There ain’t no kind of preparation that can brace you for the sight of a true monstrosity. The sort that nightmares tip their hats to and skedaddle out the back door, not wanting to be caught in the same room. That’s what stood before me, a four-legged beast that seemed to be cut straight from the night sky, made of a glowing smoke material that flickered like flames in a breeze.

It revealed its true self slowly, its body a writhing hiss of ethereal, flame-like tendrils. A shiver ran down my spine, not from the chill, but from the knowing that whatever was about to unfold was a dance with death herself.

“Shit!” I hissed, drawing back my club and prepping for something that would likely be powerfully dangerous and definitely painful. What in the hell was I supposed to do against…against a creature who looked less corporeal than a Friday night paycheck on Sunday morning? There wasn’t much I could do, save for scream and maybe die uncomfortably.

No, I thought. No, that’s quitter talk. I may have always been the type of guy to begin urgently updating his last will and testament the moment a case of the sniffles come on me…but one thing I am not… is a quitter. So, reminding myself of that, I began to try to plan.

Keeping my distance seemed the right thing to do. Ain’t no shame in sizing up your opponent, especially when they look like something the Devil himself would think twice about petting. I still had my club and spear, almost like old faithfuls, and they felt reassuringly solid as part of my ensemble. I examined the way the thing moved.

The beast prowled like smoke on water, unpredictable and fluid. That was bad, yeah, but there had to be some way I could do something about it, right? Surely this Trial was designed for people with my exact…well, lack of raw potential. I supposed it could have been that any previous iterations of potential Knights were much more appropriately geared up for an encounter like this one. But, I couldn’t think about that. This was the first stair on the Trial, and whether I wanted to be or not, I was here. On the path of the Knight—God, I couldn’t believe that was a word I was using—to take up the mantle I’d apparently inherited. So…Leo Trask could do this. He had to. He didn’t want to die. He was also now referring to himself in the third person—and that was nearly as worrisome a prospect as facing down whatever the blazes this fucker was.

The critter of shadow and flame didn't bother with any warning before it came at me. One second everything was still, the next it was all a flurry—aggression personified—that didn't give me any time to think. I barely had the chance to know it was on me before I had to jump out the way. I landed on my side, and rolled, but getting back up was harder than I thought on account of needing to maintain my grip on the club.

This monster, made of some sort of ghostly fire, didn't chase like nothing I knew; it just shifted, bending the laws of nature I'd learned. Seemed like it didn't need to turn at all; it just was where it needed to be, phasing through its own body and out the other side, facing me down with a cold, hunting hunger.

It came at me again, its claws cutting the air like it was born to it, fierce as any wild thing and as sharp as a duelist's blade. Me, being the practical sort, tried to block it with my club, the way you'd fight anything solid. But that's when it hit me that this thing wasn't like fighting normal sorts of creatures. My club swung right through and nearly sent me sprawling. I was all over the place, but it wasn’t—the beast struck true and hard, claws raking against my side, tearing through my lab coat and cutting a shallow gouge into my flesh.

The pain lit me up like fire, and fear followed quick, not of the cut itself but of what might come from it. Tetanus. Or whatever this world called cat-scratch fever. My head filled up with notions of lockjaw and stranger sicknesses from this foreign land, fears that would've been distracting if I wasn't in such a fix.

I bit back the hurt, forced myself to stand straight. My usual ways of fighting—whatever they might’ve been—were no good here, against a shadow that hit like angry lightning.

However, it was at that moment when my chest started to buzz and rumble, and I looked down to realize that it was the damn compass tucked into my bandolier. Thinking I could maybe use it as a projectile against the beast, I snatched it up.

Hell, I’d forgotten about you, little guy. Guess you’re going to need to give me a bit of—ugggh!

Everything lurched in my vision, and this time—I was sure of it—I was having a stroke. But, once my adrenaline spiked I realized very quickly it weren’t no cerebrovascular incident…this was magic. Galdur, or what have you. The compass pulsed, and an aura of pale light pushed out from it in my hand, sending ripples out in a wave. Ripples.

Time started to slow, and I nearly rolled my eyes so hard they got stuck, because I shoulda seen this coming. The pulsating wave happened again, but slower, and the world around me got real quiet. What was worse, I felt the base of my skull react to this pulsation, vibrating each time it happened. This thing and me were apparently on the same frequency—tuned into the same channel—and before I knew what was what, that faded magical energy began to solidify. But what was more, it started yanking light from around the shitty little arena I was in. The braziers, full of blue light, began to tilt, and the sapphire glow within started spilling. Now, I’m not a scientist—and I definitely didn’t know enough about magic to be considered well-read—but I’m not sure how that worked. Still, like the compass had an invisible straw attachment, it began almost sucking the light from the braziers.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Long strings of blue mist stretched from each hanging light source, surrounding the compass, drawn into its orbit until there was a ghostly shape in front of me formed outta the shafts of illumination. It congealed, sorta jumbling itself around before arranging in a way that looked sorta human. Then, almost like adjusting a microscope, it suddenly blinked into focus, taking the shape of a man—a blue-white man made of mist, but a man all the same. My first thought was: this guy looks like a homeless Santa Claus.

He was gaunt in the face I could see beneath a big, bushy beard. Thick eyebrows. A jaunty fur hat that seemed like it was sewed together from eight different squirrels. He had on some kind of ratty cloak, hanging loosely over broad shoulders. A piece of his left ear was missing and across his left eye was a scar that looked like he’d received it from a very thick-but-dull machete. The pupil of this eye was split in coordination with the scar. Honestly, on second thought, he looked goddamn terrifying.

