The Baron Zevir plunged the point of his sword into the still form beneath him, grunting with effort and pleasure as the blade penetrated, provoking a gasp from the man who had appeared already dead. As the now truly dying soldier at his feet flailed and grasped at the cold steel robbing his life, the Baron took a moment to savor the man’s futile struggle. As the last cold breath rattled from between blood-stained lips, Gorlocz Zevir withdrew his sword with a jerk and surveyed the battlefield. The fight had gone well for his forces, and they were spread around the once peaceful meadow, looting corpses and finishing off wounded enemies. In the distance, smoke and screams floated up from the nearby village as the rest of his forces “pacified” any resistance there. The Baron breathed deeply, as if he could inhale the suffering from where it drifted on the warm summer air, and strode to find his next victim.
Not far away from the bloody meadow, he spotted a small hut nestled into the trees not far off the main road to the now smoldering village. Kicking in the door, he was surprised to see a wizened old man seated at a table, calmly poking at a bowl of porridge. Herbs and roots hung in orderly bundles around the roof poles of the hut, and a pot bubbled idly in a small fireplace across from the entrance. The old man looked up and smiled. “Greetings conqueror, and my congratulations on your victory!” then turned back to his bowl.
The Baron examined the room carefully, checking for hidden dangers. Seeing none he turned his full attention to the old man. He thrust his boot hard into the small table, sprawling the wrinkled peasant, the table, the chair, and the porridge onto the rough wooden floor. He jabbed his sword point into the man's throat and demanded, "Where are your valuables hidden?" HIs elder victim gasped, "I have nothing but what you see. I'm a simple old nobody with no family to care for me and only what I can provide for myself with these few herbs you see here.” The Baron withdrew his blade, then grinned maliciously as he plunged it into the man’s stomach, carefully to miss any vital area that would lead to a quick death. “I don’t believe you, scum” he sneered, twisting the blade as the old man groaned and writhed on the floor. “Now, tell me where you’ve hidden your gold, and I’ll grant you a…” He paused, “slightly quicker death.”
The gasping face of the man staring up at him tightened, eyes growing dark as the features seemed to melt. The voice that issued from its mouth no longer sounded like a dying old man, but rather a rasping, eldritch rumble that seemed to come from all corners of the hut at once. “I have no gold here, little Baron. Only a project or two, and a disposable shell that I will now have to replace. You have inconvenienced me, little Baron, and now I will inconvenience you.” The body melted, clothes and all, melted and warped, appearing liquid and vaporous shifting, melding. The Baron tried to jump away, but his feet were coated by the strange substance coming from what had once been the gnarled, wrinkled old hands of the hut’s lone occupant. The bright sunlight that had gleamed through the door and various openings in the walls and ceilings grew dim, as the dark vapor produced by the body expanded to fill the space, and the nebulous goo flowing from the now unrecognizable old man began to creep up the baron’s legs, holding him in place. He jerked the handle of his sword desperately, calling for his men, but the sword remained where he had thrust it, firmly in the center of the mass at his feet. And his men were pursuing their own beastly interests in the nearby town, unable to hear his increasingly panicked cries.
The Baron screamed in rage and terror as the substance, now a shifting melody of sickly greens and browns, suddenly slammed its mass up from the floor and into the Baron’s chest, throwing him to the ground so violently that the hardy Zevir nearly blacked out. He came back to his senses just in time to feel the stuff begin to ooze into his skin, sinking through the pores, climbing his neck, through the gaps in his armor, squeezing into every crevice and hole in his body. Finally, as the melted remains of the old man crawled its way into his tear ducts, he saw the darkness in the room begin to fade, and the voice whispered “Run home, little Baron. Run home, before I inconvenience you further.” A shivering laugh crawled across the Baron's mind as he finally lost consciousness.
*****
The bell above the door chimed gently as the young woman entered the expansive bookstore. Sunlight streaming through the large front windows illuminated her path to the counter, where she placed a small stack of books and smiled at the man behind it who greeted her cheerfully.
“Good morning Krosa! Done with these already?”
