In a clear green glen upon Walpurga's Vale there lived a flock of sheep, and among the sheep there lived a little lamb. So beautiful this lamb was, so precious, that this story is about her. Her father was the Golden Ram who’d fought a dragon, honorable and valiant was he, and the ovine he had chosen to be her sheeply bride was the fairest ewe of all the flocks of Morida.
Now, she had been barren, this ewe, but promised to the Ollatharii that if she but had but a single baby lamb she would protect and nurture it with all of her will and heart, and give the most luxurious wool, and offerings and song and prayer to them for the rest of her days. And, as it is in these days for those who believe it the gods reciprocated, and granted Grace unto her. In fact, this little lamb, was the first of many, many more, for the Goddess blessed this ewe with such fertility that all the lambs in all the pastures in all the land descend from this one, which the farmers call Mother Ewe.
But this first lamb, Leana, was special: her hair was fiery gold and her eyes blue and innocent, but what’s more is that she was taught by her father of the greed of dragons, and from her mother the importance of keeping her word. This story is about her.
One day the old farmer who took care of the sheep fell ill, and so he could not care for her. Thi
It was one of those fine days on the plains of the dale when Albrastricano, the Silver Wolf, the ol’ trickster, came to lurk in the eaves and rushes of the old wood. Now, this was before the days of the Thrice Slain King, before Perun of Mathendon and the silver axe, so without a shred of fear in his heart he sulked the glens until he's found a choice glen in which to hide, then every day went about the business of haunting the shadows of the hills of Pangor and Blade, scouring the downs for the weakest, the sickest, and the smallest upon which to dine. Then, Albrastricano--we all know he can speak to animals--had learned from a wildcat of the deeds of these two great sheep. So one day, lo and behold, when Mother Ewe was giving her prayers in the grotto near the place where the lamb played, the Silver Wolf, drawing a thick fog over the vale with his Magic, snatched up the little lamb.
“I’ve not come to eat you, little one.” He told her, sweetly, when he’d spirited away to the foul cave. And he was sincere, fir eating the little lamb was not his aim. You see, Albrastricano was prideful and vain--old Devil he was, and had clamored for a long time to feast on the flesh of a creature as mighty as one what might slay a dragon. Such a deed would be quite the boast, and make his two brothers much envious of him for sure.
“Fear not.” he said to her. “Explain to your father that I wish to exchange your life for his own and I will spare you.”
The little lamb shuddered. Her legs quivered and strained to stay aright, yet still they did, and head held high she spoke to the great wolf. “You wouldn’t be afraid he would kill you, Mr. Wolf? My father has slain a dragon, and many other great beasts of the world of whom you would be their lesser.”
"Lesser? You are a fool, same as he, and your answer shows it so. Honor is a fool's mark, and quite valiant is he indeed. He will sacrifice himself willingly if he swears that he allows it so, and will come to my lair gladly to keep it. Go now, and you will be rewarded dearly by keeping your life.”
The lamb looked him in the eye, ”No, I have learned from my great father, of the avarice and great greed of dragons. It would be greedy of me to want my life more than another’s.”
“You would wish to be eaten in his stead then, little one?”
The lamb shook her head. "I did not say that. I wish for nothing, but I would honor my father’s teachings just the same to be humble and not expect rewards for what I am; I am no dragon.”
The wolf, cunning as ever, redoubled. “I have heard of the story of your mother," he said, "that she praised the Goddess every day for giving birth to you. This is how I caught you. I do not want you, you are such a small meal, I want your mother then. Go and get her, and I shall spare your life.”
But she refused again. “I will not.”
“But she has made the promise, she has agreed to the pay the price. A mother always protects her child. She is willing! You will do her a great honor by allowing her to die to save you, for she will have fulfilled her purpose. I am simply the hand of the Goddess come to see it fulfilled this day! How else would I know this?”
The little lamb replied, “I doubt no more than you that she would come and trade her life for my own in an instant, but what better given than one’s solemn word in all earnestness, such a pure gift as one’s word should be honored in kind, not besmirched, if everyone lived by their word there would be no wolves like you. No, that choice is in my hands. If you are the Goddess’s messenger then surely nothing should stop you, yet here I am. No: I am the Grace of the Goddess who protects her devotee.”
“Are you not afraid that I will kill you?”
“Of course I am afraid, I am a lamb and you are a wolf. That part is natural.”
“Yet you do not act upon it. That part is not. It will hurt greatly when my teeth sink into you, and I will not do it quickly.” The wolf growled in consternation.
“Perhaps if you yourself were as valiant and brave as my father and as honorable to your word as my mother you would've gotten a meal tonight.”
The Wolf’s pride, great pride was wounded at the attack. “I am every bit as valiant and as brave!”
“Then prove it. Tell me you’ve kept your word, that you will be as faithful and honest as they, that this world shall not lose another good life, that the daughters of Many Faces does not churn another good soul into stardust!”
“I do. And I shall. You play a good game, little one. You leave me no choice, I suppose I will have to eat you, then.” he finally said.
But the lamb smiled, and let out a baying snicker in spite of herself. “But you said you haven’t come here to eat me.”
The wolf flailed in anger, for he knew he had lost. "For all my bluster of the folly of virtue, eating you now is as unfulfilling as a moonless howl!" He said, then knelt before the lamb.
