Wander West, in Shadow

The whole world seemed so small. Nothing but stone, and snow, and darkness.

The crevice in the cliff face that Kells had led Aela to was little more than a crack in the rocks. Barely enough for them to squeeze into. And they stood now surrounded on all sides by rough stone walls slick with ice. And, beyond the gap through which they had wriggled, the bogge-men. Burning white eyes and writhing shadow, clattering teeth and flashing black blades, as they tried to force their way into the crevice themselves.

Kells stood, his boots planted firmly in the ground, aiming the white halberd at that snapping, tearing madness, even as fear clawed at his heart. Aela stood behind him, pressed firmly against the stone, the Sunhammer boy still held in her arms, squeezed so tightly that she couldn't move.

It was the end. The halberd had done a fine job of fending off the bogge-men. Its blade had proven remarkably sharp; capable of punching htrough their rock-hard hides, it dripped with black blood. But still they came on, undeterred. And Kells was tired. His arms burned with the effort of wielding it; sweat drenched him, and his hands and arms stung and dripped with blood; one of the bogge-men had scored a cut on him as thrust the halberd through the gap. His breath came in ragged, panting gasps. He had put up a good fight, but he knew the battle was lost. Sorry, Aela, he thought. Perhaps I ought to have let you die where you pleased. But most of all, he could not help but feel sorry for the nameless Sunhammer boy. For a life to be lost so young seemed a very sorry thing.

Suddenly, he lost his balance, stumbling forward. One of the bogge-men had slipped past his thrusts, grabbed the shaft of the halberd, and yanked, pulling him forward. The bright, burning lights of its eyes filled his vision as he tried to maintain his grip, only to be forcefully tugged out of the gap. Well, then. Time to show these daemons how a Twin Lamps man dies. Summoning the last of his strength, he prepared himself to lunge forward. If I am lucky, I can take one of them with me. If.

All at once, it happened.

The bogge-man that gripped his halberd suddenly shook like a leaf in the wind. The howling lights of its eyes seemed to flicker and spark as it slumped backwards, raising dark gloved hands to the sides of its horse-skull helm. And then it screamed, raising its jaws to the sky; it howled a shriek like tortured stone being cracked apart, a scream of panic and fear. It collapsed ot the ground, thrashing wildly, its limbs striking the stone so hard that Kells thought for certain that they must break.

"What was tha'?! What's happenin?" Aela cried out from behind him, but Kells had no idea how to answer her. He watched in astonishment as the thrashing bogge-man took its own blade and, with no hesitation, rammed it through its own helm, cracking and splitting the bone. It immediately stopped moving. Kells cried out with shock and backed into Aela, pressing into her, as black flame gutted from its eye sockets and roared into an inferno that filled the stone gap.

Those flames screamed as they rose higher, and higher, but they were quickly spent. Soon they dwindled down to nothing, leaving nothing of the bogge-man but a small smear of white ash.

Kells remained huddled together with Aela for a long moment. Nothing but the sound of their breathing, the wind, and the snow drifting down from the sky.

They jumped as suddenly, a strange, loud, knocking sound rang out. Again, and again, the sound of something cracking against stone.

Kells looked into the gap, but there was nothing visible there now, other than the snowy forest that lay beyond. No sign of the bogge-men. They waited, for a long moment, but the knocking simply continued. He took up his halberd, raised a finger to his lips to motion for silence from Aela, and crept forth through the gap.

As he stepped out into the forest, halberd held cautiously before him, he was greeted with a very strange sight.

Their other pursuer, a reindeer-skulled bogge-man, stood by the entrance to the gap. Its cruel, curved blade lay discarded in the snow. It stood, its hands pressed against the stone wall, dark cloak stirring slightly in the wind. And as he watched, it slammed its head into the stone, hard. Again, and again, and again. Until, with a loud crack, the bone split. It stumbled away, wreathed in black flame that consumed it. It did not even make it four steps before nothing was left of it but ash drifting on the wind.

"Et kilt etself," Aela said, from somewhere behind him. Kells turned. The Crosscraw woman had made her way out of the gap as well; she carried the unconscious Sunhammer boy in her arms like a newborn babe, his long, thin legs dangling and red-gold hair blowing in the wind. She looked stunned. Wide, bright green eyes met his, and within them was the glimer of hope. "D'ye...does et mean...es et over? Th' Bogge-King es dead?"

Kells certainly hoped so, not the least because he did not think he could fight or run from another bogge-man in his current state. And he and Aela were not out of the woods yet. He leaned, exhausted, on his halberd, and blinked at the sky. While it was still snowing, the blizzard seemed to be letting up somewhat. The whipping winds were dying down, and the snowfall no longer whipped itself into his eyes. "Let us pray that it is," he replied. "I do not know what else it might mean. But I am not counting on it." He shook his head, and unbuckled his helm. He could feel the heat baking off his scalp into the cold air. "How far are we from Dun Cairn, here? We should not waste this miracle, and I am not ready to declare the wilds safe just yet."

