, swarming over and destroying anything in their way. Normally, Infamous would have simply used his abilities to vanish before their filmy, bluish eyes. But the Moonhound would die before she backed down from a fight, and he couldn’t leave her. He glanced towards the cabin, so close and yet so far. He hoped he got to see the inside of it again. The Dwarfs were fanning out, trying to get behind and encircle him. If they got him surrounded, then they could swarm him and eat him alive. Infamous had no intention of letting that happen. They fanned and he circled, the blade of his knife smeared with blood. As the Moonhound and the Ogres tore at each other like wolves, Infamous began quickly whispering a quick spell. He vanished, appearing seconds later behind one of the Dwarfs and slipping his blade into its back with deadly accuracy. Then he turned and began running to the dead Ogre to get his throwing dagger. He heard the filthy little creatures running after him. He reached the Ogre and yanked the dagger out of its neck, then spun to meet his pursuers… And slipped on the debris in the pond. The hot water closed over him, and he felt the Dwarfs swarm him, biting and tearing. It was sheer adrenaline that made him get his head above water. He tried to inhale, but was forced down again, hot mineral water filling his mouth and throat, burning its way into his lungs and stomach. In a blind panic, he got an arm free and slashed one of the creatures across the eyes. It was a lucky shot, but the Dwarf fell back screaming and clutching its face, giving Infamous just enough room to roll and get up. And he came up angry. He got to his feet, coughing and bedraggled. He kicked one Dwarf in the teeth, then with an almost dance-like motion, spun and sank his dagger into the heart of another. He slipped again on something on the spring’s bottom, but did not go down completely. He took advantage of the quick change of position to stab another Dwarf in the groin. Infamous got to his feet, coughing, bleeding, staggering. There were only two Dwarfs left, not counting the one left holding his face, and the other flipping on the ground like a trout and clutching where his balls used to be. The Moonhound was fighting like a demonic war-hound with the two Ogres, and he decided to help her. He spun around and threw his silver dagger. Once more the weapon gracefully took to the air, arcing around one of the great monsters before returning to land in its skull. The second Ogre dropped, and now the Moonhound had only one to contend with.


The Thief turned to face his last two assailants, and saw two forms coming up behind them. Blackbird stepped lightly to a vantage point, while Arrowsmith ran straight up behind one of the Dwarfs and smashed in its head with the fireplace poker. Infamous noticed Blackbird delicately flicking his fingers, and would have shouted a warning, but could hardly breathe let alone speak. The little mage seemed to suddenly glow with a blue light, and he screamed something. Then the world caught fire. The noise was indescribable: roaring, shrieking, howling, and then a sudden dead silence. The flames died down almost immediately, revealing Arrowsmith, Infamous, and the Moonhound. Nothing remained of the Ogres and Dwarfs but sodden black ash upon the trampled snow. Infamous slowly sank to his knees, coughing. He sheathed his dagger, then put his hands out to steady himself, coughing so hard he thought he would vomit. “HOLY SHIT, WHAT WAS THAT?!” yelled Arrowsmith. He looked around, then looked at the bedraggled form in the spring. “Infamous, you okay?” Infamous hacked, then wiped blood from his mouth. He shook his head. He heard Arrowsmith come towards him, then felt himself being carefully lifted up. “Aw, you poor soggy little thing!” said Arrowsmith. Infamous coughed, then stared at the man holding him. He was torn between his desire to just curl up in his arms, and the urge to punch him in the nose for talking to him like a cat on a doorstep. Finally his better judgment won out and he relaxed against the broad chest. The Moonhound stared at the smoldering remains of the Ogre she had been fighting with. “Hey, I was going to eat that!” Blackbird smiled at her. “Sorry, dear, I don’t know what came over me.” “That was my lunch!” Infamous coughed, then glanced up, catching a glimpse of movement in the bushes. It was two more Dwarfs, attempting to sneak up on them. ‘Persistent,’ thought Infamous, ‘but stupid.’ He finally managed to find his voice. “Moonhound,” he said. “You trashed my dinner, mage.” “I said I was sorry.” Arrowsmith looked in the direction Infamous was staring, and was in time to see a third Dwarf join the other two. Infamous coughed and said; “Moonhound!”


“Well, sorry won’t help,” she grumbled. Arrowsmith began backing out of the spring. Infamous sucked in air and lilted; “Ohhh… Shasti!” She snapped around. “I told you never to call me that!” Then she noticed the Dwarfs, and lunged towards them. Arrowsmith turned and began carrying Infamous towards the cabin. He gave the door a light kick to open it and carried Infamous inside. He set him down on a chair, then knelt before him. The little Thief was wet and shivering. Arrowsmith glanced at the bleeding bite marks on the halfElf’s arms. “I’ll be all right,” Infamous managed to say. “Go help the Moonhound.” “You’re sure?” Infamous nodded, then coughed. “I’m fine. I’m just going to get changed and warm up.” Arrowsmith seemed uncertain as to what aid he could be to the Moonhound, but he nodded and left the cabin. Infamous rose to his feet and walked over to the kitchen window, opening it and leaning out in order to keep an eye on what was occurring. He watched as Arrowsmith made his way back up to the spring, where the Moonhound was gleefully snapping the bones of one Dwarf. The other two were bleeding piles of meat with their entrails ripped out. As Infamous watched, Arrowsmith closed his eyes and looked as if he felt sick, turning from the gruesome sight. Blackbird, meanwhile, seemed terribly pleased with himself. Arrowsmith gave him a sickly grin and said; “I will never, never, never, NEVER tease you again.” “Good,” said Blackbird. He extended a tiny white hand, which Arrowsmith took. He escorted the mage back into the cabin while the Moonhound fed. “So what’s a ‘shasti’?” asked Arrowsmith as they entered the warm kitchen. Blackbird laughed. “A fast way to die.” “Well, it certainly made an impression on the Moonhound, but what is it?” Blackbird grinned. “Her name. ‘The Moonhound’ is the warrior-name her Goddess gave her. ‘Shasti’ is the name her parents gave her. It is a tiny, pink mountain flower, with ruffled petals.” Arrowsmith raised an eyebrow, then looked out the window at the Moonhound, who was currently lying outside in a mire of blood, entrails and melted snow, eating raw steaming flesh.


“THAT,” said Arrowsmith, “is no Shasti.” *** The day passed. After finishing her grisly feast, the Moonhound cleaned herself in the spring, then removed the debris. Soon the water was flowing in its usual course, and the bathing chamber was warm and steaming again. She cleaned Infamous’ injuries, and the household settled into its routine. After supper they sat in the kitchen, drinking wine, singing, talking. Then as the hour grew late, the eight inhabitants of the Mountain Cabin went to bed. *** Arrowsmith knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes in the morning. He didn’t know what, and he didn’t know how he knew, but something was very wrong. It was the same feeling he’d had when he awoke in the middle of the night at age nine, and knew his ‘auntie’ Kate had died. She had gone peacefully, in her sleep, her heart failing after fifty years of hard living. He found her on the couch, beer soaking the front of her t-shirt, cigarette in her fingers burned down to a bare stub. He sat with her for an hour, waiting for his adoptive parents to get home. Arrowsmith got up and dressed. It was cold and quiet in the cabin, but he forsook the warmth of his itchy sweater for the comfort of an old t-shirt. He slid into his jeans and boots, then made his way downstairs. Wess, Monshikka, and Lord Sly were standing there together in a quiet group. “What’s up?” he asked. “Infamous is sick,” said Monshikka. Arrowsmith didn’t understand why that would be a problem. Certainly the Moonhound had healing magic, didn’t she? He made his way down the narrow hall to Infamous’ room, pausing as he heard the wet, racking cough. Then he entered the room. He walked over to the huge bed and sat on it beside Misty, who was already there keeping vigil. Nearby, seated on the floor, Blackbird and the Moonhound were going through the pages of a huge, wood-bound book. And lying in the bed, sick as the proverbial dog, was Infamous Keeper. “Hey,” said Arrowsmith softly as Infamous forced one eye opened to look at him. He reached out and took his hand. It was hot. Arrowsmith reached forward to touch Infamous’ forehead, feeling the burning heat of the skin, the sweat-drenched hair. “Hey, man, who said you could catch pneumonia?” Infamous grinned weakly, and gave him the Dargothian version of the middle finger. Misty grinned and lay down beside him, taking Infamous’ free hand. Infamous looked at Misty, then closed his eyes. He shivered, and coughed that horrible wet cough. Arrowsmith looked over at Blackbird and the Moonhound. They seemed to have found something, and they got up together and left the room. Arrowsmith turned his attention to Infamous again.


“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly. He squeezed his hand gently, then rose from the bed to follow the mage and his wife into their chamber. “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” Arrowsmith asked. “You can fix him.” The Moonhound turned quickly, as though she had not heard the large man come up behind her. “We’ll do our best,” she said. Arrowsmith gave her a puzzled look. “But you two have magic.” “Not the right kind,” said Blackbird. He began digging through the small bags of herbs they had stored away in a large chest. “Not… the right kind? I don’t understand.” “Blackbird has offensive and defensive magic,” said the Moonhound. “I have magic to heal injuries, not illnesses. Warrior magic. If we had a healer like Lysik Grey, we could use a spell to fix him. But we have no way to reach her right now. However, we’re not helpless. Blackbird and I know a lot about herbalism and the healing arts. We’ll do everything we can.” Arrowsmith nodded, and quietly went back to Infamous’ bedroom. He sat down on the bed and looked at the half-Elf. He didn’t know what he had, but it looked like it could be fatal. He stretched out on the bed, and, together with Misty, kept an eye on Infamous. *** He was sick a long time. Blackbird and the Moonhound managed to keep the fever from reaching a critical, perhaps even lethal point, but not without a good deal of effort. Many times Misty and Arrowsmith were banished from the bedchamber while the two worked over Infamous. During those times, they would sit in the kitchen with Wess, Monshikka, and Lord Sly, who were themselves frequent visitors. Arrowsmith was a little surprised to find out Monshikka actually liked Infamous, and truly astonished that Lord Sly could stop being crazy long enough to be concerned. Arrowsmith still did not know Monshikka’s tale, but he had learned a bit about Lord Sylvannamyth. He was not truly a lord, but the title was given out of respect for his parentage. He was the offspring of a human and a Mycinocroft, which was why he was a little unbalanced. The two bloods did not mix well, or frequently. But it afforded him special abilities. Though he had no ability to speak, he could, on occasion, send telepathic messages to Wess or the Moonhound. He also apparently could shape-shift into a wolf. Arrowsmith had never seen him do this, but had by now been exposed to enough magic that he was happy to simply take Misty’s word. He was a strange-looking being; all one had to do was look into the intense pale grey eyes that seemed eternally focused on things others could not see to know he was something other than human. Then there was the ridge of grey fur that ran in a strip from the back of his skull straight down his back, hidden for the most part by his clothing and long brown hair. He


frightened Arrowsmith, who was disturbed by his silent intensity. But, currently, Sly was showing his well-hidden sweet side, nudging at Wess for a comforting arm around his shoulders. Clearly Sly was as upset by the circumstances as the rest of them. When not banished, Arrowsmith and Misty were in the Thief’s room, keeping him company. They would talk, or perhaps sing and play a little guitar. Arrowsmith at one point began reading to Infamous ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ but was continually sidetracked by debates about Wizards, magic items, and the fact that NO self-respecting Elf would be found sleeping up a tree. At first, Arrowsmith was there for two reasons: the first being he was genuinely concerned for Infamous, and secondly, because Misty was there. Misty and Infamous had known each other a very long time, it seemed. They had met on the streets of a town called Two-Fifty-Mile-House, where Misty was a student, and Infamous was scraping out a living as a street urchin. Misty turned him over to the Temple of Marakim, who trained him in their ways. The two had been friends ever since. Lately, however, Arrowsmith found himself visiting Infamous just to see Infamous. He played the flute, Arrowsmith was surprised to learn, though that would have to wait until his lungs cleared. He also drew and painted with a talent rarely seen. They would sit together, Arrowsmith quietly playing his guitar, Infamous drawing on rag paper with graphite and ink. Once he passed Arrowsmith his work with a smile, and he took it, staring at the drawing. It was himself, leaning back in a chair, one leg draped over the arm. He was playing his guitar, the light of the sun angling down through the window upon him. The portrait was somehow more alive than a photo could ever be. “This is fantastic!” he said, and Infamous grinned. “Keep it,” he whispered, his voice faded and harsh from his illness. “No place to put it,” said Arrowsmith. “Then put it on the mantle of my fireplace.” Arrowsmith did, then sat back down, not quite ready to take his eyes from the drawing. Finally he turned and looked at Infamous. “Thank you,” he said quietly. *** Spring arrived, and the mountain slowly awoke from its white slumber. Frozen streams, once silent, now roared noisily, their banks covered with blooming shrubs and flowers. Misty and the Moonhound seemed to delight endlessly in the baby pigs, chicks, lambs, calves and foals. The whole yard was alive with small eeping, cheeping things. The forest and trees were also full of new life. Does with fawns would step through the yard in the still mist of early mornings to search for leftover feed. Then, at the first sign of human activity, they would bound away