Still today some hear him howl in lament from pangs of hunger, and whether to simply allow others to tell this tale of the surviving little lamb to simply boast of his augustness (old braggart that he is), or, like his children, the Dreamwalkers, believe, that he truly did know then: that pride without honor is so empty and hollow a sensibility that even his stomach might well pity it, none can tell. And for what is said of the Silver Wolf, what more could be, of the lamb that tamed him with temperance and faith, void of wish or fear of fate, who so made such a villain virtuous?
The little lamb returned home into her father and mother’s loving arms that evening, and was content, as she was and would ever be, for the rest of her days.
* * * * *
Many gathered in the town square to watch the bard tell hos story and observe the Grigors as they pranced their horses down the promenade in show of their vigilance. It was just Adimus and Bearach; Luloch was too old and Eichgun, Adimus had heard, had taken a fall.
The recent events had left want for any manner of lightheartedness or frivolity, and so the holiday was all the warmer. Everyone had shown for the occasion--as they normally did (there was not much to do elsewhere anyway). The holiday itself was little like all the others, this one came with the added pomp of dressing up in scary costumes (guising), the hope being that the Fae might mistake you for one of them on their journey back to The Otherworld, that one might avoid a chance encounter with the Beyond. It was also, understandably, filled with an air of fearfulness, a dreary, dreadful holiday with dark roots, it itself disguised.
The holiday, Ellylon, had scarcely been a day to be taken lightly by others. It was the last night of the Saohin Moon, a most frightful night, a night when it is said the Curtain between this world and the Otherworld was lifted, and the Fae, on their way to Mag Mell, terrorized and accosted mortals.
In times past this patrol would’ve been of the utmost importance, Cayden would always explain, if only to set the tone of unease that elevated the exhilarating festivities; Nowadays this march was little more than a vehicle around which to frame it.
“Watch where you’re going for Thrice’s sake!” Tirlag exclaimed when Adimus’s horse nearly ran her over. Adimus had not been given one officially, as the reeve had not commissioned a new one to the Watchers in some years, Lord Pembroke of Adaire had delivered one personally for the occasion on loan. Adimus was a clod on one no matter its temperament or training.
Though it was her fault. She was, after all, standing in the middle of the street during a parade. He apologized just the same, the Cait Shii’s emasculating words from the other night echoing in his head the whole time. Just as the first day they met, Adimus observed that she had a penchant for bumbling--moreover, it seemed to be a certain stare that the girl often had, as if she were either far too involved in what was going on to have the mindfulness to note the fact that she even had a body, or quite the opposite a genuine lack of caring so great that it paralyzed her. He could never tell which it was, but wagered she was doing what had really caused him to not see her in the first place: gawking.
On this day town elders would tell frightening stories and act out mummer’s plays, unsavory tales meant to spook the young ones, always played to the hilt to suspend disbelief. He’d hoped to see the Bard do one himself, but the Whispermonger, for reasons that escaped him, had decided to tell this strange tale, of the lamb and the wolf, to the children.
Adimus could only reason it had to do with the presence of the Pardoner, but this tale, mentioning the Goddess and the Ollatharii, would do little to avert the priest’s ire had he heard it. Adimus therefore found himself nervously peering over shoulders while up on his horse, looking for a miter or cudgel, feeling as if he himself might get in trouble just for listening.
The statue around which they rode had always been there, even the road itself was built after it, or ‘terminus post quim’ Cayden MacConelly would’ve said (he was always eager to flaunt his upbringing in Hewnyleigh). It had always baffled Adimus, this cloven-hooved giant. It had been tradition that it was an image of Conand the Formerian, Successor of Balros, he whom if the ancestors had paid homage the mountain never would've fallen. Lichen clung to his stone face. Atop his head was a pair of ram horns, one of which had been broken. Crumpled with pain he clasped a spear, propping himself on it like a crutch. The spear was made of what appeared to be white marble, with a metal head that withstood all elements, and to this day was gleamed as if polished and was sharp to the touch--more than a few children had thrown apples at it to confirm this, Adimus included. Several broken shafts protruded from his chest made of actual wood, buried deep in the statue somehow. The Precession always rounded it a number of five times before coming to a stop and dispersing on this night, marking the beginning of the festivities, and that is precisely what they did.
Adimus was off his horse the moment he was able to be, if only to avoid further collisions. Grown-ups led children with carving turnips and pumpkins with malicious faces to be lit by candlelight. The sentiment after which the holiday is named, these Ellyllons, or Faerii lights, were always (allegedly) seen in places where the One World and the Other met. Accompanied by kindred stories like Jack o’ the Lantern and The Will o’ the Wisps, tales of such lights were in no short measure. Laina was one amongst such grown ups, laughing right along in merriment.