Aela paced in the snow, staring at where the bogge-man had been only moments before. Despite his cautious words, he could see the flame of hope growing in her. But she shook her head, after a moment, shivering against the cold snow. "Aye," she said, "Aye. Nae rest yet. This'n needs warmth an' shelter as well." She nodded towards the Sunhammer boy held in her arms. She glanced at the sky, narrowing her eyes, her long red hair billowing behind her. "Ah...Ah think ef we push, we might make et afore nightfall."

"Good." Something distant in Kells' mind babbled at him about the shock of all he had just seen, but it was not yet time to leave the cold, iron knot in him behind. Survival was still uncertain. And, he thought, Aela must be pushed while she still had the fire in her blood to do so. He thought he had an inkling of who the Crosscraw woman was; enough to suspect that once what had happened truly settled into her mind, it might hit her hard. Best to keep her alert and with urgency in her while he could.

Martimeos, Elyse, he thought, as he began his grim march through the snow, I hope you've made it.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Beyond the doorway leading from the Bogge-King's cellar, Elyse summoned a ball of glamour-flame to her hand to light her way in this place, and found it a warren of stone halls and stairs, dimly lit by a bright white light coming from above.

She paused, placing a hand against the stone wall, breathing heavily for a moment. The pain Amalciano had burned into her was entirely gone. She was not injured; her body felt fine. But so great had it been that her mind still reeled from the memory of it. Keep going, keep moving, she thought to herself, forcing her legs forward. Do not linger on it. I live, I am uninjured. I will be fine. 'Twas just some pain. That's all. Do not dwell on the memory.

As she ascended the steps, she stared in wonder at the claw marks that scored the stone. It was clear the Bogge-King had passed through here, though he was nowhere to be seen, now. The only question was where in this place he had gone, chasing Martimeos. She heard howling wind from above; if the wizard had gone anywhere in this place, she thought, it would have been to the nearest exit, most likely.

And so she climbed the steps quickly towards the white light, only to find it a hole carved into ruined rubble, leading out into a fierce blizzard beyond. Giant boulders, cracked in two, covered in desperate claw marks, and slick with black blood; so much of it.

The black blood stained the snow, as well, as she stepped out into the blizzard, shielding her eyes to protect them from the stinging snow and ice. And then her heart sank. For there was red blood that stained the ground as well. "It's alright," she muttered, half to Cecil, half to herself. "It's alright. Not enough blood for him to have been slain here." Cecil mewed at her plaintitively, ice beginning to stick to his fur, as she looked upwards. Both the red and the black blood left a trail away from the cave, downhill, through pines whose branches swayed in the storm.

She followed the trail, icy snow crunching underfoot as she did so. The Bogge-King, she thought, must have swept through here after Martim, and it was not difficult to tell; claw marks dug into the stone and eath, and the trees bent and twisted where he had made his passage.

She followed it until, over the howling winds of the storm, something drifted to her. A song, in a tongue she did not know, but which spoke so clearly of such bitter melancholy and regret that she could not stop the tears from coming, a ghostly tune woven through with birdsong, so sweet and sad that it felt as if someone had stuck a blade of ice into her heart. And as she walked forward, it was not long before its source was revealed.

Martimeos stood in the midst of the snowstorm, the wind whipping his shaggy hair and long, black-furred cloak about him, the tail end of his red scarf flapping in the breeze. He sang, and Flit on his shoulder sang mounrfully along with him, his face raised to the skies. And before him lay a giant, man-shaped hole in the ground, burned through the snow into the earth and stone, surrounded by a great deal of black bloodstains that even now froze into dirty ice in the chill. And the silent, still form of Mors Rothach, the bear's mighty form rent by dozens of grievous wounds, snow collecting on his thick black fur, never to rise again.

Martimeos finished his song as she approached, the fading echoes of his voice quickly buried beneath the wind. She stood beside him for a moment, the only sound the howling of the wind, as they looked down at the ruin before them.

"Hadley is dead," Martimeos said quietly. "He and Mors both slew each other." The wizard drew his cloak his cloak about him, as he looked at the hole burnt into the earth. "It didn't have to be like this," he murmured.

"You wished to save him," Elyse said softly.

"Yes," Martim replied numbly. "And instead, I led him to his death." He closed his eyes. Snow collected in his hair. "I wish I had never known that he might have been saved."

Elyse drew closer to him, hesitantly. Martimeos swayed in the wind, like he might topple over any moment. "It is not your fault. What was there even left of him to get back?"

"I think, really, that is just what I wanted to know." Martimeos sighed, turning to her. Dark circles lined his dark green eyes. "I wanted to bring Hadley back, as I remembered him. To know how much of the Bogge-King was the daemon's work, and how much of it was...him. I suppose I'll never really be sure." He cast his eyes to the ground, and shook his head slowly. "I suspect, though, that far too much of Hadley was in the Bogge-King for my liking. Far too much." He was quiet for a long moment, and then he took her hand. "I am glad you are safe," he added, his voice hoarse.