gracefully, tails flicking. Once Arrowsmith came out of the cabin at the first crack of dawn, and among the does and fawns was a spectacular family of snow-white deer. They were enormous animals, easily twice the size of the others. They did not hop shyly away. The female and baby walked away quickly. The male stared Arrowsmith down coolly for a moment, then walked off calmly, tail swinging, shaking his massive white antlers. He learned later from the Moonhound that they were called ‘Aushai,’ and were considered a sacred animal. Only the Warriors of the Goddess were allowed to hunt the formidable stags, and armed only with their wits. Warriors who defeated a stag and brought his body back to her sisters to feed were awarded their name and silver sword. Warriors who did not seldom made it home. The cabin, likewise, was full of life. Most of this was the sort that came after having eight people locked up for months. Infamous was better, but still not too strong. He did, however, have strength enough to plot with Misty to put all the piglets in Monshikka's bed. This unfortunately started a rash of practical jokes. The Moonhound put horse dung in Wess' slippers, and he responded by painting her hairbrush with honey. However, an attempt by Monshikka to glue all of Infamous' wine bottles into the cabinet went sadly awry. Belatedly, he discovered that Infamous had planned against such an event. As he opened the glass doors, a mixture of syrup and fireplace soot poured down on his head. The jokes stopped abruptly when somebody sawed partway through the outhouse floor. Lord Sylvannamyth was the victim of that unfortunate prank, and the rest of the house had to come to his rescue. This was about as much fun as saving a rabid werewolf, and nobody owned up to the joke. Misty said it smacked of Gnomish revenge. Whether it was or not, it successfully stopped the jokes, for a while at least. Khanin had puppies under the table, as anticipated. Infamous began leaving his bedroom window wide open, so she could come and go as she pleased. Mostly she was under the table with five yipping, squeaking cubs, three black like their father, one grey, and one white. Arrowsmith felt a little sorry for her, being alone in the bedroom all the time, and went in often to see her. Her favorite game was Ambush. Anytime someone put their heads near the table, she would dart her head out and slobber all over them. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy the game, and would play it for as long as she had someone to play with. However, after nearly having his face taken off by Sebastian on one occasion, Arrowsmith learned to look before he stuck his head into the little makeshift den. When the weather became warm enough, Arrowsmith brought Harley out of the stable and began fixing the bike up. He had nearly a full tank of gas, as well as some extra in a fuel can. From the maps he had seen of the land he figured that the bike would get him to where he wanted to go, as long as he didn't make any unnecessary trips. Blackbird told him it was very unlikely that the locals would tolerate the noisy, rumbling beast anyway, so he asked the Moonhound to teach him how to ride a horse. She set him up with a patient, gentle old beast named Max, who was incapable of either hurting a fly or taking direction. Eventually, however, Arrowsmith got the hang of what he was doing. He wouldn't trade his bike for a horse, but he could ride one if he had to.


Infamous lurked nearby as Arrowsmith worked on the bike, his eyes filled with anxiety. He hadn't asked Arrowsmith to stay, but he made it more than clear that he didn't want him to leave. They had been spending their nights together, and while they weren't lovers, Arrowsmith knew that Infamous had bonded to him. The half-Elf had changed quite a bit since Arrowsmith had first met him; there was an odd feeling about him now. Misty had recently developed the same feeling as well, and he and Infamous seemed to have some sort of an understanding. Arrowsmith couldn't help but remember his best friend in the seventh grade, a girl named Marie. One summer she just stopped being interested in coming over to his house to read comic books and trash around in the woods. Suddenly, he didn't see so much of her anymore, and when he did she was with another boy, one Arrowsmith considered to be a real loser. He hadn't known at the time what had happened, but he knew something had changed, and this cabin had that same sort of feel to it. There had been another shift in the forces of life, and once again he was the last one to find out about it. He overhauled his bike, getting it into perfect running order. Not that Harley seemed to need it. The scratches were gone now, as though they never were. The engine was showroom clean, and the tires looked virtually new. Arrowsmith had never neglected the bike, but he knew he hadn't fixed the dents and scrapes. He wondered if Infamous had used some of his artistic talent to repair Harley. Close at hand, Infamous watched. Arrowsmith was beginning to feel pretty bad about leaving him, even if he did plan on coming back. But once more, that odd, migratory urge was on him, and he had no choice. Finally the motorcycle was back together. Arrowsmith tried to brighten Infamous' spirits by showing him how to ride the bike, and soon discovered he had created a monster. Infamous loved the bike, and asked streams of questions. Within a few weeks he knew almost as much as Arrowsmith, and was assisting with anything he could. He could even drive it, though if he had ever spilled the thing there would be no way he could get it back up. However that didn't seem to stop him from hopping onto it every chance he got. Then the day arrived when Arrowsmith decided he had to leave. He packed his clothes and a few other things, but left his guitar in its stand in the kitchen. He let Infamous keep his CD player, telling him he could hang on to it until he came back. It was promptly stashed with the other treasures Infamous had. It seemed to cheer the little thief up somewhat, but later that day as Infamous watched Arrowsmith finish packing up the last of his stuff, his mood was dark once more. "How long will you be gone?" he asked. "I don't know," said Arrowsmith. He wondered how many times in his life he was going to have this conversation. "I just have something I have to do first, but I'll be back." Arrowsmith finished tying closed his sleeping bag, then sighed as he noticed how depressed Infamous looked. He sat down in the deep hay and said, "Come here, small paranoid one." "What's 'paranoid'?" Infamous asked suspiciously, moving over to Arrowsmith.


"It means you think everyone is out to get you," said Arrowsmith, putting his arms around the

smaller man and pulling him close.

Infamous snorted. "I'm not paranoid, I have lots of people who want to hurt me for real without

me imagining it."

Arrowsmith laughed quietly, closing his eyes as he held Infamous against his chest. He had an interesting smell, like old closets and hay, things left for years and rediscovered. Considering what Infamous did for a living, it was perhaps not an unexpected smell. He reached up one large, scarred hand and grabbed a handful of the long, beaded dreadlocks, giving them a gentle tug. "You have the most amazing hair."

"I grew it myself."

"So I suspected. I always thought Elves were small and beautiful, with soft golden hair."

"And I'm skinny and ugly with hair like twine."

Arrowsmith sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, that is not what I meant."

Infamous gazed up at him warily with his strange black eyes, the whole of his frame tense and

alive. "I don't look like an Elf," he said. "Misty does, which is fine because Misty happens to like being half-Elf. Frankly I can't think of anything I dislike much more than Elves." The black eyes took on a weird glint; they almost seemed to vibrate slightly. "I don't like Elves at all." Arrowsmith was beginning to wonder how to extract himself from this conversation, when

Infamous let go of the subject. He put his head down against Arrowsmith's shoulder.

"I don't want you to go."

"I'll be back by fall. Long before the snow comes."

"Really?"

"Sure. Hey, where else can I shack up for the winter without paying rent?"

Infamous stared at him coldly. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to hurt you."

'Oh shit,' thought Arrowsmith, then Infamous pounced on him.

It was like wrestling with a snake, only worse. Snakes weren't that flexible. Every time he

thought he had a grip on him, Infamous managed to get away. Then Arrowsmith somehow found

himself face down in the hay with Infamous perched on his shoulders like a gargoyle.


"Hey! Come on, this isn't fair. I'm bigger than you, I'm supposed to be the one sitting on your

head."

"Never mess with a holy thief, big guy."

Arrowsmith spat out some hay. "Isn't 'holy thief' a contradiction?"

"Depends on who you worship." Infamous leaned forward to peer at Arrowsmith. "And anyway,

who are you to decide what's a contradiction? You're the guy who wandered into Chye Vale with

a head injury. For all you know, I don't even exist. Which means you've just been beat up by a

hallucination."

Arrowsmith sat up as Infamous got off of his back. "Well, I'm pretty sure you're real. That or I'm in a coma." He brushed the hay off of himself, then looked back at Infamous. "I'll come back. I like this place." "Just the place?" Infamous' eyes held a kittenish glint. "And you. You're unlike anyone I've ever met, and unstable in the most delightful way. I like the

fact that you don't look like an Elf and you act like a ferret."

"I noticed that not once did you mention my heartbreaking beauty."

"I think you're beautiful," said Arrowsmith.

"You also think Trolls turn to stone in the daylight."

"They don't?"

"Well, maybe when they see my face."

Arrowsmith leaned forward and said quietly, "I'm sure they get hard, anyway."

Infamous howled with laughter. "Is that supposed to be a compliment? A thought like that could

keep me awake for weeks! Oh I forgot, you don't think Elves sleep, either. I have terrible news

for you, dear one, we do everything you do."

Arrowsmith laughed. "Well forgive me, we don't have Elves where I come from."

Infamous narrowed his weird black eyes. "Know what I like about you? People will go

absolutely mad trying to figure out how an ugly, illegitimate half-breed like me ended up with a

beauty like you."

"Oh I see, you just want me for my looks."


Infamous laughed, and once more his eyes took on that strange, evil glint. "Arrowsmith, if all I wanted was your body, then I would have either had it by now, or given up on you. Beauty only fascinates me for so long." "Somehow I suspected that." Arrowsmith gently stroked Infamous' hair. "I'll miss you." The two held eye contact for a long moment. Finally Infamous said, "Let's go to my room." *** They left the loft, descending the gently creaking wooden ladder. The whole cabin was quiet; it was Infamous’ day to tend to the household chores, which meant that, with the exception of Blackbird and themselves, the cabin was empty. And Blackbird was asleep. They stepped into Infamous’ room and closed the door. The window was open, and beyond, in the sunlight, the leaves of the trees were vibrant green, shimmering in the quiet breeze. Beams of light angled in through the window, touching the extravagant objects and furnishings, making them glitter. They threw out sparks of color, and the entire room was filled with tiny rainbows. Infamous removed the shirt he was wearing, crafted of extremely fine leather and dyed the black of midsummer night. He draped it on a chair, then walked over to the huge bed and climbed onto it. He leaned back against the immense red and gold velvet pillows and smiled at Arrowsmith. Arrowsmith sat down on the bed, facing him. He was wiry, thin, and bore numerous scars on his small body. Some were slight, hardly noticeable, while others were deep and jagged, inflicted in anger with intent to harm. Arrowsmith reached out and lightly ran his fingertips over a deep slash that went over Infamous’ heart. “I see someone didn’t appreciate your presence in his house.” “Few people do,” said Infamous, “but that scar is from something else.” Arrowsmith removed his own shirt. He had his fair share of scars himself; scars from fights, from crashes, from his own stupidity. Infamous raised an eyebrow. “Seems we’ve both been up to more than our fair share of trouble.” “Yeah, well, I wish I could say I was doing something noble, but the truth is I was just out drinking and fighting,” said Arrowsmith. Infamous grinned. “Weren’t we all?” he said. Arrowsmith laughed, then eased himself down beside Infamous. He touched his face, and realized his eyes were not black at all; they were blue, an intense, depthless midnight blue, from which no light escaped. With his hair falling back away from his face, and the wary expression


softened into warmth and affection, Infamous Keeper was actually pretty. It was truly an amazing transformation. Slowly, Arrowsmith lowered his head and kissed him. He felt Infamous rest his hand on his shoulder, following the lines of the panther tattoo on his right bicep. Infamous hated it, and never failed to tell Arrowsmith how badly done it was. Arrowsmith agreed, but the thing was not likely to sneak off and disappear one night, much as he would like it to. Arrowsmith touched Infamous’ small face, feeling the angles of his jaw and cheekbones, then trailing his fingers down his throat, finally coming to rest on his chest. Even without looking, Arrowsmith could tell where the scars were; he could feel them. He ignored their engraved presence and moved his hand down to Infamous’ side, finding only smooth skin. He felt the liquid movement of muscle and flesh beneath his large hand and he lowered his head to kiss Infamous’ throat. “So, when did you realize you liked me better than Misty?” Infamous asked. Arrowsmith nipped him lightly, then raised his head. “I’m not sure. Sometime during the winter, I realized… it felt right to be with you. Familiar.” He laughed. “I guess it gets back to that conversation we had in the loft, about whether we knew each other. Reincarnation or déjà vu or something. Anyway, one day I just knew it was supposed to be this way.” He kissed Infamous softly, slipping his fingers through the beaded strands of his hair. “But you knew that, didn’t you?” “Why would I know that? I certainly knew I wanted you…” “Just a feeling I had, that I keep having. That we’ve all been here before.” “Perhaps we have. I rather like the idea of being in love with you for all eternity.” Arrowsmith blinked, surprised. “You love me? Really?” “Is that so hard to fathom?” “I… I’m not sure. I just… don’t think I’m worthy of you. Does that sound stupid? I mean, you’re… an Elf.” “I’m a half-Elf, and believe me, I’m no prize.’ “No,” said Arrowsmith softly, smiling at him. “You’re a gift.” Infamous put his arms around his neck and held him tightly, then kissed him, hard, passionately. Arrowsmith returned the kiss. “I love you too,” he said quietly, the words sounding inadequate and timeworn, yet incredibly true, despite how threadbare they seemed to be. He kissed Infamous again, not noticing the scars on his small body anymore, feeling only the living warmth of his skin.