Thankfully, Laina had averted the rueful gazes of the townsfolk when she had first come here by choosing to partake in traditions like these willingly. Quite willingly, in fact. She was always interested in learning about other people’s beliefs, and when she could follow headlong with them. She even practiced Slaking, awakening in plain view and practicing it, and gathering at the parish temple to learn from the Pardoner in plain sight of the others. No one is sure what would have happened had she not done this, but Adimus for one was glad that she was so pliant in her faith. Thus she affirmed the tenants of their beliefs, taking on the identity of a devout follower of Illea, without renouncing or forsaking her own. This, at first, forced Adimus to deduce that she was of poor faith when it came to her own religion, but she still continued all of her own ritual in tandem with theirs, and followed the strictures and tenants of her own faith even-handedly and with the same transparency to all, that with the exuberance with which she illumined anyone who wished to hear of her culture would tell anyone who saw it toldly that it just wasn’t so; none, not even Pardoner Tolten could argue with her who seemed to see such things as one would a dance and she merely a lover of music.
She was dressed as a Dearg Dhul, with a pale face and darkened eyes and sharp teeth; she'd always called them Vampyres, though he'd never heard the name before that. Suddenly Adimus felt a little self-conscious; he wasn’t dressed as anything. She went to go and talk to her but was interrupted, as it were.
“Soul Cakes! Soul Cakes! Give us tasty Soul Cakes! Teehee!” He could tell who it was if only because it was the strangest costume. She brandished her hands full of food at him. She carried on "We walk the mists in hoary bands to return from whence we came, taking along with us the Damned and hunting Hyu'man game! If you cross us we'll cast a Spell or kill you just the same! Now give us tasty soul cakes or your soul we will claim! Mwahaha!" She’d apparently not outgrown this part of it.
“Where did you get those?” In times past this question would’ve been tinged with jealousy, but he was surprised at how stern and mature-sounding it came out.
Undeterred she continued her taunt “Why? Want one?”
“No—Dyrshul.” He snapped, in his best authoritative-sounding voice. “You need to stay with everyone else until we all go guising.” Dyrshul lifted the tip of the giant paper mache nose that she wore over her entire head to reveal her face through the nostril to take a huge bite of cake. The nose had little beady eyes at the top of it. He didn’t ask. It wasn’t that if duty hadn’t tied his ankles in earlier days he wouldn’t have bounded off with her. But now, especially now, he had to be big brother.
Children dressed as Goblyns--or what they would imagine were Goblyns, with green or brown or orange paint on their faces, or Merrows, with covered rakes on their heads that resembled fish frills. One wore exotic painted stripes and a tail made of a stuffed legging hose and weird tell you he was a Maritian Cur. Still several more wore pointed ears made of bands of dried grass--they were Tuatha. One with them, all green and crowned with stick antlers carrying his father’s bow was the Summer King. A little girl wearing a veil and dressed all in white: she was a Beanshii’, specifically Myrra, the washer woman, a forlorn apparition said to haunt the cursed swamps to the far east. There was an old nursery rhyme about her that even he had memorized: ‘Old and pale, withered and frail, she sits before the ford. Mortals feign to look upon, her washing with her board. Keening in mourning ‘neath her veil she clean the dead’s attire. One day she’ll wail for you as well, Myrra o’ the Misty Mire.’
Two of them paraded nearby with simple hempen mill bags over their head with holes for eyes, wearing filthy clothes, one carrying a big stick and the other a shovel. Still others had sticks and flowers in their hair; they were Urisks like Delaney, several of them were the Blossom Bride, villain and enchantress of many a tale. A few attempted to depict the statue around which they pranced, with woven horns like it had, and many more Adimus couldn’t identify at all.
There were activities and games for the children: bobbing for apples, catch the cat, black hat toss, carving pumpkins and the like to be seen. And there were adult games as well. There was a growing contest for biggest pumpkin, a wood axe hurling competition (Brian always won that) and an archery tournament (Eichgun normally would have easily won that, but with him out of commission it was a real nail biter). Adimus was horrible at all three, and it left him wondering if he should find Dyrshul under the guise of chaperoning her just to find somewhere to belong. He was particularly bad at archery, and there were more than enough holes in side of the Green Beat to prove it--he had neither the strength in his fingers to pull the string and hold it long enough to aim, nor the instinct or coordination to simply pluck it and let the arrow fly like Eichgun did-Eek always told him that as he grew he’d have the frame for it, and to pick the method most natural to him accordingly.
By the time he’d gotten the chance to speak with Laina again she would be gone, having packed up the Beat’s kitchen utensils and going to put them up for the night. They turned to slowly watch the parade wind down. Adimus stared blankly, off into the distance. The evening was a dull haze, accented by moments of raging impatience. When night finally had come and all the lanterns were made, the ‘guising’ would begin, where the children would receive small cakes and pies door to door as the procession led them through the Beat, led by the Reeve on a white horse tied with a pair of deer antlers. Adimus helped Bearach hand out the stack of bags, most nothing more than pillow cases, with which they would store the night’s haul.
“Just because we’re on horses doesn’t mean you have to be on one. Go and enjoy yourself.” Bearach protested to Argent, his muffled voice bellowing from inside his prop armor. He fumbled to get back on his horse, half blind from peeking through eye-holes. He was a Dullahan, complete with a carved pumpkin under his arm as in lieu of a head. Argent replied something along the lines that it was his duty to be ready should he be needed.