Flit flew from his shoulders as Elyse leapt forward and wrapped her arms around him. Mine, a small voice inside her said, listening to the wizard's heartbeat as her head laid against his chest. Drawing back from him, she looked Martimeos up and down. The wizard was covered in nasty scrapes and bruises wherever his skin was exposed, and his lower half seemed drenched in dried blood. "I do not think either of us are safe just yet," she replied. "How bad are your wounds?"

"I don't rightly know." Martimeos turned around so that she might examine his back. She lifted his cloak, and hissed.

Something had torn through his leather tunic and scored deep gashes into the wizard's back, ugly red wounds that even now still oozed blood. "All things considered," she said, frowning as she touched her hands to the cuts, trying to work what healing that she could, "I suppose it could be much worse." She took the wizard's face in her hands as he turned back to her; his flesh felt clammy and cold, and despite the fact that he warmed his cloak with the Art, his lips were turning blue. "But we cannot stay here. We must get you to shelter. You have lost too much blood to be staying out in this blizzard."

"Aye." Martim's eyes drifted to the corpse of Mors, which was quickly being buried beneath a soft blanket of white. "I wish there was something we might do for him," he said quietly. "In giving his life, he saved me. Though I am certain he would have said it was not for my sake." The wizard gave a sad laugh. "He did it to take back his title as King of the Mountains. As he is, the ogres will likely find and eat him."

Elyse felt a long, mournful sadness as she looked upon the corpse of Mors Rothach. For all his wickedness; his corpse-eating, his spite for humans, she knew he had had a gentleness to him beneath his feral wildness. But it was not merely that, which saddened her. In the end, Mors had been a magnificent beast; a bear of terrible and legendary size and ferocity. Beautiful, in his way. An incarnation of the wilds, in all their awful glory. These mountains would probably never see his like again. "I do not think he would mind that, truth be told," she murmured. "What good is a kill, if it is not eaten, after all?"

Martimeos gathered up his things, which he had lain by a pine tree. Elyse carried his pack so that it might not open the wounds on his back, grunting with irritation at how heavy it was as she hoisted it about her shoulders. Had he still the same rations he had when he set out, it might be nearly as heavy as me, she thought, or at least it feels like it. Martimeos himself carried the blade and hammer of the Bogge-King, and together they marched up the hill, back to the cave from which they had come, with Cecil and Flit trailing behind them.

"Did you see whether Aela and Kells made it out safely?" Martimeos asked her as they walked. "I...hope they live."

"I saw them headed towards the doorway we found that led back to nearby Dun Cairn," Elyse answered. "But...after that, I don't know." She hoped they lived as well. Kells, the sorry fool, probably wouldn't even care if he were killed with all his Born to Die nonsense. She immediately felt guilty for thinking so. Kells' lackadaisical attitude toward death chilled her sometimes, true, but she liked the soldier. And Aela, as well, no matter how much the woman infuriated her by pointing out how small she was. She would tolerate the woman calling her adorable a thousand times, so long as she lived.

They made their way into the cave, out of the storm, stepping delicately over the shattered shards of rock thick with black blood strewn about its entrance. Martim's teeth chattered as she led him down the stairs, away from the frigid winds outside. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, though, they found a surprise waiting for them.

The door to the Land of Dim was gone. Vanished, as if had simply never been. Nothing but a smooth stone wall.

Elyse cursed inwardly. She had hoped that she might still have a way back, here; the Land of Dim, after all, contained a passage that led back out near Dun Cairn. Oh well, she thought, one thing at a time. "Take off your clothes," she remarked off-handedly to Martimeos, as she stared, distracted, at the wall. She blinked in surprise when she realized the wizard had not commented on her command, or tried to argue, but merely numbly obeyed. She felt a small spike of panic twist her heart. He must be worse off than I thought.

As Martimeos struggled feebly with his ice-rimed and bloodsoaked clothing, Elyse pulled out hides and fur blankets from the wizard's pack, and laid them upon the ground. As the wizard stood naked and shivering, she poured water from a waterskin onto his back, washing away the encrusted, dried blood from his wounds. Reaching out with the Art and closing her eyes, she examined them once more. She could sense Martim, a blur of red behind her eyes, and these fresh cuts, like black holes torn into him. And his old scar, much deeper and terrible than those. That had been torn open, as well, though not so much that it might kill him. Just enough to make him bleed.

"I think you will have some new scars upon your back from this," she remarked to Martimeos, as she used her knife to cut long strips of hide to serve as bandages. She had done what she could with the Art to quicken the healing, but nothing would change that. "Though not as bad as the old one." There was a part of her that wanted to rage at him, part of her that was so angry. How dare he go off on his own, how dare he make her so afraid for him? But she bit her tongue, and held her fury in check. "You were certainly lucky."

"F-f-f-f-fortune's f-f-favored," Martimeos replied, shivering violently. "T-truly."

And you had to stay out in the cold and sing to the corpses after, didn't you, fool, she thought in annoyance. She shook her head. Martimeos did not deserve her ire right now. And truth told, she was too relieved that they both had lived to stay angry for long. "Lay down," she instructed him, pointing to the furs she had laid out. "We must get you warm."