The made love for most of the day, the sun changing angles and creating new rainbows in the room as the old ones died. Infamous straddled Arrowsmith’s large body, his skin shining pale gold in the fading light. The sweat trailed down his face, and with his head tossed back, his lips parted in passion, it wasn’t so hard to see his Elven heritage. He was beautiful when his defenses were down; almost another person. Arrowsmith reached up to pull him close, rolling on top of him. Infamous made a soft cry, wrapping his arms around Arrowsmith’s neck. Then he gasped, crying out more loudly before saying something in a tongue the larger man didn’t understand. Arrowsmith kissed him hard, then said something less eloquent as he abruptly felt his own passion reach its climax. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he kissed Infamous again, then carefully moved off of him before collapsing into the depths of the soft bed. Infamous rolled towards him, slipping his arm across his waist and snuggling against his lover. Arrowsmith shoved his damp, sweaty hair out of his face, then looked down at the smaller man. "I realize you probably won’t believe this, but you are the most extraordinarily beautiful man I have ever been with.” Infamous smiled, and patted Arrowsmith’s shoulder. “Hush, dear, you’ve got a head injury, remember?” “Oh, I do not.” “Bad eyesight.” “Don’t.” “Hallucinations.” “Will you just stop that?” Arrowsmith pulled him close and kissed him. “I don’t know how you hide it, but you do. But you can’t fool me anymore, I know you’re beautiful.” “Even now? All covered in sweat and other unmentionable substances?” “Especially covered in unmentionable substances.” He kissed him affectionately, then glanced out the window. “Ah, crap.” “What?” “It’s almost dark. The others will be home soon.” Infamous glanced over his shoulder at the window, then groaned. “Well, let’s get cleaned up. We were supposed to have supper made. And if we don’t cook it, Blackbird will.”


Arrowsmith rolled out of bed. “Cripes, no, not the fucking gruel. ‘Gruel and unusual punishment’ is more like it.” Infamous sat up and grabbed a robe, laughing quietly. Arrowsmith slid into a pair of dirty jeans, grabbing a clean pair to change into after his bath. They opened the door of the bedroom, and were confronted by a sprite-sized mage, arms crossed and indignant. “’Gruel and unusual punishment’?” said Blackbird. Arrowsmith grinned at him. Infamous said; “Were you eavesdropping?” “Not intentionally, I assure you. I only came to tell the two of you that it’s getting late, and it’s your day to make supper. That was when I heard the remark regarding my cooking.” “I have an idea,” said Infamous. “If you stop cooking it, we promise to stop insulting it. Fair enough?” Blackbird glared at the Thief. “I should very much like to turn you into a fly and swat you.” Then he turned and began walking down the narrow hall away from them. *** Arrowsmith awoke the next morning to the sound of rain. He came alive by degrees, feeling his blood start to move, his consciousness extending into his limbs. He shifted, and felt Infamous move closer to him. "It's raining," said Arrowsmith, his eyes still closed. "Of course it is," said Infamous. "The gods hate morning, too." He slid his arms around Arrowsmith's neck and kissed him lazily as Arrowsmith put his arms about his waist and pulled him closer. "But I suppose we can entertain ourselves until it stops." By the time they decided to get out of bed, the rain had stopped. Infamous wasn't happy about this, he'd hoped the rain would stay and keep Arrowsmith there another day. However, by the time he had taken the motorcycle out of the stable and made certain he had everything he wanted in the saddlebags, the day was clear and warm. The clouds were all gone, and everyone had gathered outside to see him off. "Here is a map," said Monshikka, thrusting a scroll into Arrowsmith's hands. "Do not get lost, do not go into the mountains, and for Creator's sake, stay out of Twin Lakes. That city is nothing but merchants and criminals." "Keep a fire lit," said the Moonhound from behind Monshikka. "Otherwise the wighthounds will get you. But don't make it too large or it will attract dragons. And Dragonhawks. Trust me, you do not want to play with a Dragonhawk."


Arrowsmith had been about to put the scroll into his saddlebags when she said that. He paused and looked at her. "Dragons? Dragonhawks?" "Yes." "You mean the big flappy things that eat virgins and breathe fire?" She sighed. "Arrowsmith, dragons have a much wider range of food than just virgins. And they don't breathe fire. The golden ones use the mirrored scales on their wings to reflect sunlight and make you explode into flames, and the black ones void their stomach acid at you.” Arrowsmith stared. “I’m sorry, they… what?” “Void their stomach acid. You know, digestive fluid? Black dragons have two heads and four stomachs. If you make them mad, they can spew corrosive fluid at you, and if the liquid doesn’t dissolve you then the caustic vapors that rise off the liquid is usually enough to kill you. I wouldn’t worry about it much, black dragons are pretty passive. They mostly dwell down in the Outer Haebrid and the Infinity Mountain range, but they come north in spring to eat the battlefield roses growing on the ground, get intoxicated by them, and hallucinate and talk to themselves about incomprehensible concepts.” Arrowsmith grinned. “Hippie dragons. Cute. So… if they are harmless why warn me about them?” Her expression became serious. “Because a few of them have been known to be creatures of pure, embodied evil. Not many. But a few. Don't make your fires too big." "And Dragonhawks...?" "Eat dragons. If you see something that looks like a little black dragon with red-edged wings, do not bother it." "I'll try to remember that," he muttered as he finished stuffing the scroll into his bag. "And while you are in Two-Fifty-Mile-House," interrupted Monshikka, "stay out of the End of the Road Tavern. Go to the Welcome Inn." "The Welcome Inn?!" yelled Infamous. "Don't go there unless your idea of a wild time is listening to old people harden. Go to the Stagger Inn." "The Stagger Inn is a thieves' den," snapped Monshikka. "I know, all of my friends are there." "And when you get to White Palace, go to the Red Rooster, at least once!" Misty enthused from somewhere in the madness.


"It's a whore house!" wailed Monshikka.

"I know, but the food, wine, and entertainment is an experience," said Misty. "Trust me."

"And stay out of Kirianna," said Blackbird. "It's full of people like Monshikka."

Monshikka glared at the little man. "Indeed," he said.

Wess placed a kindly hand on Arrowsmith's shoulder and smiled at him. "Why don't you just

ignore the lot of us and enjoy yourself," he said quietly.

Arrowsmith grinned back at him, then mounted the great red and gold motorcycle. "I'll do that."

he said, and turned his attention towards Infamous. He put his arms around him as he drew

closer, resting his head against his chest. They held each other tightly, then Infamous lowered his

head to kiss him.

"I'll be home soon," said Arrowsmith.

"You have no choice," said Infamous. "I'm the Master Thief. I'll find you no matter where you

go."

"Good," said Arrowsmith. "So if I get hopelessly lost, you can come get me."

Infamous laughed, then kissed him again before stepping away from the bike. They held each

other's gaze for a moment, then Arrowsmith rose up to kick the engine into life. The explosive noise tore through the clear morning air, causing chickens to scatter and birds to take flight. Slowly he turned the bike towards the road, then started it forward, picking up speed and disappearing from view. *** For a long time they could hear the motorcycle going down the mountain road. The group of seven people seemed to change as Arrowsmith moved further away: to gather about themselves a feeling of great age and strength. It was as though a mist had blown away a veil, and they were

revealed in their entirety.

“He’s taking quite a long time to Recall,” said Misty.

“Nothing odd about that,” said Blackbird. “Still, I find it fascinating he has such an urge to

travel. Fascinating and worrying. He may not know who he is yet, but he is reacting to the

unseen forces that guide him. This speaks to me of a coming event of some magnitude.”

“Then are we to leave the cabin?” asked the Moonhound.

“Not yet. It is not safe for us to be out. Unless the Palace has arisen, we stay.”


***

Arrowsmith reached the foot of the mountain after two hours of cautious going. He paused to study the flat surface of the smooth road before him. It snaked off into the distance, as far as the eye could see. Dargothians, it seemed, were no slouches at road-making. Arrowsmith put on his shades and revved Harley's engine, then he clamped down on the gas and let out a scream of pure joy. He and Harley were on the road again. For hours, Arrowsmith saw no other human being, no sign of civilization. To his left was the mighty wall of the Palaklais Mountains, to his right and before him there was nothing but flowering plain. All around there were living creatures, most of which Arrowsmith couldn't name on a bet. He saw a small herd of the large, white Aushai. But apart from them, he didn't recognize anything. He rode through a huge cloud of some sort of tiny critters with big round eyes, transparent fairy wings, and little elephant noses. Whatever they were, they were nauseatingly cute. He saw some wild horses as he drove along the road. There were about twelve of them, all blacker than night. They fled the noise of Harley’s engine, tails held high, though the large stallion kept one eye over his shoulder, ears flattened, as though concerned the noisy thing may come after his herd. The whole land was populated by flapping, skittering, leaping beasts. Arrowsmith could not remember seeing so many animals in one place before. He got a better look at some of the local wildlife when he stopped for lunch. He was suddenly descended upon by pretty, shiny greengold lizards that immediately tried to steal everything he had. The worst part was, when he finally got everything out of reach of their tiny paws, they stood around and stared at him accusingly. Finally he broke down and gave them a little food. This got rid of the lizards for a few moments, then suddenly the grass was alive with them, and Arrowsmith had no choice but to leave. He carefully pushed the motorcycle onto the road, trying not to run over any lizards. He drove about another mile, then stopped to finish his lunch. There were green lizards here, too, but this time he knew better than to feed them. He checked the fuel level in the motorcycle, and was a little surprised to find the tank was still full. That was a little odd; there should have been some drop by now, but Harley clearly wasn’t hungry. Arrowsmith replaced the gas cap, then perched on the back of his bike to finish eating, ignoring the little green faces that watched him brightly. His map said he should reach Two-Fifty-Mile-House by nightfall. He would have accomplished in just over seven hours what would have been a twelve-day ride on horseback. He had been driving for three hours already. When he looked over his shoulder towards the mountain where he had lived for the last few months, he saw nothing but a flat expanse of new grass and flowers. Suddenly he missed Infamous terribly. He almost turned the motorcycle around then and there. 'Sure, why not?' he thought. 'What am I doing? I could be back in a few hours, making love with him on those hilariously expensive sheets of his. So, why am I sitting in the middle of the road eating a cold cheese sandwich and fighting off these goofy little lizards?'


He couldn't go back yet. Somehow he just knew that there was something he had to do first, and that the place he had to be was White Palace. He would spend the night in Two-Fifty-MileHouse; the map said he had to go there anyway. Two-Fifty was a crossroads town, and to get to any of the major cities, one had to go through it. In the morning, he would set out for the City of the White Palace. He would be home with Infamous in a week. It would be hard waiting even that long. Arrowsmith tossed the rest of the sandwich away, a stampede of lizards following it into the grass. He started the bike up and took off at a great rate, determined to teach Harley to fly. The faster he got there, the sooner he could go home. Suddenly all he wanted to do was stare into those black eyes. "When did I start falling in love, Harley?" he said, but the red and gold bike had no answer.

He reached the Great River, and found the ferry that would take him across the expanse of silver

water. Arrowsmith parked Harley on the ferry, which was little more than a flat barge with

something akin to a house on it. The door to the little shack opened, and out stepped an old man.

“Where ye off to?” he asked.

“Um, the other side?” said Arrowsmith.

The man nodded, and untied the ferry from the short dock.

“Don’t you get lonely out here?” asked Arrowsmith.

“Oh I don’t spend that much time alone. There’s a fair bit of traffic back and forth, and there’s

the other ferrymen. Need more than one of these little boats to keep things moving. Takes well nigh two hours to cross.” He handed Arrowsmith a pole then took one for himself. “She’s not deep but she’s wide.” Arrowsmith took the pole, and together they began pushing the ferry across the still waters. The

old man glanced at Harley.

“And what be that thing?”

“That be Harley.”

“Oh yeah. Is it supposed to be that loud?”

“Yes. A loud motorcycle is a good motorcycle.”

“Uh-huh. Come from the Mountain Cabin, do ye?”

Arrowsmith blinked, and stared at the man in astonishment. “How did you know that?”


“This whole area is watched by the Children of Marakim. Anything that happens with their Master, they know about. And they ride my ferry, so that means I know about it. And a red and gold golem that sounds like ten angry dragons heading across the land is anything but a well-kept secret.” “Well, I always did want to be famous.” They pushed the ferry across the vast, slow-moving body of water, reaching the other side at long last. Arrowsmith pushed Harley off the ferry, and watched as two men, garbed entirely in midnight black, mounted on horses the color of an abyss rode onto the ferry. The only color they wore was a splash of blood-red lace at their throats. Arrowsmith watched them with interest, knowing what they were from tales Infamous had told him. These were the Highwaymen of Marakim; a different sect of the same faith. These were the patrollers of the land, and in many cases the only form of aid isolated communities could rely upon. Unlike their Temple brethren, they were not terribly popular, and tended to be much more pragmatic and, indeed, dangerous. It was their duty to watch over those who lived in far-flung areas, and they were not shy about their duties. They had been known to head after merchant caravans with a bloody-handedness that made it hard to view them as ‘the good guys,’ and if the merchant had a habit of dabbling in illicit matters, then he could rest assured that if the law did not catch him, the Highwayman would. The scrap of crimson lace about their throats was a reminder how the founder of their faith had died; he had been hung from a tree branch by his boots and had his throat slit. He watched them ride past him on their leggy, speedy horses, which looked a great deal like the wild ones he had seen on the plains. He felt a certain amount of intimidation, but it was not until one of the Highwaymen turned his horse and Arrowsmith saw the scrap of black silk bound across his eyes, and the unnatural way it sat, as if there were no eyes for the cloth to rest upon but merely empty sockets, that he felt truly afraid. The feeling only increased as the man turned his head towards him, his long ice-white hair framing his small face, falling in a silken waterfall across his shoulders. Arrowsmith swore the man was looking at him. Arrowsmith waited until the ferry was far enough away that he didn’t think the engine would scare the horses, then continued on his way to Two-Fifty-Mile-House. By the time he reached the town, the sky had begun to change. The weather was volatile that time of year, and Arrowsmith and Harley flew out of the prairie on the wings of a spring storm. Before them lay blue sky, and to the right was the gold and pink of a sunset. Behind them, great black mountains of storm clouds climbed and rolled, chasing them across the flat expanse to the town. It appeared at first as a white glint on the horizon, then suddenly became a high wall with a black, wrought iron gate. The gate was closed and locked, and Arrowsmith had to stop before it. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the storm, then once more at the wall. It was not truly white, he saw now: it was many colors, like opals, or mother-of-pearl. And high upon it was a