The horses which the Watchers rode, were arguably better suited to ploughing fields, and Argent’s youthful stallion ran circles around. The bard wore a bright red cloak with gold embroidery billowed majestically as his nimble horse pranced. It was white on the inside, matching his striking poofy poet’s shirt. He also carried a small silvery shield with him, bearing a quartered blazon of the same colors as the outside of his cloak, with a silver wolf’s head in the center, which he displayed proudly on his arm. Argent hadn’t been invited to march with them but people were glad to see a Bard of Bowen parading with them nonetheless, and Bearach gave him no mind.
Pulling up the rear was Count Thadeus Pembroke himself. He was the Ankou, as he always was, with a wide-brimmed buckled hat covering his unscary bald head and a high collared coat that covered his only slightly scary sideburns, with his horses and buggy painted all black and tied with rattling chains. Volunteers pounded against the inside of the carriage and screamed and moaned like those he captured to carry off to the land of the dead (if they were, in fact, really uncaring and about the whole prospect and a little too tired to boot). Every once in a while (to accent the true horror of it) he would do his best scary laugh “Ohohohoho!” and brandish a scythe at the crowd.
Brian clad himself in hooded robes that made him look like a giant with a hunch, and used a bull’s eye lantern to make himself King of the Baleful Eye, Balros himself. The burning gaze projected from the guise would illuminate the evening as they went on as he led the kids to the different houses, would, that is, until a man came to impede them.
“What is this?! Blasphemy!" Tolten decried. "You've now grown so bold in your Hubris to dare to dress as The King in Gold and Black? Calling up the Named One!” He cursed. Crom Cruach. Ol’ Evil Eye. “You feign in jest, but he watches. Better pray and give penance for all our sakes!”
“Oh come now, Pardoner.” Brian said, fearless enough to object, but not too fearless enough as to not use the man’s title. “I will simply pray ‘Parthos, protect me from my own irreverence, for portraying your worst enemy in a childish light.’ ”
To see Brian of all people jeering at the Pardoner would be telling to anyone who knew him, for Brian was typically a meek man for his stature.
“May your ignorance stay hidden in the mists of this life! Damned in two faiths! You blaspheme the Ollathar’s name as well! Bah! Worshippers of the Gentle Folk, they all have you tricked!” he looked at them all judgmentally. “Heed, the King of Devils, Crom Cruach, is the Ollathar’s will given Form! ‘The God of Many Shapes gave his final life’s blood he gave to keep man aright. Keep us safe forevermore, for vile is the heart of the Cessair!’ ”
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“...Tolten, this is not the time for proselytization and castigation!" Luloch Buckroy rebuked him, emerging from the crowd, standing brazen, the tip of his cane hard on the ground as if to bar him. "At least I aired my grievances at the proper time and place!”
“Time?! You, Luloch, should know it! What time do we have? The Wild Hunt’s hounds clamour to gnash at your entails, to lap them up like a Longnight feast! The Ankou's chariot wheels, even now, make their preparations to grind our bones to dust like a millstone! Far too long we have celebrated this ‘holy day’ as a sterile day for heedless revelry! And we pay for it! Crom Cruach demands sacrifice, and it shall be done, and it shall heed not timeliness! This is the way. This is the time. Luloch Buckroy! Slake His thirst, avert the Fearful Eye, before his gaze falls upon us!" He shook his shillelagh at him. “If you worried about your Slaugh Oiche you’d know what ought be done!"
Some people sighed, some wondered what ‘proselytization’ meant, but a few (more than Adimus and Laina had ever been comfortable with) looked on with a frankly unnerving kindred resolve as he spoke. An understandably concerned look fell upon the travellers' faces. The reeve’s as well. He started to raise his voice, but Argent cut in. He put his arm about the man.
“Now Pardoner, that was a good mum, but perhaps it's subject matter a bit too scary for the children, eh? Let’s adjourn to the tavern, I’ve some important news for you from the Circle at Bowen...”
“How many more loons must we suffer before that holiday is done?” The reeve finally sighed, away from the ears of the priest and Luloch.
Adimus patted one of the children on the head. “Carry on now, he’s just tryin’ to scare us on Ellyllon. Like Dyrshul did when she said she saw the Raven Man." he chuckled as best he could.
“Right. The raven man.” The reeve strained a grin.
It was the best that he distanced himself from that story, even Dyshul would agree. That was a debacle that he, and apparently everyone else in the village, remembered so fondly so that it became eponymous--ask anyone in the village and they'd tell you about the Raven Man that haunted the hills, only ever seen by the girl--it had made an even bigger wedge in trying to fit in.
It took only about as long as the interruption for it to be forgotten. Children ran up and down the street gathered in their little groups, as Adimus walked amongst them, nostalgically reminiscing on how he used to be one of them. He used to visit The Green Beat, back when it was just the reeve’s house to get the first of the staghorn-glazed green apple tarts. That was before the reeve’s lord became the ruling house of Ormond. His new house was much more luxurious. What does he give out nowadays, I wonder? He couldn’t help but muse. He paced the streets, all but forgetting the troubles at hand. Hours passed, and the night had seemed to come to a close (as much as the reeve had doubted it) without further incident. Under the golden crown of the devouring moon Adimus came to a child crying beside a barn.
He’d suspected the routine: someone had bullied him, or stolen his candy, or played a prank on him. Several children stood nearby, looking on at him and talking amongst themselves, either witnesses or perpetrators, Adimus assumed. “Chains! Oooooh!” One of the kids moaned, shaking the old things in his face, that is until he saw the Watcher and hurried over to the rest, hiding the evidence behind his back. “What’s going on here?” Adimus asked.