The wizard did as she asked, walking forward on trembling legs before collapsing with a groan onto the thick hides. She undressed herself, slipping out of her travelstained robes and tugging off her boots, tossing her hat to the side and leaving her clothes in a crumpled pile on the floor. And then she laid down next to him, pressing her bare skin to his to warm him, drawing the hides about them until they lay in a snug coccoon. Cecil padded in a circle before laying by her side, purring, and Flit settled down into Martim's hair.

The wizard still shivered, and his skin was far too cool. But between her own warmth, and the Art whispered into the blankets, their little nest swiftly grew very warm. And as the hours passed, that warmth seeped into Martimeos. His shaking ceased, and life was breathed back into his cheeks; they lost their pallor, and grew rosy.

Elyse toyed with his hair idly, as they lay there, listening to the storm rage outside, her face buried in his shoulder. She wanted to speak with him, about his brother; to tell the wizard that Amalciano still lived, and to ask - so many questions, she had. But she did not think Martimeos could take that conversation right now. The wizard looked so very, very tired. Like some fire inside him had gone out. How could I have thought Amalciano looked so much like him, she thought. True, their faces were similar enough, but there was something in Martim's that had been utterly lacking in his brothers. A softness, of sorts. And Martim is much more handsome, really.

"We must find some way to return those," Martimeos mumbled after some time, nodding towards the scabbarded blade and hammer of the Bogge-King, which lay on the stone floor by their feet.

"Later," Elyse replied. "We can rest, for now. 'Tis but a little thing. Our task is done." Truth be told, she simply did not want to move. Not only did the wizard need rest, but her own body was begging her to remain put. Shifting, she squeezed Martim, curling her hands in his hair. "Think, Martimeos. When we return, Grizel will owe us a tutoring in the Art. There is much we might learn from that old crone."

"Hmm." He seemed unresponsive to her attempt to lift his spirits, dragging a hand across his face, wincing at the pain in his back as he did so. "I wonder how long we might linger here. It will only be a matter of time before the ogres notice."

"We should have some time in this storm," Elyse said, somewhat testily. "Sleep, wizard. Regain your strength while you can."

Martimeos frowned, but he did not protest. He settled into the furs, and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, and soon enough he was in a deep slumber.

Elyse drifted in and out of sleep, herself. Martim's words kept her awake. They truly were in a rough situation. Days away from Dun Cairn, in the midst of the ogre's territory, and no longer with the protection of Mors. And with Martimeos himself in need of more healing than she could properly give him. It would be a poor thing, she thought, to die now, when they had tasted triumph.

She might have slept more, but when she closed her eyes, the memory of what had happened came to her through the fog of her mind. Torc's horrific screams, as he was ripped apart. The Bogge-King, tearing the Sunhammer to pieces with just a lash of its claws. He had been barely more than a boy. I know you wanted to save Hadley, wizard, but I cannot help be glad that he is dead.

And Martim's brother. Amalciano. She could not think that the man might have been anyone else. How easily he had torn into her mind; how glibly and readily he had inflicted such pain on her. She shuddered at the memory of it; at how quickly his easy smiles had turned to cold anger and torment. It reminder her, she realized, of her mother. The years she had spent with her mother's cruelty always just beneath the surface, only a misspoken word away. How would she tell Martimeos of this? What could she say to him? Did the wizard still hold hope in his heart, for his brother?

She watched Martim's sleeping face. Quietly, she reached out and laid a hand against the wizard's cheek. I care too much for him, she thought. It felt too good to merely lie next to him. When first she had met Martimeos, she had thought it great fun to tease the wizard, and she had enjoyed looking at his body. It had been exciting to see a man up close, to touch one. But as they had traveled together, something had wormed its way into her heart. Something more than just an appreciation for his broad shoulders. Something that bought a smile to her face, just to see a smile on his. I cannot fall for him. For his own sake, I cannot. But no matter how much she thought this, she could not stop a hungry, dark voice inside her from whispering. He belongs to you. You have wound a thread about him, and now he is yours.

"Little witchling," came a rattling, melodic whisper, from somewhere within the dark of the cave. "Do you want his heart, or his soul?" A nasty, rattling chuckle followed. "I wonder if you yourself even know."

Elyse sat up in alarm, and with a whisper, summoned a glamour-flame to hover abover her outstretched hand. The edges of the flickering light reflected off two pairs of eyes, at the edge of the darkness.

With a quiet rustling, their owners shuffled forth. The snake-headed Lock, and the fox-headed Key, the long edges of their filthy robes dragging against the stone floor. The Dolmecs leered at her, their blackstone eyes glittering hungrily.

Elyse got to her feet, careless of her nudity. Beside her, Martimeos stirred in his sleep, but did not awaken. "What are you doing here?" she asked warily. She suddenly wished she had her clothes on her; not out of embarrassment, but so that she might have the reaping-hook at hand. Not that she thought it might do her any good.

Lock weaved forward, his black fangs bared as he hissed. "I sssenssed the death of my creation. We hassstened here to retrieve what was promissssed." From beneath his robes, a long, pale limb of rotted flesh extended, its black-nailed palm opening in expectation. "Give it to ussssss."