He set down the steaming cup of coffee that was never far from his side, and picked up the slim volume from the top of the stack. “So what did you think of this one?”
Krosa answered quickly. “Oh I think that might be a new favorite. Short, but full of adventure! I especially liked the part where the wizard accidentally turned himself into a smoked herring, and had to escape all those rats! I read that part to father and thought he was going to die laughing.”
The man behind the counter grinned and reached behind him without looking. A book flew from a nearby shelf and settled gently into his hand, and with a flourish he presented it to the girl. “Volume two, for your father’s edification.” Krosa took the proffered book with delight. “Thank you Dyrik! I’m sure we’ll both find it educational. Speaking of educational, do you have any more volumes from that series on minor botanical cantrips? I swear I’m so close to persuading one of my radishes to weed the rest of my garden, but so far it just keeps attacking the turnips and scaring the cat.”
“Well, I should have just the thing!” Dyrik walked briskly from behind the counter and down the aisle of tall, wooden shelves, stopping at a glass case, which he unlocked with a key that appeared in his hand from thin air. He pulled a worn volume from the case, and returned to the counter, flipping idly through the pages. Stopping halfway through, his triumphant grin told Krosa that he had found what he was looking for. “There you go, lesser magic of Garden Guardian! Play around with that a bit and you should have those radishes marching to orders in no time. Now be careful, play around too much and you may accidentally invade Provints, and the town council would be very cross!”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that now would we.” Krosa grinned. The council was made up of several of the more stolid members of the community, so the thought of invading their next meeting with an army of vegetables was greatly appealing. Seeing her look, Dyrik added one more volume to the small pile in front of her.
“Here, an extensive treatise on the ethical and responsible use of magic. Keep in mind, you may have grown up here but I’m still considered a stranger, and I can’t have Mrs. Piroz at the bakery accusing me of corrupting the local youth!” His face grew serious. “I’ll expect a full report on that one before you get any more. I won’t be responsible for you turning into a power-hungry mage who mistakes ‘can’ for ‘ooh I’ll bet it would be fun to see how many peasants I can set on fire in a minute’.”
She nodded seriously, turning to the door. She paused briefly as she heard the man behind her mutter “89 was the record, last time I checked.” She glanced behind her, ready with a quip about the remark but thought better of it when she saw the look on his face as he stood, staring at his hands where they tightly gripped the sturdy wood of the shop counter. The comment had clearly not been meant for her, and clearly her friend the shopkeeper knew more about burning people alive than she had previously suspected.
She filed that piece of information away onto the small table in her mind where several similar pieces sat, looking like a puzzle of sorts. This was how she thought of people occasionally, as puzzles to be assembled, one piece at a time. Krosa loved puzzles of all kinds, loved seeing them come together to form a picture that was incomprehensible to what could be seen on the individual pieces. She collected puzzles, and in her mind she collected the puzzles that were the people around her. The best part about her people-puzzles was that there were always more pieces, always a bigger picture to be built as you got to know them.
As she walked down the narrow alley where the bookstore nestled amongst the back doors of more reputable shops, she smiled at the baker’s apprentice who stood at the back entrance to his master’s store. The lad was industriously rinsing baking pans in the water barrel, at least when he thought someone might be looking. She added another small piece to his puzzle and half skipped out of the alley and into the market square. Dozens of small wagons, tents, and haphazard stalls sat scattered around her. Behind them stood stately shops; glass windows offering enticing displays of assorted products. Bread and cakes peeked seductively through the panes of the baker’s shop behind her, while further down the square a millinery boasted colorful feathers and plumes perched atop a dizzying variety of hats. She knew well that inside the store the owner had a good selection of very practical headwear, but it just didn’t demand the attention that the ridiculous city fashions did. Across the square, on the other side of the sparkling fountain, stood the Lodge. It was the biggest and most reputable inn and tavern in the town of Provints, and the favored watering hole of the dark-haired man who leaned idly against a pillar on the fountain in front of her.
She slowed, and casually sauntered up to the man, who pretended not to notice her as he burrowed his face into a book. She took a seat on the fountain’s edge, coughed slightly, and said, “You know, those work better when they’re right-side up.”