They all looked at each other, as if agreeing to speak up. “He’s telling fibs.” An older boy then stammered. It was Regby’s son, Ailen, dressed as a Greenman with his face painted and staghorns of sumac in his (notably uneven and lop-sided) hair.
“No I wasn’t!” the boy turned and yelled back at them, his face and eyes beet red. Adimus had begun to espouse the virtues of appreciating a spooky tale or two and perhaps commend the boy for being so good at his story that it obviously got under the skin of a boy several years his senior, when he noticed who it was. “Killien?” he said, and with that he briskly came to him. The kids scattered. It was Eichgun’s, youngest one. Adimus had been there to watch his first steps, baby-sitting him on occasion, and had carried him piggyback on many a day in summers past besides. It was more than a little upsetting to see him this distraught. He did not have the look of a child frustrated at being bullied, or scorned at not fitting in, and definitely not for attention seeking; this was the cry of a child that cried because he just couldn’t help it. This was different. “What happened?” he knew it was more than just this. “Tell me.”
“Why? You’ll laugh at me too! All the grown-ups do!” he exclaimed before storming off toward the Green Beat. Adimus tried to stop him, but the boy disappeared into the crowd.
Adimus turned to see Dyrshul standing there with her helmet off. She had apparently watched the whole time. “You didn’t know?'' She spoke quietly despite being in a crowd. Adimus drew closer to hear. “He’s been saying things. Strange things.” She began, they stepped aside to let Bearch and a crowd of other adults by, the Precession was moving.
“What do you mean?” They walked along behind as she spoke.
“Well, it’s about his father. He claims it was something he said.” Adimus knew. “He forbids Killien to go near the barn.” She said.
“The barn where Eichgun fell?”
Dyshul nodded. “He says there is something in there. He says he didn’t fall.” she said soberly. “He was pushed.”
“Pushed? By whom?” Adimus, didn’t have to hide his intelligence with bad grammar to Dyrshul. Dyrshul just shrugged, before she left him to stew with it as she hurried up to the front to get more sweets when she’d noticed that the crowd had stopped.
“No one will mourn your death! “Ohohohoho!” Lord Pembroke yelled at the little girl. Standing and brandishing his scythe at her.
“Poor sod.” Argent said, sidling up beside Adimus on his own horse. “He has no idea the trouble all of you are in.” The swift white steed cut around behind Adimus. He was sure Argent meant the trouble of the burning barn and the like, but his words came out like a judge’s sentence, carried down coldly and left Adimus too afraid to ask what he meant by it.
Observing his unease he circled the boy once more almost as if to stoke it. It was true. There was an air of unpleasantness that tainted the proceedings, that while Eichgun and all the children played, oblivious, adults wore masks of their own, which hid the furrow in their brows and quiver in their lips.
He tried to peek above the crowd to spy the porch of The Beat off in the distance, and maybe catch Killien, when he saw Luloch on the porch, far away from the festivities speaking with Alfred. And then Alfred’s eyes locked uncannily with his the instant he had looked, as though piercing even the darkness, making the boy shrink.
“Remember, boy. Not a word.” Tirlag whispered as she wheeled around him, then spun back around to smile and take a bite of a cake, pacing backwards a few steps before disappearing into the throng. She was holding the hand of a little person one might mistake for a child wearing a pillowcase over its head, had they known no better. The thing promptly made a gesture as of one slitting a throat, and let out a sadistic giggle with its child-like voice.
His gaze then fell on the dark cloaked figure, the Cait Shii’, standing not but a few paces from him. It was dark enough now that it could walk about freely and most would assume she was a woman disguised as a monster and not the other way around.
“Are you okay?” Dyrshul asked. Adimus suddenly wished he’d worn a mask all the more. He didn’t answer. Thunder rolled in the distance as if to speak on his behalf. “Are you alright, boy?” echoed Bearach, peeking his head out of his costume. Seeing this, Dyrshul tried to hand him a cake, only to realize that her hand was empty.
“Adimus!” It was Tolten. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there, how the bard had let him escape. He was nursing a plate of baked goods. “I got something to say to you…"
"Adimus!"
The Grigor, overwhelmed and beyond unnerved scrambled up the hill toward his house, when he was blocked by the sight of a few more kids being rowdy. This time, there were three of them. There Ailen stood again. He’s a troublemaker, I’ll need to keep an eye on him.
Ailen and his friends from earlier stood before with two other kids this time, the one with the hempen mill sack over its heads and another wearing a pumpkin. They were fighting over a stack of candy, the biggest one pulling against the other two. Adimus was fed up with the day "Alright now, stop it! Break it up! Ailen!" he yelled. Ailen looked at him, stunned. It was then he realized it was Ailen fighting over his own bag and the other two trying to take it. “You two, drop the bag!” The pumpkin-headed figure looked over his shoulder, and then from his raggedy shirt he drew a rusty knife. Adimus, in shock and hopeful disbelief. Could this be some cruel joke? Some prank? Before Ailen could even see or Adimus do anything about it he lunged at the boy. The Watcher could only watch. Blood soiled the bag and Ailen, his face twisted in horror, stumbled backwards, then crumpled over a nearby cart full of pumpkins. The blood trailed into the streets trickling from the boy’s mouth.
