He hadn't been gone for more than five days, yet it felt like ten. The torrential rain had carved deep ravines into the muddy countryside. Thin rain drops ripped through battered oaks and Elms, their twirling limbs creaking from the deluge. Since Martin had left the hut upon his quest to repay what he owed, the storm, like a bratty child, had refused to yield, submitting all to its tantrum.

Each laborious step through the slick and sullen towns, almost void of anything he would consider life, drove him closer to his witch and, perhaps, her warm bed. The forests he slipped in and out of were unnaturally dense in the Western parts of the country, they weren't stripped clean from the war and the villagers worshiped them as conduits to the old gods. But, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't hide from the rain, no bough or bush covered him, it started to seem as if the raindrops were jetting up from the ground; because everything from his worn in military boots to his ratty jerkin drooped heavily. The small towns, merely shacks, and taverns, surrounded by rotten palisades. There were no decent town militia, just drunk gangs, paid protection that often overtaxed the locals, but you were either a thief or starving in these times, there was no place for true knights in the Kingdom of Saad.

As darkness fell upon him, Martin approached one of the last ramshackle villages before he ventured into the westernmost part of the wilderness. There was a loud commotion inside, horses snorting and men shouting, he saw steaming thorces waving about frantically. The discord wailed through the dusk gale, a cacophony of thirty dogs rang out in the frenzied night alongside pained screams of death.

He stuck to the shadows, tracing the tree line, looking for a hole that he could peer into. A shriek sent a quick chill down his legs, he slipped low and crawled close to the wall, glaring through he saw men scrambling about screaming like slaughtered pigs. Martin pressed his eye close to the small gap between the palisade wall. Droplets of rainwater ran off his face and into his eye, he wiped it away and gazed back into the hole, he pressed himself so close its as if he were trying to slip through. Armed Mercenaries with red tabards were swinging their swords frantically at a swift-moving mass in the middle of the village. Through the thin slit, dim torches, and heavy rain the beast looked like a Basilisk. The sky broke and lightning illuminated the battle. Martin saw no Basilisk in the lightning flash, instead, he saw a far more terrifying thing, a thing that should not be, The Glatisant beast

*

“Sir Glatisant was a womanizer, a sinner, and an adulterer…” Spoke Rehael of Morn Gwenevara, his pointy nose in the air, almost as high as his pointer finger that was enthusiastically wagging with each breath. The class of adepts was chuckling behind their gravestone-sized textbooks. Rehael scowled at the class and continued.

“What Sir Glatisant lacked in scruples, he made up for in grand gestures, bravado… and charm. After whoring with every princess and queen from the North to the southern tip of the continent, including his own sister, he was hunted and sentenced to death. But Sir Glatisants’ father, King Ivreants of house Gwin, wouldn't allow his only son to be butchered. On a cold summer night, the council of twelve kings gathered to charge Sir Glatisant. Though King Iverants fought for his son's life all he could offer him was a fighting chance, a quest, they charged him to slay the once elusive Western Beast that hid deep in the Western forests. The honor guards of each southern house escorted Sir Glatisant to the edge of the world and sent him…” Reheal looked at the class who were holding back tears in their eyes, trying desperately not to laugh out loud.

“… The tale goes that Sir Glatisant slew the beast in mortal combat. The most accurate account we have of the battle, unfortunately, was a poem written by Sir Glatisant himself.

‘Into the blackness, my heart and sword noble,

My wits and eyes peeled, toward the monsters hole,

Opal eye's with madness, a slender neck mobile,

It lashed, my blood congealed, the woes of the battle's toll,

The victor seemed revealed, but not yet was written the scroll,

I did not run, id fight, with my father's sword id, show my family's might,

With a slash in the weald id cut its head clean, yet its death I condole,

I'd return home a man, no, a king, all my enemies will taste my swords bite!

The woman in the land will worship my cock…” The class broke out into light laughter as Reheal flushed with anger.