word, written seven times in different languages. The last language was a tongue he spoke. It read simply, 'Somewhere.' The wind suddenly caught him, slamming into his back and tossing his long hair into his face. However before he could call out, an unseen gatekeeper pulled open the barred door and let him in. By now the sky was completely black, and it began to throw an ocean down upon him. He stopped a few feet inside the wall and watched the two men lock the gate once more. Then one of them came running over to him, his cloak pulled up over his head. He pointed at Harley. "Is that magical or technical? If it's technical you'll have to leave it here." Arrowsmith was not impressed with the idea of leaving Harley anywhere. "It's magical," he yelled back over the roar of the rain and the engine. "If it's magical, why is it so loud?" "Look, I'm just staying for the night, I'm leaving in the morning, can you just ignore it 'til then?" The man shook his head. "Sorry, it's the law. Technical devices aren't permitted, you know that. This thing will have to be destroyed." "Destroyed? Hey, nobody told me that." The man gave him a quizzical look, then said, "What's your name?" "John Arrowsmith." The man nodded then, as though everything made sense. "Go ahead. The Stagger Inn is straight down the road." Then he turned and ran back to the friendly glow of the small guardhouse. Arrowsmith sat with his mouth hanging open for a moment, then turned the bike towards the nearby lights of the town proper. He wondered what he had said to make this man let him go, and how the hell he had known he was heading for the Stagger Inn. He drove carefully down the wet black street. On either side of him strange monoliths rose, lining the street right up until he reached the first building. He could not see what was on them, if anything, and he kept glancing at them nervously, wondering if they were going to fall on him. He reached the dark form of the inn, and a couple of people ran out into the downpour to help him pull the heavy bike into the building. He'd no sooner stepped into the tavern when a blanket was thrown over his shoulders and a mug of steaming cider was thrust into his hands. He accepted both, but looked around in confusion, trying to determine if this was just Dargothian hospitality. It was then that he saw what the two people who had pulled in Harley were wearing. They were clad in black, and glittering on their capes were eight-pointed stars, cut from white crystal. They were Thieves of Marakim, like Infamous. He had only just time to realize this when one of the pair, a woman, turned and offered a short, formal bow to Arrowsmith.


"I am Shendara," she said. "The Master sent word as soon as the snow melted that you and your beast might be coming through town." Arrowsmith just stood and stared at her, speechless, clutching his mug of cider. Then slowly he turned his head and looked around the room. Everyone was looking back at him, and truth to tell it was a pretty interesting crowd. At least a quarter of them were thieves, clad in black and perched about the room like crows with bright eyes. There was an assortment of other locals to look at. There was even a Dwarf passed out on the floor with one boot on, just to give the place some color. Not that the Stagger Inn was lacking in atmosphere. The bartender was a meanlooking fellow, holding a crossbow that could have brought down a passenger plane. There were two fellows in the far end of the room near the massive stone fireplace, both of them with Misty's golden coloration, and both over eight feet tall. They were Elves, he realized with a start, recalling the descriptions he had heard. They returned his gaze with a quiet intensity, their eyes so blue they were almost luminous. He stared at them for a moment, then forced himself to look away, a little shaken by their presence. A drop of water slid down Arrowsmith's nose and fell off of the end of it. "Hello," he said weakly. The whole bar roared back a greeting, and the next thing he knew he was seated at a table, surrounded by people. Food and beer were brought, and as he ate, Shendara informed him that his food, drink, and room had already been paid for by the Master. All he had to do was enjoy himself. "The Master?" said Arrowsmith. "You mean Infamous?" She nodded. "Yes. He wants to make sure that you enjoy your time here in our town, and that nothing befalls you while you are here." That annoyed Arrowsmith just a little. "Well, uh, that's very nice of him, but I kind of wanted to explore this land on my own." Shendara just patted him on the shoulder. "Yes but he's the Master, and from what I've heard, he is very fond of you. So you may as well enjoy yourself, or else we'll have to get the rest of the Temple in here to make sure you have fun." Arrowsmith studied her face for a moment, then shook his head. "All right, fine, feed me and get me drunk, I don't care. Just don't drop me in a carriage after I pass out and send me somewhere else." "Not until we know you better," she said, smiling. The night progressed cheerfully enough. The name of the drunk Dwarf, it seemed, was Hemas Ironfist, and the reason he was passed out in the Stagger was because someone had stolen his


pony and his load of raw gems. He had been taking them to Twin Lakes to trade, and now found himself stuck in Two-Fifty-Mile-House with no gems and no way to get home. "Who would do that?" said Arrowsmith. "I thought all of you thieves were of a kinder sort than I'm used to." "There are still common thieves, and worse," said Shendara. "A cleric of Marakim would never do such a thing, but there are those who will. I don't know how poor Hemas will get home without a pony. He sent a message to his daughter to come for him, but I gather she is a busy woman and may not be able to make the trip for some time." "Well, we can't just leave the poor guy passed out on the floor," said Arrowsmith. "Since Infamous paid for my room, let me pay for his, and we can at least let him sleep in a bed." Shendara nodded. "I'll make the arrangements with the barkeep. Marakim favours the generous," she added, briefly placing her hand on his shoulder before walking away. Arrowsmith watched her go, then turned to look at the dozen or so thieves he still had perched around him. They all just sat and stared at him, and finally he turned his attention once more to the food before him, finishing his meal. The thieves held watch around him. He was their Master's lover, and nothing was going to happen to him while they were around. The rain was falling so violently outside that Arrowsmith could hear it above the sound of the logs snapping in the hearth and the conversation of the people around him. He was very glad to be indoors as he and his retinue of thieves went over to the fire to sit. He pulled his chair close to the flames, draping his jacket over the back to dry. He had a pipe with him and some tobacco, and he filled it as he looked around the tavern. The place was made of wood and stone, and the walls were very rough in places. It looked as though the tavern had been reconstructed over the years by people of varying skill levels. The fireplace was a beautiful creation of black stone, built high onto the wall. It had a wide hearth, large enough for people to sit on without fear of igniting their clothes. Several people were gathered there now, playing music and singing, filling the air with melodies he thought he recognized, but could not place. Besides the fire, several torches were the only source of light. The tavern was rather dim, but that was all right. At night, the Stagger Inn had character. During the day, when the sun was out, Arrowsmith was sure it was too ugly for words. He noticed the two Elves stand up, and he watched nervously as they began walking toward him. They moved with sublime grace; a calm, swaying gate that spoke of countless centuries of being. They had always been Elves; they would be Elves after the world was no more. Their movements made Arrowsmith think of giraffes moving across the savannah as they stepped delicately across the floor. One of them seemed to be a great deal older than the other. His gold hair had turned silver, but the only real indication of age seemed to be more of an aura than anything. He was wearing a white robe, its sleeves trimmed with gold, and the overall effect was a little intimidating.


The second Elf was no less spectacular. His long gold hair was pulled back from his aristocratic face, braided and held with a length of gold ribbon. His clothing was almost enough to blind the sun. His long coat was electric green, cut of some sort of shimmering fabric. His shirt was of the same type of fabric, but was gold. His breeches were white, and were the only things on him that didn't vibrate with their own intensity. Topping the whole outfit off were a pair of black thighhigh boots, and a dueling foil in an elaborate gold sheath. Arrowsmith rose to his feet, a little uncertain how to deal with these two. The younger Elf stopped before him, looking down at him with dark blue eyes. He was without a doubt the tallest being Arrowsmith had ever encountered. Something about the day-glow clothing reminded him of a conversation he and Wesselik had, and then he remembered. There was a group of worshippers of a sun god, and they wore brilliant clothing in the god's honor. They were warriors of noble birth, which meant the Elf before him was royalty. It also meant that he was one of the fastest swordsmen in the land. Warriors of the Sun God were so fast and graceful that they were supposedly able to spear birds in flight. 'These guys sure ain't no cute little Santa's helpers,' thought Arrowsmith, as they stood before him. 'Gawdammed Tom of Finland Elves, that's what they are.' The electric Elf spoke first. "You're very tall for a human," he said. "Yeah?" said Arrowsmith. "Where I come from, Elves are supposed to be about two feet high." It wasn't perhaps the best thing to say, but it was the first thing to come to mind. The Elves laughed, however, and Arrowsmith relaxed a little. "Are they? I should like to see that." The beautiful creature extended a long, gloved hand. "I am Fairenya Whiteflower. This is my friend, Gilgarin Greenleaf. We are both from the City of the White Palace. We were just in Stone Realm, and when we came to this town we heard you were coming through and decided to stay and meet you." He smiled at Arrowsmith. "Infamous Keeper is my aunt's illegitimate child. He's not too popular in the Elven Courts, but I'm very fond of him." Arrowsmith looked around the room, feeling like he was being scrutinized. He had the impression that nearly everyone in the bar was a friend of Infamous'. He looked back at Fairenya again. "Why do I get the idea that if you think I'm not treating Infamous well you are going to cut my head off?" "Don't be ridiculous, child. I'll challenge you properly to a duel, first. Then I'll cut your head off." "Oh don't listen to him," said Gilgarin. "Fairenya gets weepy if we serve rabbit for dinner. Sit down, all of you. I'm eleven hundred years old, I have better things to do than listen to boychildren flex their muscles."


They sat, and wine was brought. Fairenya picked delicately at the food set out, and Arrowsmith noticed that he did not touch any of the meat. Gilgarin didn't seem to have the same aversion. "I didn't know Infamous was royalty," said Arrowsmith. "That's not surprising," said Fairenya. "He's not, really. He's not full Elf, and Stone Realm disapproves of its nobles having half-breed children. You may have noticed Infamous is not fond of Elves." "Yeah," said Arrowsmith, thinking about the crazed gleam in Infamous' eyes when he talked about Elves. "I've never heard him speak about any of his relatives. No wait, he mentioned the Snoweaver family once. They're relatives." Fairenya nodded. "So, tell me, how is my cousin?" The dark eyes took on an angry gleam. "He's not still seeing that cretin Betris, is he?" "No," said Arrowsmith. "I'm not sure what happened to him, but he was gone before I met Infamous." "Good," said Fairenya. "I would have spitted him like a pig if I'd had the chance. How is Infamous?" The conversation was pleasant and short. Fairenya and Gilgarin asked about Infamous, his health, what he was doing, the sort of things one would want to know about a friend long missed. Arrowsmith answered their questions as well as he could. He was feeling a little nervous with so many people sitting around him, listening to everything he said. He admitted he hadn't known Infamous very long, and he didn't know everything about him. Eventually, the two Elves rose to leave. "It was good to meet you, Arrowsmith," said Fairenya. "I should have liked to talk longer, but my wife gets nervous if I leave her alone too long." "Grace gets nervous whether you're there or not," said Gilgarin. "She's so timid you could scare her just by existing." Fairenya glared at his friend. "Do you ever think anything you don't say?" "No. I'm old. I have to talk just to remind myself I'm still alive." Fairenya sighed, then bowed to Arrowsmith. "A pleasure to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again." Arrowsmith watched them leave, wrapping their long cloaks about themselves before going out into the storm. He wasn't shocked to notice they weren't staying in the Stagger. The hour was late. Arrowsmith had been traveling all day, and he was exhausted. Shendara led him from the common room to an upper floor. The room she guided him to was at the very end


of the hall, and as they reached it, he noticed something on the closed door. It glinted in the light of the candle he held, and as he leaned forward, he noticed that it was an engraved brass plate. "Infamous Keeper," he read aloud, then shook his head and sighed. He watched Shendara unlock the door, and they stepped inside. He paused a short distance inside the room and surveyed the riot of wealth that seemed to be Infamous' trademark, and sighed again. He threw his bags onto an expensive and lavishly draped chair, then walked over to the oak and crystal cabinet that held the wine and glasses. The two thieves who had accompanied them up perched across the room like ravens, watching them. "Do you like the room?" one inquired. Arrowsmith poured himself some wine into a silver goblet. "Well, yeah, I like it, but it must be expensive for him to keep this room just in case he gets an urge to come to town." "He is the Master," said Shendara. "A Master Thief who cannot afford such things does not command much respect." "So he's expected to show a certain amount of wealth," said Arrowsmith, taking a long drink of the exceptionally fine wine. "Of course," said Shendara. "The higher the thief, the greater the show. One as high in the Temple as Infamous Keeper must show a great deal. He has a room in Twin Lakes and another in White Palace. Not to mention the housing he provides for the occasional lover." "Really," said Arrowsmith. "And how many lovers is he supporting currently?" "None. You seem to be the only one. Last fall he was supporting seven, but after Betris he lost patience with the lot of them. He kicked them out of their houses, then sold off the buildings." Arrowsmith snorted in amusement, then poured more wine into his glass. "So, who is Fairenya? He mentioned he's related to Infamous, but he didn't tell me what his title is." "Fairenya is Prince of Stone Realm. His parents exiled him to White Palace for marrying a human. That's why the two of them get along so well." "Well, nice to know somebody is prejudiced. I'd hate to think I'd fallen into a totally welladjusted society." "We have our problems," she said simply. A thought wormed its way into Arrowsmith's head. "Wait a minute. That Elf must have been damn near nine feet tall. Are you telling me he married some little tiny human woman?"