“Put the knife down!” He ordered, as if insanity might listen to reason. Of course it didn’t. He carried only a sword. What do I do? Use my blade on a child? Gripped with unsurity, he embraced his shield, took stance and drew near. He remembered his training well, even now when he’d always wondered if he might fumble, the long hours of drills and training his father had given him seemed to make it reflex. Silence spread throughout the crowd who was now beginning to realize what had happened. He watched the carnage as now it fought with the other over the bag, flailing and swishing it blade through the air. Finally the other let go, and pulled out the shovel, and started swinging it. Adimus had no idea what to do now. “Let him have the bag!” he didn’t even know to whom he was speaking. And then the shovel landed a blow across its head.
Where the pumpkin had split there was no child at all. Its beady red eyes fell on him, though the cracked visage and its needle-toothed grin shined ear-to-ear as if it had just told a joke that only it got. A long, pointy, green ear, all chewed up with scars, popped out from the crack.
Adimus thought to reach down for his sword only to realize it had already made its way into his hand, but before he could swing the creature took off bounding up to the rooftop of the nearest house and up over into the woods. It was lightning fast. Adimus looked down at the one with the stick; it was one of Niall’s. It too took off toward the woods. Gasps rippled through the gathering. The already lifeless corpse of the youth lay at his feet. Then the first person to get to the child, a concerned-looking mother, knelt down and removed the sack from its face, no doubt to see whose child it was, and only to realize it too was no child at all. He quickly looked behind him to see Dyrshul, eyes wide in the nostril of her costume and Bearach standing behind her.
Luloch came down from the porch, leaning hard on his cane, and Laina outpacing him. They were both silent. “Take her inside.” Bearach ordered. Luloch obeyed. It took him a moment before he realized he should address the whole crowd to do just the same. “Everyone inside your homes!” he said. A moment later the warning bell rang.
Luloch looked up at Laina, and with a nod she picked up the limp child and blood poured from his mouth when she did. “Upstairs, Laina.” Luloch followed her inside, a grave look on his face. Alfred was behind them, his expression concern mixed with resolve, clenching his staff tightly. Argent pulled up behind him, the reins Adimus’s loaner horse in his hands. Adimus hesitantly hopped onto it. He gave a wry smile. Lightning struck. “Are you ready?”
* * * * *
The cold air burned his rasping lungs as he made his way to the wood path of the Precession that encircled the village. He knew the plot of woodlands well. This swath of forest that sat on the cusp of the wildland that led up into the mountains belonged to Brian the Blacksmith, and was used to fuel his furnaces. He couldn’t help but fondly remember back to when he had questioned the old man why he’d decided to make him a Grigor. 'It will keep you busy'. It was true that he’d always had a wanderlust of sorts, often getting him into trouble for straying too far from his house or getting into things that he shouldn't. Both he and his sister still held a penchant for getting lost in the great woods which ran into the mountains, though it had been quite a few years. Today, it was of help. It was also the woods into which the Goblyn had fled.
Argent hushed Tirlag, “Shh!” who was loudly humming a tune despite it all. She, Argent, and Delaney all rode along with Adimus. Alfred and Alara remained on the other side, in case the creature sought to return to the village.
He clasped the iron sword.
It was Cold Iron. Iron was hard enough to come by, fetching a high price when and where it could be found (Brian was rationed it from the reeve in special portions he had to keep track of) but this tool, this instrument of the Grigor, was a product of high All’Khemy from the age of the Great Kingdom, and had been handed down through the generations to the captain. It was perhaps the most valuable commodity in all the village. “Here. Take it with you, but never touch the blade.” he’d been told, when he was first given it. It was what he and Dyrshul were always told, and he’d never even laid hands on it until tonight when his father, despite riding with the boy had handed it over, instead choosing an axe to wield; now he knew that the night’s feeling of dread was well warranted.
The forest swaddled them in darkness. “Delaney.” Tirlag said after a moment. “Do you see anything?” She’d suddenly decided to be helpful.
Delaney removed the pillow case from her head--she too had been disguised as a child. Her beady little eyes scanned the darkness, her tiny fingers holding a tiny bow with a tiny arrow.
Argent leaned in, “She can see heat. She’s a-“
“An Animaflor.” Adimus answered. He’d remembered Laina telling him about them, now that he’d had a little time to think. “A brownie.”
“A sterile observation followed by a racial slur...Perfect. Mammalian bumpkin.” she snapped.
“Forgive him, he lacks the coath and sensibilities of your choice of company.” he glanced over his shoulder at Tirlag. “They are Urisks. Gnemedians. You know? Hobs.”
Argent ducked; he’d immediately been silenced by the whistle of the arrow coming from her direction that just barely missed his head.
“Call this one a hob and she’ll kill you.”
“Hob is far too impersonal, just call her what she is: a bitch-!” Tirlag might have continued if not for the sharp jab in the ribs.
“Gnemedian?”
“A Child of Gnemed. Yes. “ Argent strained, reaching up into the tree into which his hat had been stapled. “Why are you dressed up anyway?” Argent then asked her. “Your kind walk freely here.”