Elyse looked at the two daemons, then down at the ground. The creatures stood mere feet from where the blade and hammer of the Bogge-King lay, but they made no move towards their prize. They stared at her, silently, as if expecting her to give up the treasures of her own free will. As if needing her to do so.

Summoning all her courage, her heart hammering in her chest, she stepped forth, towards them; away from Martimeos, away from the furs, until she stood directly over the daemon's treasures. "No," she said.

There was a moment's pause.

"No?" Key sounded amused. The black lips of his fox-head peeled back, and his tongue lolled out. His robes squirmed, as if something beneath ached to burst forth. "Do you break your pact with us, witch?"

Elyse took a deep breath. She could feel the hunger for murder baking off these daemons, feel it through their expressionless black eyes, feel it like boiling water poured into her thoughts. "Not I," she told them. "You do. You said that you would unmake the Bogge-King for us, if we returned the blade and hammer to you. Well, he is dead. You cannot uphold your side of the deal. What would you offer us now?"

Lock and Key both grinned knowingly at each other.

"Your little wizard hasss our taint in hisss blood," Lock reminded her, his tongue flickering past his fangs. "What if I offer to sssit here and watch him die. Watch you ssstarve or be torn apart by the ogresss. And then I sssimply take what isss mine when you are dead."

Elyse felt the fear coursing through her fangs as she stared into the snake-face of the Dolmec, its mottled gray-green scales, its flat, unblinking eyes. This one, she thought This one said it knew my mother. And if it knew my mother... She glanced back, at Martimeos. The wizard remained in a deep, exhausted slumber."The two of you," she said quietly, as she turned back to the daemons, "Know who my father is. Don't you."

"Do you think we fear him?" Key's singsong voice was mocking, cruel. The fox-headed Dolmec shuffled at the edge of shadow, his black fangs hungry. "His touch on this world is light."

"But it won't always be," she replied. "Will it."

Lock and Key looked at each other. And then the two daemons began to bob and weave in the darkness, snake and fox twisting around each other, quietly, the dry whisper of their robes against the stone the only sound. She wondered what they were doing, as she watched their shadows dance in the light of her glamour-flame. It almost seemed as if they were dancing.

And then, all at once, they stopped. "That is a path that might be walked," said Key.

"And we know what you dessssire," hissed Lock. "Or at least, one thing you want. For you are a creature of many dessireess, aren't you?"

Elyse stepped back in alarm as Key swept closer; close enough so that she could hear something rattling beneath the creature's filthy robes. "For us to remove the taint from the wizard, and deliver you safely back to the home of the Crosscraw. It can be done. We would not wish to upset your father. Would we?"

"Jussst a sssmall thing, do we asssk, for thissss...change in our agreement." Lock's scales rustled to her left; his snake's tongue nearly grazed her face as it flickered out. "We will call on you again. Ssssometime in the future. And you will sssserve usss."

Elyse blanched. She wanted her dealings with these creatures to be over and done with. It made her skin crawl to think of seeing them again, after this; let alone that she might serve them. "I'll - I'll not be a slave to you," she muttered, as the Dolmec circled around her. "Just return us."

"Slave? No. You will be...rewarded, for your service. You and the wizard have proven yourselves fine hounds." Key did not sound very concerned about what her decision might be at all. "We will not require much. All we ever ask is for what is ours to be returned. We are simple creatures, witch. That is all we care for."

"Or you might ssstay here and die," Lock continued. "And that issss what will happen. To the ogresss. Or to the cold. Sssso many pathsss. We will have the blade and the hammer, either way. Your father can not fault usss if ssssuch generousss terms are rejected."

Elyse bit her lip, and looked back at Martimeos. The wizard still slumbered, wrapped in the furs. Cecil, too, and Flit, remained asleep. The words of the Dolmecs had been low and whispering. Almost as if they hadn't wanted to wake him. As if they had wanted to speak to me alone.

Might the creatures be lying? She didn't know. The ogres had seemed duly frightened of the Art, when they had met them; but then, they also had Mors with them at that time. Martim's wounds did not seem fatal - unless they might become infected. Or if they became caught in more blizzards in his weakened state. Might they be able to make it back to Dun Cairn on their own, if she refused the deal of these daemons, and simply let them have the blade and hammer in return for removing the taint from Martim? Through the lands of the ogres, and whatever might be found in the Killing Grounds, all without protection?

"You will remove - all of the taint, from Martim," she said finally. "And return us - and all our belongings - safely, unmolested, unharmed, untouched, unchanged in any way, with all possible speed, to Dun Cairn - specifically, you will return us to the chambers of the witch Grizel. And in return, you will have your blade and hammer, and you may call upon me once more - but only in the retrieval of Dolmec iron. Nothing more."

"Done," said Key.

And then Elyse's glamour-flame winked out.

All light winked out, even that from the opening above, and she was plunged into utter darkness. Elyse stumbled backwards, as fog flooded into her mind, drowning her thoughts, collapsing onto the furs next to Martimeos. The last things she felt before consciousness fled her was a hot, arid breeze blowing in the darkness, and the strange sensation of sinking into the stone.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Martimeos found himself lying on his back, in the blistering heat of a bone-dry desert.