"Fortunately," said Shendara, "half-Elf children always have the stature of the human parent, be they father or mother." "Yeah, but still, I bet she needs a stepladder in bed." Arrowsmith shook his head. "Forget it." He noticed something on a table, a brooch of sorts, and picked it up. It was made almost entirely of precious gems. Arrowsmith didn't even want to think about its value. It showed an eight-pointed star of diamond over an angle-bladed dagger, also made of diamond. Backing the star and dagger was what looked to be a fold of black cloth, made of some sort of shiny black stone. Thrust through the fold of cloth was a short sword. The blade and hilt were gold. The pommel of the sword was a diamond. "Please put that down," said Shendara gently. Arrowsmith looked over his shoulder at her, having the feeling he had just done something unacceptable. He set the brooch down carefully. "What is it?" he asked. Shendara came to stand beside him, looking down at the brooch. "It is the symbol of the House of Marakim. Only the descendants of the Dawn Thief may wear it." Arrowsmith stared at the ornament. "So what is Infamous doing with it?" "Infamous' father was of the Snoweaver clan. They are the children of Marakim. He can trace his bloodlines directly back to Hercandoloff’s thief, the grandson of Marakim." Arrowsmith stared at her. "Wait a minute. He's descended from a god?" "Yes," said Shendara. He stared a moment longer, then shook his head. "Okay, that's enough. Everybody out. When I find out I have been sleeping with a deity the party has gone too far. Go, shoo. Do whatever it is you guys do until five in the morning. I have to go to bed." The two thieves near the door vanished with spectral silence. Shendara bowed to Arrowsmith. "Sleep well," she said. "Should you need anything, call upon us." Then she too was gone. As Arrowsmith crossed the room to lock the door, he heard the whole crowd of them skitter quietly off down the hallway, like a pack of ethereal ferrets. "Seven lovers and the child of a god." muttered Arrowsmith, turning to the lavish bed. "Dirty old man with too much money is more like it." He dropped his clothes as he crossed the room, then blew out the candle on the small table next to the bed. He climbed under the soft quilts, sinking into the depths of the feather mattress. He fell asleep within a few minutes, listening to the rain falling onto the cobblestone street.


Chapter Ten

After Arrowsmith departed, Infamous spent the remainder of the day in his room, quietly getting drunk. At one point a puppy tumbled out from beneath the table and onto his boot. He picked the little animal up and gently held it close, listening to it snuffle as it fell asleep against his chest. He sipped a glass of Elven pepper wine, a delicacy from Stone Realm. It was made from the sweet peppers that grew on the cliffs, and was wonderful to drink, but very hot. The white wine was the mildest; the pink was hot enough to make one's eyes and nose run. The red could actually inflict damage on the throat and stomach of anyone not accustomed to it. The stuff Infamous drank was bright red. It was like drinking live coals. He was extremely drunk, he knew, but it wasn't enough to make his brain shut up. He was in love with Arrowsmith, and the idea of being separated from him for several months made him ill. The puppy snuffled, then squeaked. Khanin poked her head out from under the table. Infamous gave the little beast a gentle kiss on its head, then passed it over to its mother. He topped up his glass, his depressed mind drifting to other lovers, other times. The only problem with living as many times as he had was that there was so much more to regret. And one of his biggest regrets had just oozed up from the depths of time to say hello. Infamous remembered his first life. He remembered when the world was sweet and new to him, and pain was a skinned knee. He recalled his first crush, too, and the memory made him smile. Infamous had been thirteen, and the object of his affection had been the Captain of the Guards, a man of about forty. He was wise and kind and handsome, and probably never had any idea that the Wizard's bony little charge was madly in love with him. That was okay, Infamous had liked it that way. He would follow him around for hours; Drakkar was his name. Once for his birthday Drakkar gave him a set of fine artist's brushes. Infamous had never thought about painting, but quickly discovered that he was good at it, and spent all his free time drawing and painting. He showed Drakkar everything he did, and the older man never failed to praise his talent and offer helpful suggestions. He made Infamous feel like he was the greatest artist who ever lived. He was devastated when Drakkar died four days after his fifteenth birthday. Infamous had no parents, only an ancient and mildly senile wizard to look after him. His friends did what they could to comfort him, but he was inconsolable. He would often go to the Court Assassin when he had troubles. But lately the Assassin and the Bard had been fighting a lot, and didn't really have time for Infamous. That was when Berengar showed up. Oh, he had been a charming reptile. Infamous clutched his wine glass as he thought about him. Poor Drakkar had been in the ground but a month when this monster rode up to the Halls of the King on his black horse and begged an audience. He was told he would have to wait his turn, that


it would be at least a week before he could speak with the Wizard. He said that would be fine, and rode off to a nearby inn. Infamous had been playing with the Assassin in the Halls when he met Berengar. It was fun to play with the ghostly hunter, to try and match his silence and speed. Sometimes Infamous would lose him, but then he would catch a fast glimpse of fluttering cape or gold hair, and the game would go on. It was, perhaps, a morbid game, an innocent youth chasing Death through the darkened halls of his foster parents' home. But at least the Assassin would play with him, which was more than the other children would do. Infamous was very young for his age. This time, however, Infamous couldn't find him. Perhaps his heart was not truly in the game, or maybe the Assassin had been summoned away and had not had a chance to let him know he was leaving. Either way, Infamous was alone when he ran face first into Berengar. He was older than Infamous, by how much he didn't know, but there were touches of grey in his hair. He was handsome and dark and mysterious, and in the silent half-light of the moonlit hall he seemed to simply step out of the shadows to become solid. Infamous looked up at his face, startled, and was held fast in the man's golden falcon eyes. "Careful, little one," he said. "Who are you chasing?' "My Lord's Assassin," said Infamous, eyes fixed on the stranger. "Ah. And have you ever caught him?" "No. No one ever catches him. I am Ilenya Skywolf, ward of the Wizard-King. Who are you?" "I am Berengar, a traveler. I come from far away, with news for your Wizard, but he says I must wait a week to deliver it." Infamous shrugged. "That is how it is. All people will have a chance to speak to the Wizard, but they must wait their proper turn. Is your news important?" The man's voice was soft, roughish. It made tingles go up and down his back. Infamous wasn't sure if they were pleasant or not. "It is greatly important. As I said, I am a traveler, and as such, I learn a great many things. Perhaps, since you are his ward, I could tell you, and you could deliver the message. But not here, not with unseen eyes around." Infamous left the Hall with the man, heading for a sitting room he knew would not be in use at this time of night. It was dark when they entered; Infamous could still recall the scent of the smoldering coals within the fireplace. He placed a few pieces of wood on the grate, but as the flames grew higher, they seemed to do nothing to illuminate the room. It was as though Berengar had brought the night with him. Infamous sat down on a red velvet chair, Berengar seating himself on the chair closest to him. He leaned forward and said softly; "I know where the Crystal Mages are buried."


Infamous was startled by this news. The Crystal Mages had lived centuries ago, and it was their magic Hercandoloff had studied to bring the land back into balance. He knew Hercandoloff was searching for them, and would be thrilled to have news of them. "Well, that is important, but we still must follow Palace Law. You must wait your turn." Berengar seemed to almost fade out of view, as though he was nothing more than a dream. Then his image became stronger, and Infamous could see him for the first time. He was a handsome, intense looking man, with dark hair and eerie gold eyes. Infamous drew back, a little afraid. Hercandoloff had told him to expect to meet magical creatures in his life, but this was the first time he had ever met a living nightmare. "All right," Berengar said. "We will not break Palace Law. But, you will please mention it to him?" Infamous nodded slowly. "I will." "Good." His voice was soft now, warm and inviting. The strange man's image seemed to shift again, and the gold eyes softened. "Now tell me, little one, how came you to be the ward of the Wizard? It must be an interesting tale." Infamous talked. Actually, the phrase Arrowsmith would have used was 'spilled his guts.' Infamous was innocent for his age; the Court had tried hard to protect him from the darker parts of life, and it was no great feat for this strange man to draw everything he could out of him. He had almost a hypnotic effect, asking questions, offering a sympathetic ear, then arm. They spent the night on the floor of the sitting room, waking up in the morning tangled together in Berengar’s long black cloak. They dressed and silently went their separate ways, saying nothing as Berengar headed back for the inn. Infamous went back to his own room, the one he and Snow Wolf had decorated together. He flopped down onto the soft green silk quilts and smiled, knowing he was in love. Berengar got his early audience with the Wizard. Hercandoloff was extremely old by now, and a little distracted, but his fondness for his ward, and the boy's enthusiasm about Berengar persuaded him to hear the man's tale. Berengar came before the Wizard, charming, cultured, handsome, full of wit and humor. Everyone liked him. He promised the Wizard that he could get an expedition into the North Palaklais Mountains to where the Mages were entombed. Hercandoloff agreed, giving him money, horses, equipment, and assistants. Berengar was there for several weeks, preparing the expedition and waiting for the weather to warm. He and Infamous were spending all their nights together, but were careful not to get caught. Infamous would have happily told everyone, but Berengar asked him to keep it a secret, just a little longer. Infamous agreed. The expedition was finally under way. Infamous watched Berengar leave on the first day of summer, thinking how brave and handsome he was, and how he would wait for him forever.


He didn't have to wait forever. They were back within five weeks, missing several people and six horses. A Dragonhawk attack was the reason, and everyone was sympathetic. The small black and red beasts inhabited much of the mountains. They had heads like daggers for spearing large animals, razor-edged wings, huge claws, and hooks on their tails for stabbing creatures in flight. They were the only things on Dargoth that could hunt down and kill a dragon. The party was resupplied, and after a week, they were gone again. It was only two weeks this time, and Berengar was the only person to come back. Bandits had struck this time, but at least now he knew the right route. He could get there now. Hercandoloff did not want to send a third group. It was obvious that the trip was too dangerous. However, once again Berengar whispered in Infamous' ear, and between the two of them, they persuaded the Wizard to go against his better judgment. "But this time," he warned Berengar, "if the expedition fails, there will be no more attempts. Too many people have died already. I will not send people in a continual stream to their deaths." The group was gone three and a half months. They came back, starving, ragged, dying, all save Berengar, who looked surprisingly well. "A simple miscalculation," was the glib explanation. "We lost the trail, but we'll get it next time." Hercandoloff was adamant. There would be no more trips. He was filled with enough guilt and sadness over those who had died, he would send no more. Besides, he was beginning to have strong misgivings about Berengar, and would not give in to the most heartfelt pleas from his foster son. There would be no more trips. The Crystal Mages would just have to stay buried a while longer, maybe forever. Berengar nodded and bowed, accepting the Wizard-King's command. Infamous woke up just before daybreak, noticing that the warm body next to his was gone. He was frantic, and began searching for Berengar all over. They had been talking about going away together, and if Berengar was packing, then he would have to hurry. He went to Berengar's quarters, and felt a kind of terror seize him when he saw that all of his belongings were gone. He raced to the stable, and was just in time to see him getting onto his black horse. "Berengar!" he called, running up to him. "Berengar, you're not leaving are you?" "Of course I am," came the short reply. "But we were leaving together, remember? I can be packed in a moment, just wait." Infamous heard Berengar sigh with irritation, and once more that terror gripped him. He had a horrible feeling that he knew what was going to happen. "Now, what in all Creation would I need an ugly, scrawny little brat like you following me around for? Grow up, boy." Then he turned his horse around and rode away, never to be seen in that city again.


Infamous poured himself another glass of pepper wine. After all this time he hated that man so violently he wished he could have killed him with his bare hands. He had never told anyone in all the centuries he had lived what had happened; he had been too hurt and humiliated. Besides, Berengar had been such a great guy, everyone had liked Berengar. Infamous narrowed his black eyes. He wished he was still alive, so he could personally kill him. At the very least he wished he'd told the Assassin. There was nothing he could do about it now, however, but the knife in his heart still turned and festered, cold and unhealed. At last Infamous shook his head, trying to clear the past away. At least the bastard was dead. Sebastian hopped in through the window, bringing his ladylove a rabbit. They fenced with their muzzles, glad to see one another, while poor undersized little Simon lay on the bed, watching the two. Infamous reached out and placed a hand on the wolf's grey head. "How about tomorrow you and I mount up and go to White Palace? We can get there in plenty of time to meet Arrowsmith." Simon watched his master with intelligent amber eyes. He had accompanied Infamous on many journeys, everywhere from uninhabited mountain peaks to noisy cities, and he recognized the phrase 'mount up.' A grin crossed his aging grey face, and Infamous smiled back at him. *** Arrowsmith didn't sleep well, his body coming up with a thousand excuses to keep him awake. The room was too cold, so he lit the fire. Then it was too hot, so he opened the window. Then the pillows were too soft, and the bed exactly the wrong shape. Finally he sat up, annoyed. Outside the window he could see the faintest traces of dawn appearing in the sky, and he decided to go explore the town. He dressed, and crept out of the room, walking as quietly as he could down the wooden floor of the hall. He descended the short flight of stairs into the common room, and stepped quietly around the dozing form of the innkeeper's massive guard animal. A wighthound, it was called. Arrowsmith estimated the beast to be eleven feet long from nose to tail, an immense grayish hound with fangs like a saber-toothed cat, and a fan of gleaming black spines like sword blades running the length of its spine, rising several feet into the air. Additional spines thrust out of its shoulders, angling backwards to defend its sides. Not surprisingly, the creature's name was Spike. The wighthound watched Arrowsmith go, recognizing him as a guest, not an intruder. Arrowsmith remembered unhappily being told that the animals roamed in packs over the plains, and their bite caused a rotting disease. He hoped he never ran into a wild one. The sky was still dark, save for traces of color in the eastern sky. The town itself was silent and dark, except for the occasional speck of light from the street lamps. He stepped into the street, looking first one way, then the other. Nothing moved other than a slow cool breeze wearily chasing a few dried leaves. The quiet was almost unnerving. Arrowsmith began walking towards the North Gate, recalling the strange monoliths he had seen the previous night. By the time he reached them, the sun should be high enough that he could get a good look at them.