“The rest is unimportant, disregard it… curiously though, he did not bring home its head, however, he did bring back a sacred talisman from Sir Tristanous who fell to the monster almost a century earlier. When Sir Glatisant rode back haughty and triumphant, strangely the entire male line of his family was stricken with plague and died a week later, Sir Glatisant was crowned that very afternoon. For his bravery they coined the monster the Glatisant beast, the monster was dubbed the Glatisant beast after his triumph over it… turn to page seven-hun... ” A chorus of laughter erupted as the young men were reading the other two, rather raunchy, stanzas written by Sir Glatisant. All the boys were clutching their sides. He looked into the crowd of twenty and saw Joruc and Martin taking turns reading each line.

“That's it! If you two don't want to pay attention and act like bleating goats, I'll have the Homunculi break you down until your ready to sit and listen! Out!” Reheal Hollard.

The two boys left the room in terror, fearing the push-ups that were to come.

“Now, turn to page Seven-hundred and five, we are going to learn about the beasts perceived weakness…”

*

The long snake neck of the beast coiled back and sprung out at a man's face, ripping it from his head. Martin had to help these poor villagers, The Glatisant beast was a force of nature that rarely, if ever, journeyed from the woodlands. If it wasn't killed here it would surely spread terror through the countryside.

Martin looked at his surroundings. The palisade was covered in slippery moss that would be impossible to climb, behind him were dense woods, and in front of him, there were no perceivable entrances inside the town except the ones in and out. He gazed back at the woods. Martin slinked toward the forest and quickly hacked down three tall saplings and fashioned them into primitive spears, each longer than the other, each with slender foot-long tips. He gathered them up and scrambled into the village unseen by the Glatisant beast who was too busy torturing the towns-folk. He dropped the longest spear in an uncomfortably tight alleyway. He stepped lightly, foot over foot, cautiously avoiding splashing through the soggy fecal stained street. At the edge of the ally, he could see the beast winding and bounding toward the people, snapping its jaws like a rabid dog. He could see it as clear as it would have been possible in the stormy twilight. Its snake neck lashed about as its jagged hoofed feet trampled the men who were caught in its rampage, its spotted leopard body quickly darting in and out of spear, ax, and sword shot.

The beast made a shrieking chatter that echoed like a dozen tortured dogs. It was lightning fast and skillfully aggressive, backing the townsman into a corner, corralling them. Martin hurled a spear at the beast and it struck deep into its muscular rear thigh. The beast shrilled and tore the spear from its leg with its mouth. Like a whirlwind, it quickly wiped its body around and beamed a haunting glare with its cold reptilian eyes. With a bastard jumble of slithering and walking the creature sped toward its attacker, mouth agape, ready to strike. Martin held his spear up valiantly as he backed quickly into the ally. The shaft was wet yet the knots in the sapling gave him something to grasp onto. He saw the hellish maw rushing at him, covered in dozens of syringe-like teeth each one capable of injecting a deadly toxin.

It lunged and he thrust the spear out to meet the beast head-on, but the serpent neck was more mobile and longer than he had anticipated. The thick trunk of his neck wrapped around the haft and crushed it into splinters. Martin dived back into the tight ally reaching desperately for the spear he had planted, the creatures snapping mouth close behind. He ripped the spear from the ground and hoisted it outward, the massive serpent tried to juke the spear that was propelled towards its chest, but it was far longer than it could have anticipated and bulldozed into it, the massive torso of the Glatisant beast slid gracefully down the spear, it writhed and screamed more terrifying than before. Martin rolled from under the snapping jaws and violently waving hooves, drew his sword ready to decapitate the horrid beast.

“Mercy!” A harsh raspy voice said behind a cough. Martin looked quickly around, no one was near. The rain began to pick up. The monsters harsh stench crept up and bit Martin's nose, he shook his head in disgust. A cough came from the monster, blood dripping from its sucking chest wound.

“I said, Mercy…” The Beast struggled to speak.

Martin looked down at the thing whose neck curled up to look at him.

“You speak…?” Martin exclaimed, not surprised.

“Yes, Mercy, Please…” It wheezed.