A giggle erupted from Tirlag’s covered mouth, as if she just couldn’t contain it. She showed him the sack full of candy.
“You’ve the mind of a Goblyn my dear. You must be so proud.” Argent returned fire, “Maybe you can help us find them.” just before snatching it from her and digging through it himself.
Delaney, her face becoming more and more twisted with frustration over the last several moments finally jumped down from the horse. This stifled them. They watched as she silently crept off into the darkness.
The wind rustled through the trees, nipping at the chilling sweat on Adimus’s face. The blue and red moons in the sky tinged the night with a glaze of violet. They stood there for quite a while, or what seemed like quite a while, until Tirlag suddenly spoke up. “There are three of them.”
Bearach had a totally confused look on his face, and with a raised finger started again to question but before he could Argent ordered him. “Escort Tirlag to where the others patrol. Let her inform Alfred of this.” Begrudgingly the pair of them sped off.
Argent looked down at the bag of candy, and then back up toward Tirlag, and then gave an unreadably devilish grin. He hopped down from his horse and peaked off into the woods. With a practiced spin he whipped off his cloak. “Are you good with that sword, young man?” he asked off-handedly, shaking the garment. Adimus couldn’t even answer, for the breath was taken right out of him as he witnessed before his very eyes the cloak changing colors from gold embroidered scarlet red to white laced baby blue. He slung the shield along his back, higher than Adimus would think comfortable before putting it on. “How about sneaking, are you any good at that?”
“No.”
“Then keep a few steps behind. Only a few, hear me?”
“But, you’re not wearing armor. I am.” Adimus argued, but Argent had already disappeared headlong into the brush before it even came out.
It may have become a game of cat and mouse, if Argent didn’t completely outpace him as he fumbled through the darkness, tripping over stumps and fighting with brambles, rustling them loudly when stray briers snagged and tore at his tartan. It had been a few years. This went on for a while as they wound their way through the wood, until finally he found Argent with his back planted to a tree, looking skyward. Adimus could see only barely, the silhouette of the Urisk perched on a branch. Faintly he could hear the tiny growling voices, and off several paces (a little too close for comfort) away in a small clearing saw these wild things. One of them, of course, was the one he chased. Having removed his pumpkin disguise with a pushed in nose like a bat, with needle sharp teeth and red eyes that glowed like candles in the moonlight. He was gangly, and perhaps only thigh-high, with longer arms than he put on when wearing the children’s clothing. The old working gloves he used to disguise his long, three fingered claws lay haphazard on the ground, thrown off in a frenzy to viscerally feel his way through the bag he’d stolen from his victim. He marvelled at the cloth-wrapped pie he’d pulled from it, just before the largest one grabbed away from him. The other one was horribly disfigured, like a wax sculpture marred by a fire, or an angry squash that had been left in the sun for too long, with black greasy-looking little eyes plugged into it with which to jeer and a sparsely toothed mouth carved with which to slaver. At its side, tucked into a ragged belt was a broken half pair of shears its handle wrapped in cloth. The third had a beak like that of a hawk, the rest of body was pink-skinned like a newborn mouse. Its one eye in the direct center of its head was intently fixed upon the bag, its lizard tail flicking with anticipation despite having his hand slapped away by the big one again and again.
He could hear them vaguely, arguing in chunky warbles and yelps that he imagined must be a language, somehow. The beat of Adimus’s heart thrummed deafeningly in his ear, loud enough to make him expect to be caught by virtue of it alone, only outpaced by his need to breathe; he fought it, if only so that he might hear something, knowing even himself that it was bad policy when trying to be quiet.
He looked back at Argent, who simply gave him a smile, then put up the hood of his cloak, and when he did the Watcher had to blink and ensure that the moonlight were not playing tricks on him. Right before his eyes Argent’s face had changed, now what stood before him was a wrinkled, haggard, hunchback (from the shield) old crone. He took Tirlag’s bag of candy in hand and then was off.
“Hayden!” he yelled, in a shrill and feeble voice “Hayden! Where in All Creation are you!?” as he turned and hobbled right into the midst of them. It took Adimus a few moments for his mind to register it, as strange as it was, that Argent was speaking in a different language, a language he’d never heard before but when he did it made it even stranger, that Adimus could understand it. “Oh, there you are!” He addressed the biggest one using the foreign tongue. “What are ya doing way off out here anyway? Don’t you know there are Goblyns supposed to be about? We need to hurry along to the Dougall’s before she’s out of the those sweet apple tarts and honey cakes.” The green one growled and the squash-faced one appeared on the cusp of protest before “Oh, here’s yer bag. But I’m takin’ this piece for ma’ trouble.” He took a wrapped piece of hard candy, one of Luloch’s molasses chews, before having the sack of goodies snatched from his hand almost before he could offer it. Adimus perhaps would be panicking, millions of thoughts racing in his mind as he grasped at what to do, but he just couldn’t look away. The creatures immediately started fighting over the bag, each pawing at it trying to get hands down in it. “Oh, are these your friends? Look at these costumes, oh, how creative! What are your names?”
“Hay-den.” the green one started to say before the squash-faced one shot him a dirty look.
“Dooogals.” the other parroted.