“Aye, kin. There you are,” the man said, before I really had time to wrap my wits around the situation. His voice was rough, like a man who’d spent a lifetime smoking and shouting. “Which one’re you, then? Bjorna’s boy?”

“Pardon?” I wondered, not exactly sure what to make of this talkative specter—especially since I had this wound in my side and that was the primary concern at the moment. I’d been preparing for a confrontation, not…whatever the damn hell this was.

“Ah, ye daft sod!” The man exclaimed, scowling. “I said who are ye? Which prospect? Ach, by the Bog, boy! The future is doomed if this is the state of the youth! Not like when I were in the draw for it.”

“What?” I asked again, still trying to understand if this was the compass, or some spirit attached to it, or something else entirely. “You’ll have to excuse my ignorance—I’m bleeding out over—”

“‘What,’ he says! What! Ye can’t be one of Bjorna’s children—dense as ye are, she’d have slapped ye to death before ye could grow tall enough to embarrass yerself.”

There was a pause as the specter looked around.

“Where are we, then, boy—Trial? Which portion?” without waiting for a response he made an about-face and tsked. “Ah, the Betri Will o’ Wisp. Still early on then.” Then Saint Nick turned again to face me, looking me up and down. “That’s fitting. First actual fight and all. Still time to weed out the…”

He squinted at me then.

“...skinny ones.”

“Pardon, sir,” I said, still just…existing in the space of stopped time while a huge beast loomed in the background for the second time in a matter of hours. “But, who might you be? I’m not trying to be rude, but…well, actually, I’m too stressed out right now to care—who the hell are you? Why do you keep calling me boy?”

“Ooh, there’s a feisty ‘un, eh? Found ye fire did ye?” Santa mused. Then his tone and body language shifted as brought his arm up—as though he was preparing to slap me himself. “Watch ye tongue, swampling! I’ve a mind to wallop ye for speaking to an elder like that. Maybe ye are Bjorna’s welp! Disrespectful. Don’t think I won’t sort ye out up and down this stretch of swamp, boy.”

Well, I’d tried to be polite. But sometimes Southern hospitality can only get you so far.

“Alright,” I said, sighing. “I ain’t got time for this, old man. I’m not a kid, I’m a full grown adult—nearly thirty years old! I ain’t going to sit here and listen while some geriatric coot of a ghost pretends he’s got any kind of authority over me. So, either you tell me what your purpose here is or I’m going to huck this compass into the sticks. I’ve got a monster to fight and you’re gumming up the gears.”

This seemed to give the specter pause, and I watched his mouth work wordlessly as he tried to come up with something to counter me with. However, after a moment of what seemed like extremely painful contemplation on his part, he dropped his arm and gave me a good hard look. Then he nodded.

“Why ye so old, then?” Was all he said.

“What? I’m still young enough,” I said defensively. “You’re one to talk, though. You look like you’re made out of strained back muscles, grandpa.”

“Ach! That’s not what I meant, ye great lump of a boy!” Santa continued. “What I mean to say is that ye are a tad on the mature side to be taking the Trial, aren’t ye?” He looked me up and down again. “Late bloomer, maybe?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said, boy!” He continued. “If ye are as old as all that, then ye are over a decade later than the rest of the lot, aren’t ye, now? Though I’m not sure ye’re giving yourself an advantage.”

“Wait…” I had to consider this. Something was clicking. First what Myri had said about my late arrival and now this? Was I supposed to have done this…earlier? As a teenager? “What’s the usual age?” I finished.

“Ach! Ye should know as well as I, boy! Can’t be so long removed that the Trial has moved past the usual ten-and-seven years!”

“Seventeen?!” I nearly shouted. “They’re sending…children into this fucking meat grinder??”

“Aye, boy…” Santa continued, though he sounded unsure of himself. “...do…do ye really not know?”

“Well, I do now,” I said. “This is all fresh information for me, gramps. I ain’t exactly familiar with the goings-on ‘round these parts. They sent me to another world and I just got back. I don’t know much at all, in fact.”

It seemed like in most movies and shows I'd seen where there was something special about someone, they hid that fact from the world. Tried to find ways around admitting their ignorance and overall suspect origins. But I wasn't about that life. No, sir. I was going to make sure everyone I encountered knew I wasn't raised in the Boglands, that way they didn't make the mistake of thinking I was some idiot, rather than a foreigner. However, the specter seemed to accept this new information with shock rather than disbelief or malice. His mouth hung open as he took—what I can only assume was—a false breath.

“What now?” I groaned.

“Another…world…? I can’t...believe it…” he muttered, staring off at a blank patch of air. “They used the Utvandring…”

“The, uh, what?”

But he didn’t seem capable of listening to me. After a moment more of his post-life crisis, he leveled his gaze on me, settling into an expression more grim than the grave.

“Then...they’re all gone?” He asked. His voice was flint and iron. “Clan Trask? They’ve been...culled?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

It took another few seconds for the specter to regain his faculties after my confirmation—apparently this was heartbreaking news for him. I kind of felt bad that I was the bearer of such awful tidings, and if I’d known the impact, I likely would have chosen to deliver it a bit more diplomatically. Still, I can’t be blamed if some agitated apparition ain’t clued into the local gossip.

“Well, then, boy,” the specter said finally. “Suppose ye are the only one who matters, then. Right.”

His eyes locked onto mine.

“...So, ye’ll be needing some assistance.”