The sound of his boots on the cobblestone was soon joined by that of a few birds. Then he heard the crowing of roosters, the sounds coming from different areas of the town. He wandered past an outdoor market, watching as a small group of people began casually preparing for the new day. Arrowsmith liked the Dargothian attitude towards life; things got done when they got done. There was no stress, no rushing. If the shop was a half hour late in opening, nobody would die. It was more important to be happy than on time. He passed the market, then a large public drinking fountain. Three women and four men were standing around it, leaning on their buckets, talking while a huge horse in full harness drank his fill. Past the fountain were houses. Some were slightly run down, and the gardens not as welltended as others, but Arrowsmith noticed that nobody seemed to live in squalid little shacks or hovels. There were, however, houses that had definitely seen better days. As he neared the monoliths, he noticed one house in particular. It had once been a beautiful mansion, and the houses around it rested on what had been its grounds. It was hard to tell what color it had been; the paint was mostly gone, and sporadic repairs gave it a patchwork look. The little stone path that led up to it seemed mismatched with the huge house, more fitting for a cottage. Especially with the impudent pink and yellow shasti flowers that poked up between the stones. The fence had long ago fallen down, but the gate was still there, cleaned of rust and carefully latched. A formal-looking but faded sign hung on the gate. It read; The Society for Deranged and Drunken Artists. Arrowsmith grinned at the sign as he continued walking. The monoliths were close now, and the warm spring sun was beginning to peer over the ever-present wall of the mountains. The town was fully awake by now, and there was some horse traffic on the road. No one seemed to notice him, or if they did, they were too polite to stare. He reached the fist monolith, standing before it and looking straight up. It was around twenty feet high, and made of stone blocks fit almost seamlessly together. Across the street was another one, and forty feet away stood another pair. They continued down the road pair by pair until they reached the gate, twenty in all, and each one painted with a different scene. And not the crappy art of somebody's third grade class, or a puffed-up art major, either. This stuff looked like the pictures in his book of Renaissance masters. A little overly dramatic, to be sure, but definitely the work of someone with a great deal of talent. The painted sky was black and ominous, boiling clouds reflecting the light of a burning city that rested in a small mountain valley. The mountains also reflected the fire, as did the windows of the burning houses. Black dragons circled and swooped down upon the retreating inhabitants, the rain drops on their black scales glittering eerily in the orange light. The white walls of the city were collapsing, people taking them apart in desperation to escape the fire and dragons. Blood stained the wall and the streets. In the midst of it all a cloaked and monstrous form riding what looked to be the skeletal remains of a decomposing dragon shot flaming arrows into the fray. The painting was almost hypnotizing. The dragons seemed to move; Arrowsmith could almost feel how wet they were, hear the rain striking their wings and running off in thin rivers. He began


to notice tiny details, like the reflections on the dragon's harness, minute detail on the robe of the archer. He picked out tiny, barely-seen temples on a mountain behind the city, and just below them, a group of brightly clad warriors heading into the chaos. Arrowsmith stepped closer to the painting, reaching out to touch it. The detail was fantastic, almost obsessive. A person could go mad from it, staring at tiny, half-crushed flowers whose rain-drenched petals glittered in the flames. "Somebody had to have lost their marbles painting this," said Arrowsmith. "He did," said a voice from behind Arrowsmith. Arrowsmith turned and saw a woman standing behind him. She was wearing paint-stained tunic and breeches, and her long dark hair was tied back with some woollen yarn. She smiled and made a short bow. Arrowsmith returned the bow. "Hello," he said. The woman smiled at him, then pointed at the painting. "It was painted three hundred years ago by Ilspet Snoweaver, of the great Snoweaver clan, and founding member of the Society for Deranged and Drunken Artists. It took him twenty-three years. The morning after he finished it, he was found dead by his servants." "Died of exhaustion, huh?" She laughed. "That, and a very large dose of poison." "Well, that'll do it to you. Is this the only thing he ever painted?" "No, there are others, but they're all at the Pandrish estate, and Mrs. Pandrish is very careful who she shows them to." Arrowsmith gazed at the painting a short time longer, then shook his head, managing to pull away from it. He remembered that he hadn't introduced himself, and extended his hand towards the woman. "I'm John Arrowsmith," he said. She took his hand and bowed again. "Silvra Greymason, of the Society for Deranged and Drunken Artists." He laughed. "Really. Well, you don't look too drunk and crazy to me." "That's because I'm a new member, the others assure me that it’s only a matter of time. So what brings you to our town?" "I guess I look like a tourist, huh."


"No, apart from your size, your clothes, and the way you were staring at Ilspet's painting, I never would have figured it out." He shrugged. "Just traveling around. A friend suggested I come here. But he didn't mention these." He indicated the monoliths. "Do you take care of them? This is in remarkable shape for three hundred years." "The Society does," said Silvra. "There are five of us all together, and we hire assistants when we need to. And the occasional magical aid from a mage of Hercandoloff helps. But you're starting at the wrong end. The monoliths tell the story of the rise and fall of the holy city of Palaklais. You have to start by the gate." "Wouldn't make any difference to me, I don't know that story. Who's the happy guy on the dead dragon?" Silvra looked at the painting. "She is Rhaklan the Damned. She was once a holy knight, some even say a paladin. But that is not a tale for the middle of the street." "Well maybe I can get Wess to tell me when I get home, he loves telling tales." Silvra looked at him curiously. "Wess... do you mean Wesselik Silverbird, of the Mountain Cabin?" Arrowsmith was surprised. "Yeah. How did you know?" "You're Infamous' friend! Didn't he tell you? He's a member of the Society! My husband has been a friend of his since Infamous was fourteen years old. Oh you must come and say hello to him." “Is everybody in this damn town a friend of Infamous’?” he asked as she took his hand and led him to the old mansion. Silvra led Arrowsmith back to the mansion. The front door creaked when it opened, and the odor of oil paints, wet clay and mineral spirits hit him. He coughed, following Silvra down the hall and into what must have once been a large sitting room. It had been converted into a studio, and was now filled with an array of items. Tarps were strewn across the floors, along with a large and scattered collection of hammers, chisels, and various stone cutting tools. Statues of varying sizes and levels of completion also filled the room. As Silvra went seeking her husband, Arrowsmith found himself drawn to a worktable covered in tiny sculptures. They were all of various Dargothian creatures. There was a mother wolf, resting with her cubs. Next to her sat a dragon with a look of cool superiority on its face. The creatures were all very natural looking, not exaggerated to be cute or fierce. They simply were what they were. But the one that most impressed him was set on a window ledge behind the table. It was black and shiny, and remarkably detailed. It was a Dragonhawk, he guessed, remembering hearing about the red stripe along the wings and the spear-shaped head. It was in a very cat-like


pose, tail wrapped about its body, eyes closed serenely. He leaned forward to get a better look at it, and was startled when it opened its eyes to look back at him. Silvra came up just then, leading a man by the hand. He was older than she, though not greatly so. His right leg seemed crippled, and he leaned heavily on a cane as he walked. He was covered in dust, and puffs of it fell off his clothes and long curling mane of black hair as he walked. He stood before Arrowsmith and bowed. "Arlo Greymason," he said. "Pleased to meet you." "John Arrowsmith." He held out his arm wrapped in a heavy falconer’s glove for the baby Dragonhawk. The glove was stained and deeply scarred, and he had a piece of meat in his fist. The tiny Dragonhawk stood up, looking from the meat to the table. It seemed reluctant to jump the twelve-inch gap from the window ledge, despite the fact that it had wings. It bobbed in agitation, then let out a shrill and pitiful squeak. Arrowsmith had a soft spot for small and goofy creatures, and reached out to help the tiny creature. He heard Silvra call his name just as he picked it up, and abruptly reminded himself to never, ever, do that again. The wings of the little animal were sharper than razor blades, and as it fluttered to escape his grasp it peeled the flesh from the heels of his hands. Unconcerned with the damage it had caused, it climbed down his arm, the claws puncturing through his leather jacket and into his skin. Then it dropped down from his arm and onto the table, knocking figures askew as it clumsily bustled over to its master. Silvra abruptly ran to get some bandages, while Arlo just stared at Arrowsmith, completely astounded. The little Dragonhawk sat upright on the glove, stuffing meat into its mouth. Slowly, carefully, Arlo released his cane and saluted Arrowsmith. "That," he said, "was the stupidest thing I ever saw someone do. Very kind, I admit, but stupid." "What do you think of me so far?" asked Arrowsmith, teeth gritted in pain. "Come sit down before the fire," said Arlo. They walked over to a trio of small couches arranged before a beautifully simple fireplace, Arrowsmith leaving a trail of blood. Silvra showed up with the bandages. She sat on the floor before Arrowsmith and began wrapping his hands. "I sent Catromb for the healer," she said. "Did no one ever teach you not to pick up a baby Dragonhawk?" "I'm sure somebody must have told me at some point in time. It just looked so cute and helpless."


He noticed that both Silvra and Arlo were trying very hard not to laugh at him. They managed to keep their composure until he lost his, and they all laughed about it. The cuts were very deep, and by the time they managed to stop the bleeding, Arrowsmith's hands were encased in enormous white mitts. The healer was less than completely sympathetic when he arrived, but he didn't have any trouble picking out his patient. Arrowsmith didn't mind, at least now he had a chance to watch the healer work his magic. The healing prayers took care of the worst of the damage, and a salve was used to prevent the cuts down his arm from infecting. Finally the healer stood up, wished him a good day, and left. Arlo was still shaking his head at Arrowsmith, but declined to say anything more about the incident. "So you know Infamous," he said. They talked about Infamous. He had lived in Two-Fifty-Mile-House since the age of twelve, which Arrowsmith knew. He had fled his home in Stone Realm, eventually ending up in the small crossroads town. He had scraped out a living thieving, until he was caught breaking into a temple of Drakkaus, the God of Assassins, by none other than Misty. “What was Misty Foxsworth doing in the temple of an assassin-god?” asked Arrowsmith. Arlo shrugged. “What he always does, I suspect. Feeding his addiction for honey muffins and warming assorted beds.” “Oh, you’ve met him.” Arlo laughed. “Yes, I’ve known Misty almost as long as I have known Infamous. I’ve even met Infamous’ twin brother, Sjaan.” Arrowsmith blinked in surprise. “He has a twin brother?” “Yes. Beautiful little thing, very sweet, very charming. Infamous is mad about him. Sjaan still lives in Stone Realm. Infamous wants to bring him to live with him, but their mother won’t hear of it. And Sjaan is too cowed to defy her. He doesn’t have a lot of inner strength, that boy. He’s been raised to be a pretty ornament and do what mother tells him. And mother does not want her pretty baby getting dirty with his mad brother.” “Really,” said Arrowsmith. “Isn’t this the same woman who got pregnant by some passing Snoweaver while her husband slept on the other room?” Arlo grinned. “Yes, that would be her. But you had to have met Grays Snowweaver to understand her willingness to take the chance. Green eyes, long red hair, the spitting image of his ancestor Marakim. Like the god himself had come back to the mortal plane. Very few people, male or female, could resist his charms. Slept with him myself a few times.” “Oh, really?” said Silvra, crossing her arms.


“Well before I met you, my fairest beloved. Anyway, he’s been dead now these… let’s see… how old is Infamous? Twenty-four, is he not? So twenty-four years Grays has been in the ground. Seems Lady Keeper’s husband had a bit of a fit when he learned what had happened. Killed Grays the same way Marakim was slain all those centuries ago. Hung him up by his boots and cut his throat. Made Lady Keeper keep the babies in the attic for five years, then the other Elves found out about it. Fairenya cared for the little ones as best he could, but Lady and Lord Keeper got rid of him. Exiled him from his own kingdom. Then Infamous ran away and ended up here. Learned his skills at the Temple of Marakim, and grew up at the Pandrish estate.” “He told me only a portion of this,” said Arrowsmith quietly. "He doesn't talk about it much," said Arlo. "But he sees Mrs. Pandrish as often as he can, at least once a year. In fact, he lives half of the time in this house. He hasn't met Chaos yet." Arrowsmith looked at the little Dragonhawk. Now that her belly was full she was all bright eyes and mischief as she chased a ball with a bell in it. She tumbled and played like a cat, occasionally running up walls, curtains, and furniture. Her claws were disproportionately large, and tore splinters out of the wooden floor. Likewise, the crest on her head cut deep, clean slashes in the heavy wooden ball as she played. Completing the set were three high angled blades on the end of her tail, which waved back and forth as she chased her ball. Arrowsmith though she was an amputation waiting to happen. "Why would you want a living razor blade for a pet?" Arlo shrugged. "Her home was destroyed by hunters. A Dragonhawk has to live somewhere. Besides, when she grows up she'll be good protection." Arrowsmith thought about the poor bastard dumb enough to break into this house after Chaos reached her full ten feet in length. He would be sliced like a package of baloney. *** They ate lunch together before the fireplace, Chaos ignoring the humans as she chased her tinkling ball. Arrowsmith had a pleasant afternoon with Infamous' friends, then headed quickly back to the Stagger, reaching it just as the rain began once more. He had just entered the common room when he somehow acquired a following of four Thieves. They simply materialized at his side, almost as if they had come out of the walls. They had been waiting for him, he assumed, trying to act as though he had expected them. In truth, the way they silently appeared and disappeared was frightening to him. He wondered what sort of a chance he would have if they decided they wanted to hurt him. He had been right about the Stagger Inn, he saw as he walked over to a table. At night it had character, but during the day it was a rat hole. He was glad he was wearing his boots; he didn't like the way his feet stuck to the floor when he walked.