He cursed, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light of the sun, and then with a groan sat up, loosening his scarf from about his chest as he did so. All that surrounded him, for as far as he could see, was white, cracked earth and dusty sands, stretching out to the horizon to meet a pale blue sky.

He struggled to his feet, his joints cracking as he did so. There truly was nothing here. Not a hint of vegetation; nor water, nor sign of life. The heat danced and shimmered, making the sands appear as glass. "Where in the hells am I?" he muttered.

And then, a chittering, skittering sound came from behind him.

He spun. And there, weaving across the sands, like a trickle of foul water, was a strange, centipede-like creature; long, like a snake, nearly as long as he was tall. He took a step back as it approached him, but it stopped short. And then it rose, like the stalk of a sunflower, and the knot of crumpled leather at its head bloomed into six bat-wings, in the center of which pulsed a sickly orange light.

That light filled Martim's mind as the creature weaved back and forth in front of him, its many legs curling and twitching. The sun went out, as if someone had doused it like a torch, thrusting the desert that surrounded him into complete darkness. He was alone with this thing, in the small circle of light cast by its face. A great pounding filled his skull; like a giant pounding on an iron door. And then a voice echoed through his head.

Martimeos.

It must be you.

There is still work to be done. Hadley's duty remains unfinished.

You must take up the mantle of the Bogge-King.

Martimeos blinked, and put his hands to his head. Visions of burning fields danced behind his eyes; burning fields and grim farmfolk with bloody shovels, and piles and piles of dead rabbits. "I have no desire to finish Hadley's false duty," he snapped, his shaggy hair whipping about his head as he shook it. "No."

That's right, the voice cooed, as the centipede creature swayed and curled around him. You - you are not Hadley.

You are different.

Duty for Hadley. Grim work, for Hadley.

But you, Martimeos.

You want justice. Don't you?

To see those who wronged your folk get their just punishment.

Did you think that Torc was the only one?

The only butcher there, that day, who lived?

There are others, Martim.

Others who slaughtered your folk, and went on to live happy lives.

No justice. No punishment.

They got away with it.

I can help you. Help you bring them to justice.

Won't it feel good to see them suffer?

It's not wrong, to feel that way.

I can help you.

Just let me in.

The pounding in Martim's head grew louder, until it seemed the whole world shook with it. And now his head filled with visions of Crosscraw; men with long red hair and flowing red beards, with wicked smiles and bloody axes, with torches and mouths full of sharp, needle-like teeth. As he watched, their own torches flared, the flames turning on them, and they screamed as they were consumed; skin sizzling, blackened bone and ruined flesh in burning away in white-hot pyres. "They...do deserve to suffer," he said quietly. "And shoud I encounter them, they will. But...I've no desire to live my life hunting them down. I have the Art. I'll not be a slave to vengeance."

That orange light in the centepede's face burned more fiercely.

They'll get away with it

If you don't do anything, some of them will live their entire lives facing no consequences for what they did

THEY'LL ESCAPE JUSTICE, MARTIMEOS.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I suspect that's right."

Orange light flickered and guttered like a candle in a strong wind. Bat-wings seemed to shrivel and shrink, curling in on themselves. The pounding in his head came faster, now; faster, but weaker, more desperate. The visions in his mind became blurry, indistinct; merely blobs of orange and black.

don't you remember what happened to Pike's Green, the voice wheedled at him.

the slaughter

the terror

if you do nothing, it will happen again

don't you love your folk

don't you want to prevent that

it will happen again it will happen again IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN

LET ME IN OR IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN

Martimeos reached into his pocket, fishing out his pipe and his tobacco pouch. He tamped the bowl full and lit it with the Art, taking a long, slow puff as he clenched the stem pf the pipe between his teeth. "No," he said, blowing out a long plume of smoke, "No, I don't think it will."

And he didn't. As terrible as what had happened at Pike's Green had been, as much as it had left his home scarred, as much as it pained and angered him, he did not think it would happen again. The White Queen was dead.

And the terrible truth was, Hadley had done his job.

As much as it sickened Martimeos, the deed was done. Most of the Crosscraw were gone. Simply gone. They would not be able to march across the lands unchallenged to lay waste to Pike's Green, likely ever again. Even if they had the inclination to do so. No, if Pike's Green were to face tragedy once more, it would come from some new foe. Not these broken, ravaged people.

He could live in spite and hate, and it would be a lie to say that there was not some part of him that wanted to do so. Some part of him that found the idea of revenge, of snuffing out the last of the Crosscraw one by one, appealing. Some dark voice within that would gladly see them all in their graves. A voice that would likely be with him forever.

But it was a very small voice, in the end. A tiny whisper in his mind, and easily ignored. I am more than that, he thought. ...Perhaps, I was more than Hadley.