The man looked up from his ‘reading’ and blinked at her. “Well, maybe that’s how you village folk read books, but as a seasoned traveler I assure you that all the most fashionable people read their books upside down, in every palace and great university across the land.” He smiled charmingly at her. Faint scars ran across his face and neck and spiderwebbed down his chest before disappearing beneath his open shirt. The scars spoke of grievous wounds that had been magically healed by someone in a rush, but it did not take away from the effect of his smile, which he knew to be dazzling.
“Dryik reads his books the right way up, and he’s the most erudite person in this whole province! Unlike you, Gost.” she insisted, with an affected haughtiness.
Gost’s face turned mournful. “Alas, as dear a friend to me as he is, a brother even, I’m afraid Dyrik is hopelessly unfashionable. It’s why he has to hide in his dusty shop down that dreary alley, because he’s just not fit for civilized society. Someday perhaps, I’ll convince him to read his books properly and maybe even stop muttering to himself in public, and then we’ll return to the broad avenues and bright lights of the great cities of the world!” He shook his head, and straightened from his resting slouch, rising to tower over Krosa. In fairness, he towered over most of the people in the village, many of whom accused him behind his back of padding his boots. He contended that he had once been trapped in a cave with only dragon’s eggs to eat, and that a steady diet of those had led to his substantial size. The story he told of how he became trapped in the cave was even less believable, and the version where he explained how he escaped both the cave and the wrathful dragon was so outlandish that only the indisputable facts of his size and his scars kept anyone who heard it from calling him a liar. Krosa itched to know the truth of the matter, but she was also wise enough to be suspicious that arousing her curiosity might in fact be the purpose of the story, so she refrained from expressing interest. Gost was a puzzle with many, many missing pieces. A very large puzzle. With a charming smile.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
She changed the subject.
"So what brings you to town? Shouldn't you be out in the woods hunting monsters and protecting us from hordes of wild bunnies?"
Gost placed his hands on his hips and struck a heroic pose. "I've driven all of the most nefarious buns from the area, and now I’m taking a well deserved rest and cashing in on all that monster meat i’ve collected from the wilds.” He frowned slightly, and added, “In all seriousness Krosa, I’ve noticed an increase in predator activity along the roads between here and Shelbivil. Wolves are especially bad this fall, and some of the other beasts seem restless. Let your father know, he will want to be more cautious than usual if he plans any more trips this year.”
Krosa nodded thanks for the advice. Gost was a large, loud, confoundingly brash persona, but there were rumors in town that he and Dyrik, who had come to the village around the same time, had fought in some far-away war in a far-away land. Just as many rumors listed them as mercenaries, fortune hunters, monster hunters, or a hundred other adventurous and exciting professions. For their part, Dyrik would generally assert that he was a former librarian who had collected so many books that he decided to open a bookshop, but didn’t like working very hard so he opened it in a place where not many people liked to read. Gost had a new story ready anytime someone cared to ask, ranging from being apprenticed to the King’s chef (with extended tales of battling lobsters and other delicacies onto plates) to being the emperor of a distant land across the great sea (never said which one), driven from his throne by Thrathbar the Imperial Eunuch. Oddly, Thrathbar was a recurring character in his stories, although he was not always a eunuch he was generally some kind of villain set on destroying Gost’s life and banishing him to the backwater of Provints. Regardless, if Gost said the roads were dangerous, it was a fact and a warning to be taken seriously.
“He’s actually leaving this afternoon, I'd better head home now if I want to catch him. Thank you for the information, and good day to you!” Krosa hopped from her seat on the fountain and began to walk briskly in the direction of her family home outside of town. A few seconds later, Gost’s long stride brought him into step at her side.
“Krosa, have you given any thought to my proposal?” He asked, somehow managing to look earnestly in her eyes while simultaneously waving greetings to several merchants and weaving through the crowded square. She thought sometimes that the man must have some sort of magical awareness that kept him from bumping into people, even when his attention seemed totally elsewhere. In this instance, on her.