Supper was brought the moment he sat down, and he sighed as he saw the large expanse of food dropped down before him. Nothing was too good for the Master Thief's pet, it seemed. Arrowsmith was beginning to have visions of Harley blowing out both tires when he got onto his back. He immediately looked for the bike as soon as he thought of him, and was relieved to see the large machine right where he left him. Someone had wiped the road mud off, and there were two large bowls, one full of meat and one of water, set near the front tire, left by some well-meaning but confused individual. Harley very rudely hadn't touched either bowl. However, Harley's refusal to eat had no affect on Arrowsmith, and he decided to at least try to make a dent in the mountainous repast before him. He had not yet succeeded when he became aware of a presence close at hand, and he ceased eating. Looking down to his left, he saw Hemas, the Dwarf. He was fully sober and had both boots on now, and the eerie, milk-blue eyes that looked back at him from his dark, strong face were solemn and intelligent. He and Arrowsmith considered each other, then Hemas bowed stiffly. Arrowsmith rose up to return the greeting, leaving poor Hemas at around slightly lower than hip-level. He bowed back to the Dwarf. "Why don't you sit down and join me? There's more than enough for two of us. I think the thieves want to make me too fat to get out the door." Hemas smiled and bowed again. "You're very kind," he said, and they both sat down. "I came down to thank you for my room last night, and ask if I can repay you in some way." He smiled tightly, and the black hair on his chin bristled slightly. "A week ago, I could have offered you gems for your kindness." "I don't need gems," said Arrowsmith with a wave of his hand. "Got everything I need." He paused to look at the imposing spread of food before him. "More than I need, in fact." The Dwarf laughed. "So I see. Yes, they've been all excited about your arrival. You'd best get used to this, the children of Marakim know how to treat their own." "Gonna die of a ruptured intestine from all this food," muttered Arrowsmith, and Hemas roared with laughter. Arrowsmith grinned back at him, and the pair set about eating with a vengeance. After all, if it was there, no sense in letting it go to waste. Supper was finally done, and as Arrowsmith put his feet up on the table and began filling his pipe, he noticed that his silent guard had grown slightly. There were seven Thieves now, and he honestly couldn't recall seeing the three new ones show up. But there they were, perched quietly around him, keeping vigil. Arrowsmith lit his pipe and ignored them. "You're trying to get to White Palace, aren't you?" he said to Hemas, and the Dwarf nodded, accepting the pipe from Arrowsmith. "I am. If I can get there, then I can meet up with one of the trade wagons from the mountain where I live. I could get a ride home. Most people who come here are from Twin Lakes, and that is in the wrong direction. Do you know someone who is going to White Palace?"


"Yeah. Me. Harley and I could get you there in no time." "And who is this Harley?" Arrowsmith pointed over his shoulder at the large bike. Hemas looked at the machine, then back at Arrowsmith. "Perhaps it is best just to find permanent lodgings here." "Oh come on, man, don't be like that. Hey, if Infamous Keeper can drive it..." "Are you telling me that the Master Thief can drive that thing? That little bony half-Elf? If a half-Elf can do it, a Dwarf can do it better!" he roared. "When do we leave?" The Thieves fluttered like settling birds behind Arrowsmith, who was grinning at the determined frown on the Dwarf's face. "I was planning on leaving in the morning." "Right!" said Hemas, banging his fist onto the table. He passed Arrowsmith back his pipe, then got down from his chair. "I'll go get ready!" As Hemas swaggered off to his room, the Thieves drew closer to Arrowsmith. "Why are you leaving so soon? Have we offended you?" "No, not at all," said Arrowsmith, feeling a little wary as more Thieves seemed to seep out of the walls. He wasn't certain of the number; somehow even in the light of the tavern they did not seem to be more that half-visible shadows. They perched about him and stared at him with bright eyes. "Then why are you leaving?" asked one little shadow who had appeared on the table. Despite their human form, Arrowsmith couldn't shake the feeling that they were really ferrets in robes. "Nothing personal, but..." he paused for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. "I just have this feeling that I have to get to White Palace, do you know what I mean? I just keep feeling like I have to get to White Palace. I can't explain it any better than that." The shadows contemplated him silently, then shrugged. "Very well," said one, and the whole pack vaporized around him. At first Arrowsmith thought maybe he had offended them and they had left, but no such luck. They were back in a matter of moments, or possibly it was another group. It was hard to tell the little night-stalkers apart. Arrowsmith finished his pipe and began heading up to his room to pack. His urge to get to the city was so strong now that he felt as though he was being prodded with hot needles, and his stomach was a sick knot. There were more Thieves in his room. They were perched on the heavy ceiling beams, peering down at him with interest. Arrowsmith glanced up at them, then went to pack his bags, finding someone had beaten him to it. He sighed, then looked up at the ghostly shadows. They blinked


down at him brightly, silently. There might have been three of them. Arrowsmith thought about the time he had tried to catch Infamous, and shook his head. These fellows were like mist, and they probably weren't even exceptional thieves. Catching Infamous would be like catching smoke in a net. Arrowsmith picked up his bags, which were heavier than they had been last night. So not only had the little blighters packed for him, they had stolen him some goodies, too. He looked at the saddlebags, then up at the ceiling at the dark shapes. "You guys are scary, you know that?" "We know," someone said happily, and not from the ceiling. Arrowsmith looked in the direction of the voice, and saw nothing. Shaking his head, he took the bags, left the room and went downstairs. The swarm of ghost-ferrets pursued him, cheerful, light-footed, spectral. They would be terrifying if they were not so good-natured and inquisitive. Arrowsmith packed everything onto Harley in preparation for the morning’s journey, then returned to his room to sleep. *** The common room was absolutely alive with thieves in the morning when Arrowsmith came downstairs. They were everywhere, situated on anything they could get both feet on, from the tables to the ceiling beams. He stopped just inside the room and looked around slowly, unable to comprehend fully what he was seeing. Then he recalled Infamous had said the place was a Thieves' den. The Temple was probably right under his feet. He didn't know much about these guys, but he knew from Infamous that all of their Temples were underground, and usually excavated right under a building. The little jackals were literally coming out of the floor. Shendara appeared out of the crowd, walking up to Arrowsmith. She took his arm and began leading him to his bike. "Are you sure you won't stay a little while longer?" she said. "That depends," said Arrowsmith, looking around the tavern. “Have you all showed up to make me stay?" She laughed. "No, we did not. It is not our business to detain people." "Then no, I really have to leave. But I'll be back one day. I've heard rumors about the End of the Road tavern that I want to check out." "They're all true," said Shendara, a slight smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. "But you don't know what rumors I've heard." "I don't have to, I know the tavern. Here comes your traveling companion."


"Great stone giants!" roared a voice from somewhere behind the wall of Thieves. "Is every cleric Marakim ever possessed in this room? Out of my way, you night-creeping cutpurses!" There was a ripple in the sea of black, and through it came Hemas. He was clad in a great bearskin cloak. It was held about the waist by a wide belt of leather, and into that he had thrust a large war hammer. He was wearing a helm with short horns banded in gold on either side of it. His beard bristled imposingly from beneath the faceplate as he glared about at the room full of black-clad clerics. Finally he turned his attention to Arrowsmith. "Well, are we ready to go?" he asked. Arrowsmith nodded, and pulled on his leather jacket, zipping up the front, then took hold of the bike and began pushing it out the door into the street. His boots thumped heavily on the wooden porch of the tavern as he crossed it, and he eased Harley down the tavern’s one step. Arrowsmith threw one leather-clad leg over the bike's back, rising above it to kick the machine into life. Harley bellowed into wakefulness, sending a few individuals who had been in the rain-dampened streets scrambling for shelter. Arrowsmith sat down and looked over at Hemas. "Come on," he said. Hemas looked like he could have quite happily turned and fled himself, but he was a Dwarf, and no Dwarf ever backed down from a challenge. They were a strong and proud people, and Hemas was not about to let some roaring golem intimidate him. He straightened his belt and swaggered over to the demon beast, climbing up onto the elevated back seat. Arrowsmith looked over his shoulder at Hemas. "All set?" he asked. The Dwarf looked more determined than ever, and he nodded grimly. Arrowsmith waved at Shendara. "I'll be back," he yelled over the noise of the engine. "And when I come here again, you and I are going to the End of the Road." She laughed. "You'll need me to keep you out of trouble!" "I don't want to be kept out of trouble, I want someone to help me crawl home afterwards!" Shendara waved farewell to him as he sent the bike forward. They drove down the street slowly at first, until they were out of the main part of the town, then picked up speed as they moved towards the gate. The gatekeepers had apparently heard them coming, because the way was open when they crested a small rise in the road and came into view of the gate. As they headed towards it, Arrowsmith noticed writing on the upper right hand part of the wall; seven words written one over top of the other, in varying languages, the last written in the common tongue. It read; 'Nowhere.' Arrowsmith tore through the gate and out onto the rain-soaked roadway towards White Palace. Above them the sky had ceased throwing down water, but it was still dark. However, far away to


their left, there was a pale silver edge to the cloud cover, a harbinger of better weather. Arrowsmith yelled like a madman and gave Harley more gas, and they flew down the road like an eagle into the dark wet plains. They had started late, and the short spring day ended a little sooner than Arrowsmith would have liked. He turned on the headlight and kept on for a while after dark, but found the going a little too treacherous for his liking. Finally he pulled off the road at what looked like a good camping spot, and turned off the engine. Silence slammed down all around them, and Arrowsmith leaned forward against the handlebars to look around. The sky had cleared, and it was filled with a billion tiny specks of light, thrown about like salt on a black tablecloth. A light breeze started up, and he could hear the soft rustle of the long grass. For a long time, all Arrowsmith did was look around at the stars in the otherwise perfect dark. He suddenly recalled Hemas, and he looked over his shoulder towards the Dwarf. "Hemas. Hey, man, you okay? I haven't heard you screaming for the last twenty miles, thought you might have fallen off the bike." There was a small sort of noise, and Hemas stirred. "Are we stopped?" he asked. "Yeah, we're stopped. You can get off now. So what did you think of the bike? Fun, huh?" "Urk," said Hemas as he slowly, carefully dismounted. "Yes. Fun," he monotoned. "I knew you'd like it. Nothing in the world like a motorcycle. We'll camp here, unless you think there's a better spot." "Glurg," said Hemas, sitting down hard on the long grass. Arrowsmith made camp, as Hemas seemed unable to function at the moment. He put up the tent and heated up his little camp stove, something he only used when the ground was too wet for fire making. He searched through his bags, taking out and examining the strange foods the thieves had given him. There was dried meat, smoked fish, and a few herbs, roots, and things that Arrowsmith could not identify at all. He tossed a package of cleaned, white roots to Hemas. "What are those?" he asked. Hemas looked down at the package, trying to pry his thoughts away from the visions of the rushing road. "They are the roots of a flower called dragonwhiskers. They are very sweet, most people eat them fresh out of the ground." Arrowsmith picked one up and thrust it into his mouth. It was carrot-like in texture, and pleasantly sweet. Arrowsmith crunched on it as he set about making supper. Hemas just quietly fell over onto his back and stared up at the sky. "How long until your beast gets us to White Palace?"


"I would say late afternoon tomorrow, maybe sundown. If the road was a little better I could knock a few hours off of that, maybe we'll hit a good stretch and we can make a little time. Hey, if you think this bike is fun now, wait until we really get it going fast." Hemas sat up and glared at Arrowsmith's large form. "What were we doing today?" he bellowed.

"I don't know, maybe seventy."

"Seventy what?"

Arrowsmith looked up from the smoked fish he was smearing onto his toasted bread. "Miles an

hour, Hemas. Seventy miles an hour. But don't worry, one good stretch of clean smooth road, I

can get Harley going way faster than that."

"I've no urge to go that fast!" Hemas roared. "I almost died of fright a hundred times today!"

"So why didn't you say something?"

Hemas snorted, shaking his head. Finally he came over to help himself to some off the food. He

looked at the fish, but left it and had some of the meat and cheese instead. He also found a skin

of ale, and soon both of them were feeling much better about the day.

"Hey, Hemas?" said Arrowsmith. "Why is the city called White Palace?"

"That is not actually its proper name," he said. "It is the City of the White Palace. But 'White

Palace' is shorter. It is the ancestral home of the mage Hercandoloff."

"I thought that was Palaklais."

"No," said Hemas, taking a drink of ale. "Palaklais was the first house of Hercandoloff. But

Palaklais was short lived; it survived less than one hundred years before it collapsed. It was attacked by a sorceress riding some sort of beast, like a dragon, but with no flesh on its bones. She burned the city, but she failed in her quest to kill Hercandoloff. He left with his Court, moving to the plains." "Wait a minute," said Arrowsmith. "I thought Hercandoloff founded Palaklais. Are you telling me he was still alive when it was destroyed, one hundred years later?"

Hemas nodded. "I am. The Mage is immortal. He departs sometimes, to other places, and other

things, but he always returns when he is needed. He always comes back when the Palace rises."

"What Palace?"

"I'm getting to that, you impatient brat!" Hemas' eyebrows bristled. Arrowsmith waited,

grinning, undeterred by the Dwarf's gruff manner.