The orange light flickered wildly, now, and the bat-wings of the creature's head dried like dying leaves, crinkling in upon themselves. The pounding dwindled away to a weak, rabid scrabbing and scratching.

yesitwillyesitwillyesitwill

your folk will die

they'll die screaming

they'll die cursing your name

because you did nothing

the world is a wicked place

Martimeos

the world is a wicked place

and you must do wicked things

to see you and yours survive

it is the only way

Martimeos could not help but laugh. A sad, rueful chuckle escaped his lips. This was it? This was what Hadley had succumbed to, in the end? This was what the Dolmecs had cursed him with? This wretched little thing?

"Perhaps that's true, sometimes," he mused, idly examining the bowl of his pipe. "But no. I don't think it's the case here. I think all this was really about what you needed. Wasn't it?" He looked up, eyes flashing, staring straight into the centipede's light. "Well, it's over. The Queen's War is over, and I'll not live in its shadow. You'll get nothing from me. Begone."

let me in

let

me

in

LET ME IN

LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN

FEEDMEFEEDMEFeedMefeedmefeedmefeedmefeedmefeedmefeedme...

The dark skies faded away, and the sunlight returned. The orange light in the centipede's face sputtered, blinked, and then went out. It shook, black chitin cracking, its legs falling off, as it curled in on itself and fell to the ground, shivered, and was still, its remains nothing but a dry spiral lying in the dirt.

Martimeos prodded it with his boot, and it fell apart into black dust that quickly blew away on the wind.

"Oh, Hadley," he said, looking down at the black smear that was all that was left of the daemon. He laughed to himself, though he did not know why. His heart burned, and his head felt as if there were a hot knife stuck in it, and his vision blurred with tears. But there was a part of him that found it all so funny. That all this had been the product of such a pathetic little nothing. "Oh, Hadley. All you ever had to do was not feed it."

Still chuckling to himself desperately, he walked away, his boots sending up small clouds of dust as he did so.

It was not long before he came across a trail carved in the sands; one beaten into the dirt by the passing of many boots. Not knowing what else to do, he followed it; deciding on a whim which direction to take it. 'Tis all a dream, or something like it, he thought to himself. Either way, what does it matter?

Martimeos wandered the desert, following the dusty, foot-beaten path, for he knew not how long.

As he did so, it grew darker around him. Dark clouds formed on the horizon; a storm like he had never seen. Not gray and heavy with rain like normal stormclouds; these were tinged brown, and seemed alive with bright flashes of color as red lightning erupted within them. They swirled in the sky unnaturally, moving far too quickly for normal clouds, spiralling about each other, as if driven by an incredible wind that he just could not feel.

Until finally, he came to a crossroads.

A man sat there, on a long, flat sandstone rock. Gaunt, his hollow cheeks lined with grizzled, gray stubble; he wore a dark, wide-brimmed hat, and a long, black duster. The man glanced up at Martimeos as he approached. His face was worn, stained by grit, dark and lined; tired gray eyes deep-set into dark circles in his face. "Hey there, son," he drawled in a strange accent. "D'you happen to have some tobacco on you?"

Martimeos regarded the man cautiously, for a moment. The man stared back at him, with a steady, unblinking gaze. "I do," the wizard said.

"Well," the man replied, "Can I trouble you to share it?"

Martimeos looked around him. Still nothing but empty desert and dusty paths stretched in all directions. With a sigh, he took a seat next to the man and fished out his tobacco pouch from his pocket. "I seem to be lost," he said, as it handed it to the man. "Could you tell me where I am?"

The man took a pinch of brown, dried pipeleaf with long, gnarled fingers. "Lost?" he chuckled. He reached into his own pockets, and drew out a scrap of yellowed, thin parchment. Maritmeos watched curiously as the man sprinkled the tobacco into it, and then deftly rolled the paper into a thin tube. He had never seen tobacco smoked in such a manner before. "Naw," the man continued, "You ain't lost. I'd say you're exactly where you need to be, Martimeos."

Martim glanced up sharply. The man bought his paper-rolled tobacco to his mouth, and with a snap of his fingers, the end of it flared to life, glowing a deep orange. "How do you know my name?"

"It'd be pretty strange if I didn't," the man replied, as smoke curled beneath the brim of his hat. "It's the sort of thing I'm supposed to know."

There was a long moment of silence, as the wind blew across the dusty desert, and the strange clouds swirled overhead. "Who are you," Martimeos asked quietly.

The man took a deep drag, smoke curled from his nose and between his teeth as he gave Martimeos an unsettling grin. "Well," he replied, "I've got a lot of names. But I think, wizard, in your neck of the woods, most folk call me Old Scratch."

The wind blew waves of dust across the desert in a long, dry whisper.

Martimeos felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. His hands trembled. He desperately wanted to move away, to run, but found his legs too weak with fear to even stand. The man gave a wicked, hacking laugh, and the skin on his face seemed to stretch and strain, as if struggling to contain something impossible beneath it.

"A-am I dead, then?" Martimeos asked, his voice shaking. The world seemed to blur as the man loomed before him; as if whatever this desert was, it was actually much smaller than he. "Have you come to take me to the Hells?"

"Dead?" Old Scratch said, smoke billowing from his mouth. The space between his teeth seemed blackened and rotted. "Naw. You ain't dead, Martim. I wouldn't have your soul in the Hells even if you were. You ain't done nothin' to deserve it." He grinned, and his smile seemed to take up far too much of his face; his teeth far too long and large. "At least, not yet."