“Why should I show you mercy, beast of chaos…?” He began to pity it, it was losing strength and sinking in a puddle of its blood.

“I'll give you a wish… let me live and I'll grant you a wish… Like I did for that Glatisant boy...” It groaned as it held one of its deformed hoofs toward Martin.

He stared at the horse size monster as it stared at him with cruel eyes.

“You dealt with Sir Glatisant?” Martin questioned. The man lowered his blade.

“He dealt with me indeed. I slew his family, and in return, he divided the kingdom… the chaos is freedom. Spare me and I can give you unimaginable wishes.” It said.

The sword flashed and hacked into the monster's thick neck, drew back, and soard like a lightning bolt and slipped through with a squelching sputter. The Monster's head dropped into a shallow puddle of Mudd, jerked around, coiled in on itself, and died. Martin sighed and looked up to the dark sky, the cold rain running off his steaming face. He heard a splash toward the entrance of the ally and tilted his sword point to meet the challenge. A youngster, not old enough to be a man, but older than a boy stood in the corridor.

“Are you ok?” Martin asked. He took a few steps toward the lad whose mouth was hanging open, stunned by the near-heroic battle that had taken place in his small village. The grizzled man put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Are you ok Boy?” He asked again.

“Yes…” he stammered.

Martin nodded, patted the youth's shoulder and wiped the blood from his blade off on the youth's tattered cloak.

“Sir… why… Why didn't you make the deal? Why didn't you take the wish?” The young man stammered with hesitation.

“Because boy, nothing good comes from making deals with Devils.” With regret in his words, the old man solemnly sheathed his sword, nodded his head, and disappeared into the shadows.

*

“One-half measure of finely diced Henbane petal...” The Volva instructed. Zofia took the freshly gathered flowers and began slicing them, impressively thin for a young girl with one arm.

“Now it's time for the Mandrake root or by its true name ‘Mandragora’. We need a thumb size.” Circi looked up from the large tome of potions and at The small girl who was measuring the human-shaped root with her small thumb.

“Well... let's use mine, it’s closer to the size we need anyway.” The Witch said.

She walked over to the girl and helped her measure the correct size chunk for the potion. She moved back, the cottage floor creaking as she swung around to the other side of the table. Circi looked at the young girl. She slid to the other side of the table and offered her thumb for the measurement, Zofia took a mental note and cut it. Circi went around the table to read from the leather-bound spellbook that was resting on the pedestal.

The floor rasped and moaned as she walked around, the thatched roof leaking from spots of broken moss. The whole house breathed and swelled from the torrential weather. Circi looked outside and wondered if he would return for the girl, or if he had run away again.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Is this chopped well enough Circi?” Zofia asked, staring up at the Witch who was gazing out the small cottage window.

“Yes, that will do. Toss it into the pot child, before it browns.” She commanded, and so she did. Circi fingered the page of the book, searching where she had left off.

“Ah, one whole rose peddle.” She pointed to a large bouquet of flowers along the back of the room near other strange jars and contraptions. The girl ran over and gingerly tore a peddle from one of the flowers and tossed it into the pot.

“Now what Circi?” The girl said eagerly.

“Well… Now we wait for it to boil. Then when the time is ready for you to use it, you Drip a drop of your menstrual blood into it.” The witch said with a wave of her delicate hand.

“Ew, and it works?” She asked, grimacing.

“Any man you use this on will instantly fall in love with you, Promise.”

“Wow…” Zofia muttered.

From outside they heard a noise, the door swung open, and Martin stepped through. He was bearded and haggard. His eyes sunk deep in his head with small cuts on his cheeks from pushing through the thick western brush.

“Martin!” Zofia shouted as she jumped up and on him, embracing his soggy body. He smiled, let out a sigh of relief resting his arms around the girl's head. Circi’s heart swelled, but she turned her back to them and pretended to read from the tome. She heard Zofia giggle and peaked over her shoulder.