“Boi’Bocan.” The one-eyed one said.
“Very good. Are they coming along too?”
They each looked one another, then nodded, when ‘she’ having fumbled with the piece of molasses candy this whole time dropped it. “Oops. I invoke thy Name and implore, Boi’Bocan, as that which quickens thee to the Lands of Death, ensnares thee, captures thee, enchants and enraptures thee, as I am its master and a friend unto thee. I invoke thy Name and implore." The Goblyns appeared confused at the strange thing he’d said, but dismissed it quickly, as did Adimus, who hadn’t realized that it was spoken in an entirely different language yet he understood it just the same, the language of Dhuun, which all creatures heard. Boi’Bocan innocuously picked up the treat without mention, but gazed at it with an intent as singular as the eye with which he did. Licking his beak with a forked tongue he began to tear at the wrapper, salivating. “Boi’Bocan,” Argent said again as one might scold a child. “Give it here.” Trembling, almost as if fighting an invisible force, the creature handed it to her with a remorseful eye. Dexterously she unwrapped it and popped into her mouth like flipping a coin, “Boi’Bocan,” the Bard said once more in his real voice, tossing the wrapper over his shoulders and dusting his nimble hands off on his cloak. “Subdue your friends.”
Seeing through the ruse the squash-faced one drew his weapon, and without question or choice Boi'Bocan lept onto him. Still the creature lurched forward at Argent and caught him in the thigh with it “Ergh!” He winced. Adimus, giving it no more thought perhaps than Boi’Bocan drew his sword to come to his aid, but the green one cut him off. It brandished its dagger, still bloody, looking at him with the same crooked glee that he did with the candy treats as he whipped it about in the air. Then it charged. Adimus braced himself, only to notice the creature had stopped, somewhat confused by the tiny arrow it had found in its neck. Crumpling to the ground Adimus lept over it to get to Argent, who struggled to evade the creature.
Adimus hesitated at just what to do, the thing relentlessly flailed, its belligerence only rivalled by its speed with the razor sharp blade, the other creature clinging to its back all the while. Just then, Adimus’s eyes were drawn to a faint white glow beyond the treeline. The creature dropped the shears immediately, gnashing its teeth in pain and covering its ears. Adimus could hear it too, though apparently not as loudly as the creature; a warbling din that permeated his mind, followed by a heat that seemed to emanate from nowhere. The light burned the creature skalding its skin, marring it with coal black streaks. “Boi’Bocan, come here!” Argent quickly yelled when he noticed that the Goblyn was being subjected to same malady. Skin flaked off in wisps that incinerated in mid air, fire erupted from tears its flesh, its eyes and mouth. Adimus watched the creature immolate from flesh to bone, and bone then to dust.
The light went out, and there Alfred stood holding the staff. Laina, Bearch, Rigel, Tirlag, and Luloch, stood with him. With an audible ‘tink’ he removed a clear crystal from the staff’s clasp and quickly put it in his pocket. “Is everyone alright?”
Argent whipped off the hood of his cloak. The illusion was gone, and Argent’s face was back to normal. No one had seen it, presumably, save Alfred, who’d looked for some reason like he’d just seen a ghost as his eyes fell open Argent, then to the magic garment, confusion, shock and concern unhidden. “Yea-I’m fine.” Argent said, as if nothing had happened, gripping his leg. He snatched the pillow case from the ground where it had fallen, dumped it out and began tying the wound.
Delaney jumped down beside him. “Breather! That’s what you get for trying to do it all yourself!” she exclaimed. She sneered at Adimus, “You’re welcome.”
Cautiously the others drew together to look at the Goblyn Boi’Bocan. “Don’t worry. I have control of him.”
“How?” Bearach questioned, but Argent was already talking to the creature again. This time Adimus couldn’t understand what he was saying, as he spoke in yet another tongue. Calmly removing one of his gloves, Alfred produced from his pocket a delicately ornate silver ring, which he then placed on his finger.
“He speaks its True Name, and knows the words to command it.” said Adimus, as bewildered at his verbalization of it as when he first saw it.
“He speaks Dhuun.” Alara shuddered in wonder.
“And Puck.” The bard added in the midst of his conversation with the thing. “See? Aren’t I useful.”
They spoke for a few moments. “He’s asking them if there are any more.” Alfred narrated, Argent shot him a quick eye of disgust. “He says there are three.” He asks this one not completely unlike the one the Goblyns had spoken, without the grunts and hisses. Cleaned up the language sounded quite pleasant, flowing and complex. “But...He asked why they’d decided to burn the farm and string up the cat. He says he was told to.”
“By whom?” Tirlag asked.
The bard had started to whisper to the Goblyn again in that voice. Only Adimus was close enough to hear “Boi’Bocan, you will follow the others in the wood to the Land Beyond the Mists this night and harm no one. I release you, now go and be free.” and with that Boi’Bocan scampered off never to be seen again.
“The bigger one.” he answered in normal tongue, dusting his hands off concededly “Not that one, I asked.” He dismissed the pile of ash. “Big. And hairy.”
Luloch’s voice came from the darkness “And toothy and tall, behind the doors and under the bed...”
“...What is it, grandfather?” Adimus asked.
“Why, it’s the Boogeyman, Adimus.”