Being told he still lived was small comfort. He looked down at the ground; he did not want to stare into the eyes of Old Scratch. "Then - then why am I here?" he asked hoarsely.

But Old Scratch ignored his question. The man flicked the last of his tobacco away and stood, tall and thin, his duster flapping about him as he looked down one of the dusty trails that led to the crossroads. "Ah," he said, "Here they come."

And down the trail walked two figures, dust blowing behind them as their boots tramped through the desert. Martimeos gasped as they drew close.

It was Torc and Hadley.

They walked uneasily, side by side, not looking at one another. Torc looked much the same as Martimeos had last seen him, before he had been torn to pieces by the Bogge-King. Even now, even in death, his stringy hair was still burnt and patchy, and he still bore the last fading bruises from the beating Martimeos had given him, what seemed so long ago now. All that remained of his arms was still the one remaining stump, still wrapped in bloodstained bandages 'round its end.

And Hadley - Hadley bore the scars of the war across his face; his blonde hair was cut short, and his sky-blue eyes lacked the warmth Martimeos remembered in them as a child. But he wore a smith's apron around his broad chest, not the armor and weaponry of a soldier, and his hands were clad in thick leather gloves meant to protect them from the heat of a forge. Hadley had died a blacksmith.

"You boys liking the walk?" Old Scratch asked, as the two approached. "You've still a long way to go. A long, long way to go." He nodded at Torc, then jerked his head, motioning on down the road. "You can continue on, Crosscraw. The smith and the wizard have business here, and it ain't none of yours."

Torc turned his head to look at Martimeos, one last time. He didn't say a word. There was nothing in his bright green eyes but fear. But as he walked away, boots crunching in the dirt, he gave a nod, and a small smile of satisfaction.

"I don't normally let hellbound souls speak to the living," Old Scratch said, as Martimeos rose and approached Hadley on trembling legs. "But Hadley here cut me a deal. So he gets to send one last message, and he chose you." His eyes grew sharp, and in them Martimeos saw the promise of unimaginable pain and horror. "Just one, now. I'll be watching."

One message, Martimeos thought, as he looked up at Hadley. The man's expression was grim, his eyes cold. What does he have to say to me, now? Some curse? Does he hate me now? I killed him.

And then he almost shouted in alarm as Hadley stepped forward and swept him up in a fierce embrace, the smith's strong arms wrapping around him. They remained like that, for a moment, as the dust swirled around them.

"Martim, lad," Hadley murmured in his ear. "My mother, my father. Vivian. Please....please don't tell them what became of me."

Martimeos trembled as he stared into the man's eyes as Hadley pulled back. "I won't," he whispered hoarsely. "I won't."

"Alright, that's enough," Old Scratch snapped. "Come on now. Time to go. The Hells await."

Hadley nodded, briskly, and released Martimeos. Without another word, and with nothing but grim determination, he turned, and began to walk down the dusty road. "Wait," Martim cried, stumbling forward. A thousand memories of Hadley flooded his mind. Hadley, who would always be the one to let him know when Vivian could sneak out. Hadley's smiling face as he worked at the forge. Hadley, who had been the one to first let him hold a sword, when he was very young. A thousand kind smiles, and warm summer days; the sweet smell of grass. Lightning bugs winking in balmy, star-filled nights.

I'm never going to see him again. Aren't I a selfish fool? He's going to the Hells, and all I can think about is that I'll never see him again.

"No waiting," Old Scratch spat in the sand, and where it landed it hissed and smoked. "Keep walking, Hadley." His voice grew to a wicked roar, like countless screams twisted and forged into words. "Keep walking." And then he set off down the road as well, a thin, dark shadow following after Hadley.

Martimeos had so many things he wanted to say. I'm sorry I couldn't save you, he thought. I'm sorry for breaking your sister's heart. Why did you feed it? Damn you, why didn't you just come home? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it came to this.

"Goodbye, Hadley," he cried over the winds, at the man's retreating back. A knot formed in his throat, and he had trouble speaking the words. "May we meet again. Someplace further down the road."

Hadley paused, for just the slightest moment. That was all. He didn't turn. He paused, and then continued down the trail, and was soon swallowed by clouds of billowing dust.

Old Scratch turned to look back at Martimeos, and doffed his wide-brimed hat, revealing a head full of lanky white hair. "Our business is done," he called, his rough voice carrying over the winds. He gave a wicked, thin-lipped smile. "I'll be seein' you around, Martim." With a hacking laugh, he too disappeared into the dust.

The wind was picking up now, whipping the dry sands into a dust storm. Martimeos sat on the sandstone rock by the crossroads once more, beneath the boiling, lightning-scarred stormclouds, and put his head in his hands. He did not move as the world around him darkened into a brown haze; as the sand and dust were driven into his hair and teeth.

It is what it is, he thought, as the darkness closed in around him. What else could I have done? I did what I had to do. Hadley, please forgive me. I would have saved you if I could.