“Are you going to be a spoiled egg and act like I'm not even here?” Martin asked across the room. Circi nonchalantly turned around, Martin had Zofia turned upside down and was tickling her.

“OH, Martin, your back. I didn't even realize you were gone.” She said with a wave. She peered at him wondering if he had done what she had asked. He shot her a glance and a nod, and she received it knowing full well what it meant.

“What are you two Witches brewing up, hopefully, something to eat? I'm famished.” Martin asked with a laugh, setting the girl down.

“Well, Me and Aunt Circi made soup from mushrooms and leeks from the garden! Try it, Martin!” She gleamed.

“I would love some.” He said with a smile. Zofia took a hold of his hand and led him to the large wooden table in the middle of the cottage.

“It's great here Martin, she's teaching me how to make love potions!”

Martin laughed and looked at Circi with a warm gaze as they all sat at the table.

The girl was enthusiastically fervent that evening. She rambled late into the night, recalling in great detail every second she and the Volva had spent together. She talked about the herbs in the garden, the snails they collected and roasted to eat, she giggled about how she scared Circi in the middle of the night by waking her up for a cup of water, Circi laughed at how surprised she was that Zofia had a tremendous ability to read and write. Needless to say Martin felt contently warm, not just from the spirit, but because this could feel like home.

Zofia fell asleep on the table, talking herself unconscious. Martin carefully lifted her up and placed her on the mat she had been sleeping on for the past week and a half. He tucked the wool blanket around her and gazed at her peacefulness. With a small sigh, he turned back toward the table hoping to get out of his still-damp clothes. Circi was silently putting away cups and dishes.

“So, you ever use one of these on me?” He said in a hushed tone, pinching the small cork of the Love potion.

“If I did, You would have never left me…” She turned and stared at him with her misty Amber eyes.

“I'm sorry Crici.” He said with a lump in his throat.

“You are leaving me tomorrow aren't you?” they were practically whispering to each other.

“Yes…” He tried to mutter more but she drew closer, they were so close he could see galaxies in her eyes.

“Never mind any of it for now. let's get you out of these wet clothes.” And she kissed him.

*

In the early morning before the sun, while the birds were asleep in their nests, Zofia heard a scraping and faint muttering from the corner of the room. The scraping was soft, like a sharp knife whittling a block of wood. She cracked her eyes, she was facing the wall where dancing shadows conversed in the flickering candlelight. She listened to them talk and giggle, the shadows dancing became erratic. Zofia, in all her curiousness, rolled over to see what they were doing.

Martin and Circi were near the large bookshelf, its old wrinkled shelves adorned with over a dozen candles. A large water basin rested on his lap and a towel wrapped loosely around his neck.

“Not so hard or you’ll cut me…” He said, looking up at the ceiling.

“If you don't quit belly-aching I'll cut you anyway.” She threatened with a smile, dragging a sharp razor up his neck.

Zofia starred in careful content at the half-clothed adults. The Witch gracefully shaved his face, and the man continued to belly-ache. She took the towel from his neck and submerged it in the basin. Circi rinsed his face with the damp cloth, ran her hands across his face, and kissed him lovingly, deeply.

They stood up and started toward the loft stairs. The girl quickly and as slyly as she could, shut her eyes. As they walked past her they stopped and gazed at what they thought was a sleeping child.

“Will she be ok?” Circi asked.

“I don't know… She said she had an Aunt in Awolon, but, then again I don't know for sure.” Martin droned, his tone riddled with uncertainty.

“That abomination is no place for a girl, It's no place for anyone but shambling ghouls. Let her stay with me, let her stay in the forests.” Circi quietly pleaded.

Martin's silence was drawn out and disheartening to both The Witch and Zofia.

“No, I'm sorry… The forests are too dangerous.” He said slowly.

“That’s nonsense, Martin.” She snapped harshly.

“She isn't like you or your sister’s, Circi. She isn't Volva, she is of flesh and blood and needs just that, flesh and blood.” Martin huffed.

Circi’s Stomach tightened in anger.