She pondered her response before answering. “Gost, you know my father doesn’t make enough from his trades to afford a guard, and we will not be beholden to anyone. If the roads become too dangerous to travel, we’ll simply hold our goods until the Earl sends someone to make them safe again.”
Gost snorted. “I wouldn’t count on the Earl for anything. He’s a damn fool, and would rather spend his time securing his position at court than securing the roads here. Anyway, that should be the responsibility of your local noble, but since the Earl can’t even be bothered to replace the old Baron you don’t have one!” He shook his head in frustration. “Honestly, considering how far out in the wilderness this place is, and how long you’ve been without a Lord, I’m surprised things aren’t a lot worse.”
“I remember my father saying things used to be much worse. Before I was born, everyone had to travel in caravans for fear of bandits and wild beasts attacking them. So if anything, things have gotten better! Certainly, we have good years and bad years, but overall, it’s not so bad.” She bumped him with her elbow, teasing, “Perhaps we’re not such a backwater as all that, and won’t be overrun with monsters from the wild if left to our own devices?” Gost mock staggered from the contact, rubbing his shoulder ruefully. “Perhaps, but my gut says there’s something else at play.” He suddenly laughed loudly. “Always trust your gut, Krosa! It is truly the greatest of organs. It warns you of danger, and demands the best of food and drink which keeps you healthy and happy if you’re wise enough to listen!”
The girl laughed along with him, but noted the advice as having a kernel of truth, in spite of the joking manner in which it was delivered. Gost seemed to go with his “gut” a lot, and that seemed to have led him through many dangers and to many fine meals. While Krosa firmly believed that there was a lot more to life than good food and not dying, she had to admit that those two things were a solid start to making the most out of existence.
Gost sighed deeply as his laughter subsided. “Well, let me know if you change your mind. It would be little trouble to accompany your father on his trips, and I’d hate to see him come to harm. I think highly of him.” Gost paused meaningfully, and added, “and of you.” He held her eyes for a moment, then veered towards a nearby merchant’s wagon loaded with leather goods, hailing the man seated next to it and striking up an animated conversation about which animals grew the best skin for sword grips. Krosa found herself blushing slightly as she hurried home.
As Krosa approached the rambling, ramshackle house that teetered on the edge of town, she could hear a clanging coming from the workshop sitting behind her family home. She passed through the garden, nimbly dodging the aggressive radishes that snapped their leaves at her. She grinned as she clutched the books in her arms and imagined the possibilities if she could get the garden guardian magic to work. No more marauding moths and rabbits would be attacking her cabbages without a fight! She quickened her pace as a loud bang followed by a puff of dark smoke issued from the workshop. She reached the door just as her father, Polenach, staggered out of it, coughing. Short and slightly round, he leaned against the wall of the shop like an animated pumpkin, smiling brightly at Krosa as she waved away the acrid fumes that swirled through cool autumn air. “Krosa my dear, back from town already?” He wheezed.
She thumped him on the back to assist with his recovery while she considered her response. “Still trying to get that infernal machine working properly?” She asked, temporarily avoiding the question.
“Oh, almost have it. If we could get parts from Dermo more reliably, it would be a lot easier to keep it running, but as it is I think I’ve almost got it in shape. I was hoping to get a few more pieces finished before I left this afternoon, but the gods of alchemy and schedules are against me it seems.”
“Actually father, that was one of the reasons I came back early.” Krosa chewed her lip thoughtfully as she considered how best to deliver her news. “I ran into Gost…”
Her father immediately cut her off “AH! More like he ran into YOU I think. Whatever he told you was likely an invention he came up with in order to have something to talk with you about. The way that man tells stories I don’t know how anyone can take him seriously.”
“Father, you know very well that Gost never lies about anything serious, or that could affect someone's safety. For that matter, I don’t even think I’ve ever heard him say anything that could hurt someone’s feelings, much less lead them into danger.”