"Anyway, Hercandoloff came with his Court to the plains, and once they found a suitable place, they began to build a palace out of the stone of the wall that had surrounded Palaklais. You have already seen part of that wall yourself, guarding Two-Fifty-Mile-House." "How did they get it out of the mountains?" "How should I know, do I look like a wizard? The story is not often told where I live, a better account could be told to you in the City if you would like to wait that long." "No, I want you to tell it.” Hemas snorted. "They used the stone from the walls of Palaklais, and they built a palace. A huge palace, shining white, infused with magical spells. And Hercandoloff told the people who had followed him there that in times of peace, the palace would be hidden from view, and the people left to govern themselves as they saw fit. But if ever a great evil should again threaten the land, then the palace would rise, and he would return to throw down the foes." "And then what, he just took off and left a whole city full of people?" "No, of course not! He stayed until the people were established, and he saw that their way of life was good and just. The city was in its seventy-eighth year when he left." "Did he ever come back?" Hemas nodded. "He has been back five times in the past thousand years, the last time as recently as in my grandfather's youth. My grandfather himself looked upon Hercandoloff, stood right before his throne, and pledged the eternal friendship of the Ironfist clan." "And nobody knows where this mage goes in the meantime, when he's not defeating the forces of evil and building cities?" "No one. There is much mystery surrounding the wizard." "So what does he look like? Your grandfather must have told you stories." He did," said Hemas. "Although, there is something I do not understand about the descriptions I have heard of the mage. When Palaklais fell, Hercandoloff was venerable beyond the natural years of humans. Yet the historians teach that he was a young man when he built the White Palace. And again, when he reappeared two hundred years later, he was still a very young man, but he aged, as does everyone. Many people have seen him grow old over time, but then he vanishes, and returns young. But one thing all agree upon is his appearance." The Dwarf sliced himself some more cheese, then poured a little more ale into his shallow wooden cup. As he did this, Arrowsmith suddenly began to shiver in the night air. He had the strange feeling that he knew what the Dwarf was about to say.


"He is a tiny man, small and fragile, with beautiful long hands. His hair is blacker than black, and his eyes are violet. Many who have seen him say that he more resembles a young girl than a grown man. He is light-hearted, a jester, and he frequently uses his magic to play little tricks on people. But above all, he is gentle. He...say, fellow, you don't look very good, even in this light. Is that fish making you sick? It'll do that. Fish, bah. Mycinocroft food, that's all..." Arrowsmith drew his knees up and rested his forehead on them. All around the world became grey and misty, and he felt as though he was not truly in his body. He felt as though, if he wished it, he would simply float up to the moon, drifting away like the smoke of the little camp stove. Hemas' voice finally penetrated his shell. "Arrowsmith? Are you all right?" "I've seen him." "Seen who?" Arrowsmith raised his head. He could feel a sweat forming on his body, and he had a hard time focusing his thoughts. "Hercandoloff, I've seen him. Little pretty guy with violet eyes. I've seen him." "Where?" Hemas asked, but something inside of Arrowsmith suddenly warned him not to tell. He staggered to his feet and looked east, in the direction of the City. For a long time, he said nothing. "Get some sleep, Hemas," he said finally. "We leave early for the City." *** Arrowsmith did not sleep all night, although Hemas snored loudly enough to attract some large animal. It stood off in the darkness and made similar sounds back at the Dwarf, but not receiving the appropriate reply, it eventually wandered off. Arrowsmith meanwhile felt as though a part of himself had left, and he did not know if it was ever coming back. He felt like some sort of machine left on, but without anyone to tell him what to do. He simply sat and waited for dawn. When it came, he ate breakfast and packed, but there was no emotion within him. Everything had been replaced by an intense desire to get to the City as soon as possible. It was barely daybreak when he and Hemas once more got on the bike and headed east. They stopped once to make lunch and let Hemas stretch his legs. Arrowsmith still felt like an empty vessel, waiting for something to be poured into him. Hemas tried to make conversation a few times, but Arrowsmith felt unable to respond, and when he did say the occasional word or two, it was as though someone else was making him speak. Finally, they got back onto the bike and rode off. It was late afternoon, and the sky was a beautiful canopy of gold and pink, and the sun was sinking when they first set eyes on the City. The ground had become uneven, and the road


snaked over and around many small hills and knolls. Finally, at the crest of a hill larger than most of the others, they stopped. The City lay before them, a mass of buildings and houses, all corralled in by a high wall, shining white like the one around Two-Fifty-Mile-House. Most of the roofs they could see boasted tall spires, a few even showed banners of differing colors. It was not a large city, and from where Arrowsmith sat, he could see that it was carefully laid out in an orderly fashion. However the one part of the town that he could not figure out was the far end. Where the rest of the city was laid out to make the best use of space, this part had been left unsettled, as though to make room for another building. The open space was almost eerie in appearance: carefully maintained and framed by little white borders. Behind it were little gardens, set up as though to attach to something that just wasn't there. It was strange enough that Arrowsmith actually managed to shake off his feeling of detachment. He glanced over his shoulder at Hemas. "Is that where the palace sits?" He nodded. "Yes. That is where it will be when it rises again." Arrowsmith turned his brown eyes to the city again. A shiver ran through him, and he lowered his head, taking in a deep breath. "Hemas, you'd better get off and walk into the City from here." "Be glad to. Where are you going?" "To the far end of the City, where the open patch is. I'm going to sit there for a while." Hemas got off of the bike, taking his meagre bundle of belongings with him. He stood before Arrowsmith, looking into his face. He shook his head grimly. "You look bad, boy. Maybe you ought to come into the City with me. We can find a healer to look at you." Arrowsmith shook his head. "I don't need a healer, I'll be fine. You go into the city, get yourself a hot meal. I'll meet you later at the Red Rooster." Hemas stared at Arrowsmith for a moment longer, then turned and headed for the tall gates of White Palace, shaking his head. He paused to watch Arrowsmith drive down the little hill, heading for the far wall. Then he kept walking towards the gate. Arrowsmith reached the wall, stopping next to a small collection of aged trees. He turned off the loud motor, caring nothing about whether or not anyone had heard him. He sat on the bike, breathing. He was peaceful, calm, like a man who had finally reached the end of a quest that had taken all of his life. Arrowsmith slid down from the leather back of the bike onto the soft grass beneath a tree, asleep, and yet more awake than he had ever been. The world was smeared and dark, as though he was viewing it through a heavy mesh screen. The trees blew soundlessly in an unfelt breeze, and the


grass swayed like the reeds at the bottom of a slow river. It was as though he was no longer a part of the living world, having slipped into a strange dream that would not let him wake. The memories seemed to come slowly, and in organized clusters, like old home movie reels. He saw Palaklais, walked its streets, stared up at the tall buildings. He had not seen buildings like this before, and he was frightened by them. But he would not let anyone see that. Men did not show fear. The images sped up, and he saw himself living and growing old in the great city. He spent his years with the Wizard, Hercandoloff, a nice enough fellow but undersized, and he had a wife he couldn't keep in line. He actually let her run his armies... Palaklais fell. They moved out of the mountains. Now they were all young again, and he was someone different. He had no real idea how that had happened, but the Wizard had done it, he knew that much. He always meant to ask him about it, but it sounded too much like the work of the Devil. He had no urge to know about the workings of the Devil. Back home, this little fellow and his sword-waving wild woman would have been burned at the stake. And that little thief he kept, the one who cavorted with men... there wasn't a dungeon deep enough for that heretic. Worse, he had obviously been putting some sort of evil spell on him, because he was actually beginning to find him attractive. The memories wavered, then ceased, as though the film on the projector had torn. Arrowsmith had the strange feeling that someone was coming. He was standing on the grass next to his own limp form, but for some reason he did not find that upsetting. He awaited whomever was coming, excited and unafraid. He saw them appear out of the gloom around him. There were eight of them, all very familiar. They were him; or rather they were the representations of his former lives. He was pretty glad to see most of them. Well, numbers one and two he could have lived without seeing again, but the others he liked well enough. Especially Number Eight. He'd been a handsome lad in his last life. "Who am I?" he asked the assembled group. "Why am I here?" "Those are big questions, John Arrowsmith," said his former self. The tall, well-dressed man stepped forward, smiling gently. "Surely you Recall me?" "Yeah, you're me. Or rather, you're Seth Crowley. Hey, how did we die the last time around?" "The horse tripped. We broke our neck in the middle of the road." "The mountain road?" "Yes, Arrowsmith, the mountain road." Seth moved closer. He was wearing Dargothian clothes, breeches, high boots, wool tunic and cloak. But the accent was that of a refined Englishman.


"Oh," Arrowsmith said, and fell silent for a moment as he considered this. Then he asked, "But why am I here?" "You are, as I was, as we all were, the Seer of Hercandoloff." "Seer?" said Arrowsmith. "No way. You got it wrong, Seth old boy. I mean, look at me!" "Well, I admit I have seen you dressed better." "Hey, I happen to like these clothes. And what do you know about fashion, anyway?" "At least I was a nobleman, you're nothing more than base-born trash. The only thing you have in your favor is Infamous, and he is far too fragile an individual to have someone of your oafishness about him." "Fragile?! Infamous? Lose the Victorian romance, Seth, Infamous is more capable of survival than we ever were." Seth stared down his nose at Arrowsmith. "Even so," he said, "it is your turn to watch this land. You must continue to keep the promise that was made to the Wizard almost one thousand years ago. You are the Seer, whether you look like one or not. That is how we are able to come here and tell you of this. The others take hours to Recall, sometimes even days, reliving their lives, but you have me to speak to." Seth smiled slightly, giving Arrowsmith one of those aren't-you-so-honored-you-could-just-retch looks that only nobles could manage. "You know, I once knew a prostitute named Seth." Seth raised one eyebrow, looking annoyed by the comment. "Indeed. Interesting. So why don't you give me a pound and then you can put a new twist on an old insult." "Yeah yeah, fine. First tell me how it was we ended up able to come back to the land of the living after death. Does everyone do this?" "No, only the Court does it, and we are not permitted to know the fates of the people who live and die. We are outside the natural world, and not permitted to know its secrets. Hercandoloff is the one who gave us immortality, and forever we will walk the green hills and plains of this strange land." "We're cursed!" Number One suddenly declared. "Evil has claimed us!" "It's the work of the Devil!" agreed Number Two. Arrowsmith laughed and shook his head, looking at the two incarnations of himself. "Can they hear me?" he asked Seth.


"Not at the moment. You are in direct contact with me. Because they are parts of the puzzle that make up you and me, they must go where I go. Thankfully I only need tolerate their presence when in spiritual contact with you." "Does that mean I will see you again?" "I suppose. Do you want to?" "Well I'll probably need to talk to you sometime in the future." Arrowsmith fell silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. "So this is what my life is all about, then. I'm the Seer of a great Mage. I help to defend a magical kingdom. And my lover is the royal thief." "His proper title is Dragon Prince, descendant of Marakim, the Master of all Thieves. I trust you will address him properly?" "Why? He comes to me when I yell, 'Hey Fame.' Why bother with all the other crap?" Seth stared imperiously down his nose at Arrowsmith. "I see manners are not something your incarnation decided to weary himself with." "Hey, I got manners." "And an excellent grasp of the King's English, too, I see." "Ah, go stand on a street corner, I got a life to live." "Very well. But I shall not be far. After all, I am part of you, as are all you see here. We will assist you if we can. But I am afraid I must be going now. You are asleep on the grass near a watchtower, and your device attracted a good deal of attention. People are coming as we speak to tend to you, including your Dwarven friend, Hemas. It would not do for them to find you lying on your back, unconscious and talking to yourself." "Hey man, that's me most every Saturday night, just put a bar table over me and who'll notice?" Seth glared at Arrowsmith. "Cretin," he said, and faded from view. Reality came back by degrees after Seth left. At first, Arrowsmith could not move his body or feel anything around him, but then the cool of the long grass penetrated his shell of nothingness. He felt his body coming alive, and he could smell the blossoms on the trees around him. His vision cleared, and at last, his hearing came back. Hemas was shaking his shoulder and saying his name. Arrowsmith slowly rose to his feet, towering high above the heads of those around him. Hemas had brought the city guard with him, three men and a woman in dark grey uniforms. They were watching him carefully from just beyond sword's reach. Cops were cops in any world, Arrowsmith observed wryly.


He swayed unsteadily, looking around at everyone and everything, as though seeing it for the first time. His knees buckled, and he almost fell, but managed to catch himself. The guards probably thought he was drunk. He certainly didn't feel too coherent. That was a side effect of Recalling, he suddenly remembered. It left a person drained and very disoriented, and not especially capable of handling a situation. Arrowsmith could feel Seth watching him anxiously, could almost hear him thinking; "Just keep your mouth shut, John Arrowsmith, for the love of our Lord and Savior just keep your mouth shut!" "Well, well," said one of the guards. "And just who might you be, big fellow?" "Shut up," said Seth from in the back of his head. "You just Recalled, you are in no condition to be lucid. Just shut up." "I am John Arrowsmith, Seer of the Mage Hercandoloff, come to herald his return and the rising of his Palace!" Arrowsmith announced loudly. "Nooooooo!" Seth howled. "You great ponderous idiot! Don't tell them that!" Arrowsmith was arrested on the spot for drunkenness and possession of an illegal technical item. Before they dragged him away he tossed his money and Harley's keys to Hemas, telling him not to let them hurt the motorcycle. Then he was taken to a clean, straw-filled dungeon, where he and Seth argued most of the night about how he should have handled the situation. End


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