“Rise and shine, golden boy,” said Pheston, kicking Friedrich in the ribs.

“Eugh!” wheezed the young man, shocked at being so rudely awakened.

He opened his eyes and saw the dark sky above him with its swirling purple clouds and the small pockets of floating light that dimly radiated unto the world beneath. Keldracht was a depressing place and Friedrich could see how people would go mad here after such a small amount of time.

“Well rested?” asked Pheston.

“No,” groaned Friedrich, climbing to his feet. “I might need to start sleeping as a fox so I can use my tail as a pillow.”

“Would that be cannibalism if I cooked you as a fox?” chortled Pheston.

“Yes, but you’d probably eat for longer if you cooked me as a minotaur.”

Pheston cleared his throat and smiled. “It’s been a long time since I could make jokes. There has been precious little in the way of humour these past decades. It’s refreshing.”

“Speaking of refreshing. What can I drink around here?” asked Friedrich, trying to salivate but finding that he was running dry.

“You saw those greenish pools of water littered around the land?”

“Yes.”

“They’re alright to drink. Your stomach may take a couple of weeks to adjust, but you’ll be hydrated well enough.”

“That’s good,” said Friedrich. “And what about food?”

Pheston clapped Friedrich on the back, almost knocking the young man to the ground. “Apologies, I forget my own strength,” he said, holding Friedrich up by the tunic. “After we get you a drink, we’ll go catch you a peskyrunner.”

He had no idea what that was, but Friedrich followed Pheston nonetheless. The smith led the young adventurer through the trees cautiously, much more so than the previous day after escaping from the demonic castle. Friedrich had asked what the purpose of the castle was and Pheston told him it was a military outpost where greater demons could reside while journeying across the plane, but was also used for training the grecks—the bipedal lizards used for riding and pulling carts—that was secure from any of the wilder demons.

“Can you eat grecks?” asked Friedrich, figuring that there was no such thing as a stupid question in this situation.

“Their meat is tough and doesn’t have much of that delicious fat that I love so much, so I avoid it. There aren’t that many wild grecks around these parts, so you’re usually having to jump a demon for one. Sometimes they’ll send out search parties if a demon isn’t where he’s supposed to be. And it isn’t because they care about each other, it’s because they’re vengeful beings. I bet that they’re still trying to hunt us down and have been doing so all night.”

Pheston walked up to a small pool of water and squatted beside it, pointing to a blue-skinned six-legged amphibious creature that looks somewhere between a frog and a salamander, yet clearly neither of those. “See this thing?”

“Yes,” replied Friedrich, kneeling to look closer at the critter.

“Do not under any circumstances try and eat one of these,” said Pheston firmly. “They’re called skalphians and you’ll be hunched over with bad cramps for a week. I’m a burly fella, so it might just kill a runt like you outright.”

“Runt?” snapped Friedrich.

“You’re barely above average height and you’re built like a typical soldier. To me, you are runty, Mercian. Corobathian stock are a different breed entirely.”

“Yet your people have continually failed to conquer Mercia.”

“Bah,” spat Pheston, whipping out his hammer and splattering skalphian guts all over the grass. “You don’t know anything, boy. Shut up and drink up.”

Friedrich cupped the so-called water in his hands and took a sip. It was oddly bitter and made him wince, tasting as though it had been permeated by soil and tree bark, but he was grateful for something to quench his thirst and continued to drink up.

“Woah there, son,” said Pheston, grabbing Friedrich by the wrist. “Remember what I said about giving your stomach time to adjust? Take only what you need to start with and you can drain the entire pond a month or two from now. Don’t want you running to the bushes to relieve yourself every ten minutes.”

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Friedrich complied and stood up, feeling less thirsty, but his stomach already felt off. He wasn’t sure if that was because the liquid was churning around in side of him or if it was all in his head.

“Now for a peskyrunner,” said Pheston, biting his lip and nodding excitedly. “These little runts will be most of your meals because they’re easy to catch and won’t attract too much attention your way. You kill some big brute, hoping he’ll be your meal for the next week or two? Mark my words, you’ll attract plenty of predators.”

“When I first arrived, I was attacked by some sort of scaled harpy creature.”

“Ah, that would be a…what do they call those…a skeykyag! I hate using demon terms, that’s why I sometimes make up my own like peskyrunner. It’s a pesky little creature that runs, isn’t that much simpler?”

“No argument here,” shrugged Friedrich. “What’s your name for the skeykyags?”

“Scaladies.”

“Scaly ladies?” asked Friedrich, receiving a nod from the old man and a small snicker.

“Come on,” said Pheston, beckoning the young man to follow. “Let me show you the ropes…or better yet, maybe you can show me the ropes.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have forms aplenty, Friedrich. I’m sure you’re capable enough without even using them, so you show me how you hunt.”