Polenach looked her in the eyes and thought carefully before responding. “Krosa, I know he has been forthright with the village since he arrived, but that man has too many secrets for me to trust him. Who is he? Why is he here? What does he want from us, from you? You may find him an interesting mystery but he is dangerous. Perhaps not maliciously so, and perhaps not to us, but dangerous none the less. The only one I trust less is that wizard friend of his.”
Krosa raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Dyrik? What has he ever said or done to arouse your suspicions?”
“That’s just it daughter, it’s what he hasn’t said, what he hasn’t done. Perhaps he’s telling the truth about just being tired of the big cities and wanting to retire to our sleepy backwater to spend time reading and contemplating. But I've met men like him before out in the wide world and there’s more to him than that. Him and Gost, they’re men without pasts and that means they’re hiding something from us. You can’t trust people like that.” He signed heavily as she crossed her arms and placed a hand on her chin, an attentive expression on her face. “Don’t know why I bother. You’ve got that look that tells me all I've done is added pieces to those little mind puzzles of yours. Nothing I can say will stop you from trying to get more, and I’ve accepted that by now. Just, promise me you’ll be careful chasing them? Sometimes when you put the pieces together the picture isn’t something you want to see.”
She nodded solemnly. He was right that she would not let his cautions prevent her from trying to learn more about the pair, but she wasn’t fool enough to ignore a sincere warning from a man who had seen far more of the world than her, and survived it mostly unscathed. There was wisdom there, even if it was overly protective of her. The thought of warnings reminded her of her purpose then. “I’m glad you mentioned being cautious, since that was what Gost wanted me to pass on to you. He said that the forest has been even more dangerous than usual, and that the roads are not safe. He offered to accompany you, but I told him you’d not be beholden”
Her father nodded in agreement as she continued. “He seemed very concerned father. I don’t want us beholden either, and I certainly don’t think we can afford to pay him for his services, but he seemed more… worried.” She frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. Normally he’d just make a joke about having hunted all the dangerous beasts and leaving only squirrels or some silly made-up creature to threaten travelers but I don’t know. He just seemed so serious for a minute.”
Polenoch took his daughter’s hand and patted the back of it reassuringly. “I promise you daughter, I will be careful. And perhaps, after this trip, I may stay home for a while until things get better. In all the time we’ve lived here, we’ve seen this before. Every few years, the forests will seem to overflow with beasts and monsters and all sorts of vile things, but then they clear and the roads are safe once more. We just have to be patient and things will be calm again. We just need this last trip to see us through until it’s safe.”
Krosa nodded reluctantly, then waved her hand at the still-smoking barn. “So what happened here?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Oh that. Nothing major, got the mix a little off on the lakirover and it got…fractious.”
“Again? Father, at this point I figured you’d either have quit or become a master alchemist with all the work you’ve had to put in on that contraption.” She stepped into the barn, waiving at the last tendrils of smoke coming from the strange device that sat near the door. The lakirover had been sold to her father a few years earlier, and now squatted ominously on the barn floor. A square, solid box made up the base, and the top bristled with funnels, tubes, gauges, levers, knobs, and valves. The machine had the amazing property of applying a treatment to wooden objects placed inside it which both strengthened them and cured them to last almost indefinitely. To accomplish this, the machine required an alchemical detergent be added, the nature of which was capricious and somewhat...explosive, if done incorrectly. Polenoch had picked it up for almost nothing for that very reason, and was able to get it to work often enough to make it worthwhile. Using the machine, he was able to carve with softer woods, then harden them in the machine to exceed even the strongest trees that grew deep in the mountain valleys above the village. He was able to turn out toys, puzzles, writing implements, decorations, tool handles, and a variety of other products at a rate far exceeding what he could do if he’d been forced to carve the harder woods. Much less the risk and expense involved in procuring them from the wilds of the great forest. In addition, the need to produce alchemical materials for the device had led him and Krosa both to develop a skill with the potions and powders, so much so that they were able to produce a surplus that could be sold in Shelbivil alongside the wood products.
Krosa approached the machine cautiously, tapping it experimentally with her booted toe. It coughed out a final puff of acrid fumes, then was quiet as she and her father began the arduous task of disassembling and cleaning the device.