She turned to him

“And what will she do when the Armies of House Kay-Nel storm Morn Awolon and raze it to cinders? Will you sit passively by while she is raped and sold as a slave?!” She retorted, her voice shaking.

“And what will you do when the wars of Man turn your forest to timber and they burn the roots from the ground? Would you stay and wait for the death of your world for her?!” He yelped

“I would have done it for you if you asked and I would do it for her...” Her eyes burned brightly and they stared at each other in the flickering candlelight.

Zofia couldn't hear anything else but heavy footsteps creaking up the wooden staircase and the light sobs of someone near the table.

*

“Wake up Zofia or your porridge will be cold,” Martin said from the table in the room.

The girl cracked open her eyes, sunlight was flooding in the glass windows of the cottage.

She stretched her arms and popped her back, got up, and made her way to the table. Martin was eating the same porridge that she was eating from a similar wooden bowl as well. He was dressed in the same clothes as the other night, a linen shirt, bark red woolen vest, and the same smelly poncho he’s worn since he saved her over three weeks ago.

“We’re leaving today aren't we?” The girl pouted, splashing her spoon in the slop.

“Yes, we are. I promised to take you to your relative in Awolon, I intend to keep that promise.” Martin said calmly, scraping the sides of the porridge bowl. She was silent and looked around for Circi, but she couldn't hear or see her.

“Where's Circi?” She asked, puzzled.

“She went into the woods.”

“Will she be back to say goodbye?” the girl wondered.

“No.,” Martin said flatly.

“But, why not…” Zofia's heart was breaking.

“It's the way they are.” Martin sighed, getting up and adjusting his pack at the table.

“They?” she searched.

“The Woman of the old forest. Now, I made a pack for you to carry, it'll be a week's walk, do you think you can handle it with your arm?” He said, tightening his sword belt.

“I think so…” she struggled but was able to wrestle the pack onto her back.

“Good… Let's go.” He and the girl stepped out into the crisp morning air.

“Martin, I forgot something!” The girl burst and ran back inside. A few long moments later she came out.

“I'm ready.” She smiled.

*

When Circi arrived at her lodge she found it depressingly uninhabited, only two empty bowls sat at the table. To the Witch's surprise, a small love potion rested on top of a piece of parchment.

“Circi

Use on Martin.

Zofia”

The witch read the note out loud, she crumpled it and began to cry.

*

They walked down the trail for days, uneventful hours of marching, toiling through thick mud and over fallen trees. As the week grew on they started passing more and more people. Ass drawn wagons with emaciated children barely hanging off the side and hobbling settlers all traveling the same long lonely road toward Morn Awolon.

Over the horizon, it showed itself, thick and phallic, black and seamless in its monstrosity. The Monolith of Morn Awolon began to tower above the trees, dwarfing the imagination of man and splitting the sky.

“Wow,” Zofia muttered, her jaw agape.

“Don't be seduced by it, the Monolith is a lie,” Martin said, through gritted teeth. His mouth was grinding and his eyes began to water with rage at its sight, his apprehension had no bounds, knowing fair well what horror that the Monolith was.

“I don't understand…” She asked.

“Perhaps that's for the best.” He answered.

Zofia stared at Martin, his face seemed harsher than he had ever appeared to her. Despite his tense jaw and clenched fists, she saw tears flowing from his single green eye.

They approached the gate, people were shambling to and fro, everyone seemed withdrawn and downtrodden.

“Halt, do you have a permit for that arms?” asked the gate guard.

Martin looked at the guard, down at Zofia, and then back at the guard and simply shook his head no.

“I can't have you entering with the weapon.” The gate guardsman stated dryly as if he had said it a dozen times today. Martin looked at him blankly for a moment.

“But sir, it's my only possession… it belonged to my son, he was slain last summer in the war.” Martin lied.

“I'm Sorry, You'll have to leave it here…” The guard falsely empathized.

“Is a one-eyed man and his crippled grand-daughter such a threat to the church that you would steal his only son's sword from him?!” Martin made a fuss, he seamlessly added an older more febal tone to his voice and posture. With an eccentric spasm, Martin fell to the ground and sobbed.

