Twenty-first of Sorstis

The old man had forgotten his name long ago. Over the years of his wandering, he had come to be known as 'the Pilgrim', a name as meaningless as his own purpose. His weakened frame was held up by a wooden staff, greying eyes looking out from a weathered face that had seen far too many winters. Yet for all his frailty, he stood proudly between two elves, each of them easily two feet taller than him, their fair skin such a strong contrast to his own. There was no sound but the gentle rustle of the leaves in the breeze as they stood in the forest clearing. Three men stood before them, two carrying spears and the third with crossed arms. The old man knew whom he faced, but he felt no fear. Two days ago, he had walked into the forest, and when confronted by the elves, had demanded to see their master. Tales had told of a connection between the forest and its lord, and the elves hadn't hesitated to lead him down ancient, hidden paths to where he now stood. For the longest time, no one spoke, each man measuring the character of the other.

"You are the Recluse," the old man finally said, a surprising strength in his voice.

"So they call me," the unarmed man replied. "And so may you, if you must. Habits are hard to break. What do you seek? Few come here searching for me. Fewer still return alive."

"I bear a message from my master." The Pilgrim did not need to speak his name. They both felt the chill in the air, a shared fear and obligation from their darkest nights. Some things deserved to be forgotten, though they never could be. Some oaths, though forsaken, never died. "Long ago, you made a deal with him. It seems that you have profited well from it."

"I learned what he seeks," the Recluse allowed. "Some deals should not be fulfilled."

"That is not what he thinks," the old man said quietly. He looked around at the guards and shook his head. Was he really such a threat? "He sent me to say that he has waited, and he has had mercy for your betrayal. That opportunity has ended."

"Ended?" the Recluse laughed bitterly. "Old man, do you realise how long it has been since I made that deal? His patience, as you call it, looks more like powerlessness with every passing day."

Anger flashed in the Pilgrim's eyes, and he took a faltering step, ignoring the Recluse's guards as they unsheathed their weapons.

"He does not suffer your arrogance easily," he growled, and without thinking the Recluse took a step back. "Your time has ended. If you do not hold up your end of the deal, he will raise a force against you for your destruction."

The Recluse did not answer, nor did he move a muscle. The truth was, the magic in the Forest had changed. It was an ancient force, probably as old as the earth itself, and he had learned much of its secrets, though certainly not all. For all those years it had stayed the same – until recent weeks. How interesting, he thought. Who else will notice this shift?

None of this showed on his face as he stared silently at the messenger, a test of wills that the old man failed.

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"He requires an answer," he said, the former confidence beginning to drain out of his voice. "What would you have me say?"

The Recluse smiled, nodded to the guards, and turned away as he heard the sound of steel slashing through flesh. The body thudded to the dirt, and he sighed. What a waste of life to be enslaved to that former master. Nonetheless, he knew that the threat was real. But where would it come from? Certainly this old man was nothing more than a messenger, a vessel of no more use to any but the birds. No, there was only one enemy that the Recluse respected.

"Svaleta," he whispered, and instinctively looked to the north. The old enemy would strike. He had to move fast. "I will be your end."

* * *

It would not have helped Asmund to know of the Pilgrim's final hours. The farmer had tended his cattle north of the forest for most of his life, and even at thirty he was beginning to feel the aches and pains of a hard life. The sun was beginning to set as he headed back for his home, a small cottage where his wife and two children awaited him. Brulda would be cooking the evening meal, he knew, and he could already smell the aroma that made his stomach growl in protest at its neglect. He paused as he heard a clicking sound in the growing darkness. He looked to the forest, but nothing moved. With a tired grunt, he turned and kept walking. He'd only taken a few more steps when the cattle began to sound. Now he sighed as he turned back the way he came, in time to see the animals smash down their fence and stampede, clearly panicked by something. He took an involuntary step back as something green and massive smashed a cow to the ground. Crimson sprayed through the air, and Asmund ran for the cottage. He slammed the door shut and sealed it, finding a chair and lodging it under the handle.

"Asmund? What is it?" Brulda watched in confusion as her husband ran through the cottage drawing the curtains, a whimper escaping his lips.

"Something's out there," he hissed. "Keep your voice down."

Brulda was about to speak when a screech pierced the air. Without being told, she called for the children to get to the kitchen. At least there they would find some knives to use if they were attacked.

"It went for the cattle," Asmund told her, finally stopping to catch his breath. "I have never seen anything like it."

"What do we do?"

"We will be safe here," Asmund said. "We wait out the night, then head for the city."

There sounded another screech, this time closer. Brulda shot him a look, then headed for the kitchen to settle the children, who had begun to cry as they sensed their parents' fear. It's not leaving, Asmund thought. But what creature was this? No animal killed for fun. Had it been looking for food, it would have attacked his cattle and moved on. So what was this?

There was a thumping outside the window. Asmund carefully drew back the curtain and froze. A single leathery leg stood there, thick and muscled. He could hear clicking from above, presumably where the creature's head was. Asmund let the curtain fall back and took a faltering step backwards.

"Asmund-"

Brulda froze as Asmund held up one hand, using the other to point at the window. Eyes wide with fear, she nodded and began to slowly back out of the room. Asmund stepped over to the wall, where he took down his father's sword where it had sat for years untouched – and unsharpened. It wouldn't be enough to fight off whatever was outside, but it might be better than the cleavers in the kitchen. He was almost out of the room when the creature screeched again, and the leg crashed through the wall, revealing the horrible face that looked down at Asmund. He swore and ran as the leg swept towards him, barely missing as he shouted,

"Brulda, get the children and run!"

His only hope was to distract it. There! He snatched a log from the fireplace, oblivious as the fire instantly began to singe his hands. He ran along igniting every fabric he could find, hearing his wife yell out for him.

"Just go!" he screamed. "Get the children away from here!"

A leg crashed through the wall and pinned him to the ground. As the fire spread, he looked up at the jaws racing towards him and took his last breath in the comfort that at least his family would have escaped.