“I don’t know where to start. I’m not even sure what a peskyrunner is.”

Pheston held his hands about two feet apart. “They’re around this size and have six legs. Lots of things in this world have six legs, I’ll admit, but these ones are hairy little mammals. I have no doubt that there are at least four dozen of them within a half a mile radius of here.”

“Alright,” said Friedrich, cocking his head to the side. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He walked along and seamlessly transformed into Kitt’s form, sniffing along the way. Keldracht was filled with such strange scents that he struggled to separate them. As Friedrich walked, he suddenly inhaled the pungent aroma of wet dog. Could this be the peskyrunner he was seeking?

Pheston followed quietly, saying nothing as Friedrich hunted for food. The smith was hungry himself and had much more mass to sustain, so he hoped the young man would hurry up, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He knew better than anyone that finding yourself stuck in a foreign plane took some adjusting.

Friedrich stopped, sensing that the creature he sought was lurking in a bush nearby. He could see the bush rustling occasionally and decided that he would take his chance. He transformed back into a human and brace his shield arm, preferring to catch food with it than with his sword or a knife.

The young man edged closer and closer to the bush, which suddenly stopped moving. He lunged forwards, slamming his into the back of a creature. A squeal followed by a loud snap echoed through the air and Friedrich stood up, presenting the dead peskyrunner to Pheston with a big grin on his face.

The old man clapped with an impressed look upon his face. “Effective,” he said, taking the little beast by the tail and slinging it over his shoulder. “Now get another one and meet me back at the campsite. You can eat these critters raw, but they’re nicer cooked.”

Feeling pleased with himself, Friedrich returned to his golden fox form and prowled through the trees, seeking out the smell of the damp fur. He wanted to prove to Pheston that he truly had what it took to survive here so he caught two more peskyrunners before following him back to the camp.

“Oho!” exclaimed the man, looking excited at the prospect of a larger meal. “Now we’re talking, lad.”

“Do you want me to skin it before cooking it?”

“You could…or you could just pick the meat out from underneath the burned fur.”

“Isn’t the fur going to burn into the meet and ruin it.”

Pheston tilted his head from side to side with a slight sneer. “That’s true, but I’m long since passed caring about any of that. Sometimes it’s easier just to eat the burned fur if you want to move along quickly.”

“Are we moving along quickly?” asked Friedrich, taking out his knife to skin his catches.

“I don’t stay in one place for too long, so I think we’ll spend a couple of days here to let you acclimatise before we find somewhere else.”

Friedrich took all three of the peskyrunners and removed as much of the fur as he could. They were trickier than wild boar and had more joints than a rabbit, so it was done haphazardly, but they would cook much better this way. He skewered them on a couple of thick branches and propped them above the fire while he wiped the blood on his hands on the dry grass.

“What’s our plan?” asked Friedrich.

Pheston snorted. “Plan? Our plan is surviving.”

“What about those metal towers that seem to be everywhere?” asked Friedrich, pointing towards the mountains where the blue light from the tip of one of the towers dotting the landscape could be seen.

“You don’t want to go there, boy,” said Pheston. “Nothing good ever happens at those outposts, trust me.”

“I don’t doubt it, but why is that?”

Pheston leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “This region of Keldracht is ruled over by a beastly demon who uses those outposts to spy on everything that happens here. There are beings that live within them, watching the land and feeding everything they see back to him. Frankly, it’s very possible that the demon lord knows you’re here already if you’ve ever wandered too close to the towers.”

“I was making my way to one when I saw that wagon and decided to hop on the back of it,” admitted Friedrich. “Is this ruler bad news?”

“The worst news,” grumbled Pheston, wincing. “I’m not afraid of much, son, but I wouldn’t dare cross the path of the Lord of Horns unless I was desperate.”

Friedrich gasped and felt a sharp jolt in his hand as it darted for the minotaur mask. He fought with himself to pull his hand away while Pheston stared at him curiously.

“I’m sorry,” said the young man, shuddering. “I think it would be best if we don’t say that name again.”

“Why?” asked Pheston, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s complicated…one of the souls of the masks doesn’t like it very much.”

“The Lord of Horns,” said Pheston once again.

Friedrich’s hands trembled as he fought to resist the urge to put the mask on. He slowly pulled it out from under his tunic and brought it close to his face. When it was an inch from his skin, he transformed into a fox and the mask vanished with his human body. After he felt more at ease, he returned to normal.

“Please don’t do that,” he begged Pheston.

“You had best explain, lad. I’m not keeping you around if you’re a loose cannon that’s only going to bring me trouble.”

Friedrich sighed as he nodded. “It all started when I was searching for treasure in a keep back in Mercia…”