“Grandpa! Please, sir, let him keep my papa’s sword! Please...” Zofia shouted as she clutched onto the old man. The guard looked around him, people were sneering and shaking their heads in disgust. An older more dignified man with a chainmail coif and a handsome military uniform strode up, halberd in hand.

“Is there a problem?” The gate master asked.

“The man won't relinquish his sword, Sir. He says it's his dead son’s… died in the war. ” answered the gate guard. The older guardsman stared long and hard at Martin and the sword.

“Damn it, let him through, I lost my son to Kay-Nel two winters ago…Wrap it in your cloak and If you draw your weapon at any time I'll quarter you myself.” The Gate master warned mercifully.

Both martin and Zofia groveled at the man's feet till he was uncomfortable with the attention and quickly walked back to his guard post.

As they slinked in under the massive portcullis, Zofia was in awe at the size of Awolon. The buildings were multiple stories, creaking, and swelling with moisture. The streets were twice as wide as any they have traveled before, yet despite its grandiose size it was run down and filthy, Women dumping refuse into the streets from the upper stories, the human waste littered in each and every crevasse. Rats scurried across the ground, large flea-infested cats close behind. The hideous black tower jutted above it all casting a shadow over the entrance of the city.

“That was quick thinking out there…” Martin said with a small heartfelt smile as he patted her head. Zofia just smiled back.

“Now, where does your aunt live?” Martin asked softly.

With a stammer, Zofia just kept walking.

“Zofia, where does your aunt live?” He asked looking down at her, an air of agitation in his voice.

Yet, Zofia kept walking. Martin grabbed her by the shoulder.

“I don't have an Aunt!” The girl shouted as she burst into tears.

Martin’s eyes were tense as he stared at her. He quickly raised a trembling hand and gently laid it upon her small shoulder and pulled the girl in close, embracing her. She cried into his waist stammering and apologized for as long as each breath would allow her.

“I understand but understand me. I will be taking you to a boarding house… I can't stay here and you can't stay with me… Understood?” Martin choked out with some resistance. The weeping child quickly shook her head.

It was most of the early morning until they found The church funded boarding institution for small children either given away or orphaned from the war.

A large cracked sign over the door said ‘Orphan Girls Refuge’ it was hideous and unwelcoming. Martin gently pushed Zofia into the doorway, the young girl seemed uncharacteristically pale. A small bell chimed as they entered the refuge, It smelt of sweat and was uncomfortably humid inside. A fat woman whose hair was tightly wound into a large brown bun in the back of her head, stretching her forehead skin and pulling her eyes wide open, came waddling into the lobby cursing at some children as she entered past the double doors.

“What do you want?” She asked rudely, her voice was raspy and gurgled on the final syllable of each word.

“I'm here to drop this girl off… I found her on the road…” Martin said, guilt tightening his stomach.

The fat woman looked at Zofia and grimaced.

“Gangly little mange… can't sew since you're crippled… looks like it's to the latrine duty with you with you…” She grimaced and with large grub-like fingers, she grabbed Zofia by the stump arm and pulled her toward the back.

“Martin… Please don't let her take me… I want to stay with you!” Zofia stammered, breaking out into tears, and pulling hard against the massive woman's hand.

“He doesn't want you, stop resisting me or I'll have you lashed!” The Fat woman squealed.

“Please martin, You owe me a hot chocolate!” She cried. Martin's heart sank into his chest and he couldn't stand to hear the girl cry so loudly.

“I've changed my mind!” he Hollard.

“Well, that's too bad! She belongs to the church now!” The woman slobbered.

“Let her go or die…” Martin drew his sword the shimmering blade gleamed brightly.

“You dare attack a servant of the holy sun?!” The Fat woman blabbered with hideous laughter.

Martin drew his sword back and lunged forward. The Woman, in defense, threw her hands up blocking her face. And as quickly as they came, Martin and Zofia had disappeared from the establishment, only a small bell chime to give away their escape.