Dynamic Storytelling Blog

2001-02-23T17:48:00.000-06:00

Part XII

Johan was stressed out. He paced nervously over the same five feet of Portuguese tile floor, which was arranged in a tasteful pattern throughout all of the hallways in the Royal Residence. “How can I possibly tell her? There’s no way… she’ll have MY head, too.” He desperately needed another chef, and quickly; of course it didn’t need to be said that the chef would have to be outstanding, well qualified, and in the general vicinity, which was not terribly easy, either, considering what a backwater Dryhuvil was generally considered to be. And then there was the matter of the girl that had appeared at the back gate. He knew Martha knew about her, and she probably knew about Hugo Sightmartin’s defection, as well. This was a fine kettle of fish.
The door opened, and out stepped a perfectly coiffed young man, outfitted smartly in red and blue velvet and girt with the finest scimitar the realm could create. (Scimitars weren’t the usual weapon for the area, but of course Queen Martha had insisted. “It gives the romance and intensity of the Orient, don’t you think? Of course, I realize the term ‘Orient’ is terribly outmoded, but you don’t really know what I’m talking about, do you?”)
“The Queen will see you now.” Johan jumped with a start out of his reverie, and hurried into her antechamber.
“Johan, you know how I feel about distractions before my parties. Don’t you?” It wasn’t a good sign to begin the conversation this way, thought Johan.
“Yes, milady,” he heard himself say.
“I won’t stand for anything getting in the way of the realm’s enjoyment, is that clear?” Martha was glaring at him through narrowed eyes.
“It is,” he said.
“Excellent. Let me tell you precisely how we’re going to salvage the mess you’ve made of my plans so far, and after the party we’ll see if you should keep your job. Or your head.”
*****

The Arrendan guards had secured the forest on Cechar’s orders. They knew that their quarry had long escaped the region, so many were puzzled by this. Murmurs of dissent had begun to filter through the ranks, and none of them liked this area. ‘What if the accursed demon pigs come back?’ ‘We’d be hard pressed to overcome their foul magic this time,’ and so on. Velmeer, the head man-at-arms for the Southern Palitinate, watched nervously and didn’t say much. He was reasonably sure they were safe here, but also knew who else was coming.

Cechar himself arrived at nightfall. He was a tall man, or so he seemed. Wrapped in a black cloak, and riding a huge black stallion, he rode into the clearing slowly, purposefully, as if he was smelling for something. Clutched in his clawlike hand was a small carved object with a faintly glowing crystal at the end. Finally reaching the guard’s camp, he dismounted his massive beast, and handed the reins to a waiting squire.
“Mistreat him and it’s your meat he’ll dine on tonight,” hissed Cechar to the boy, who blanched white and scurried off to the livery tent. “Now,” he said to Velmeer, “any signs of our friend?”
Velmeer also looked afraid. The Hrukal hadn’t been freed in years and years, and it had been far before Velmeer’s tenure that the thing had been near the Southern Palitinate. Now they would see how well Cechar was able to control it. As if on cue, the crystal in Cechar’s hand flared red. The small group of guards that had been standing at attention for their Lord’s arrival fumbled for swords and watched warily.
“I know you didn’t kill the girl,” Cechar snarled into the trees. “But you did get what I need for the ceremony. Bring it here -- I WANT IT NOW!!”
With an unearthly shriek, a dark creature dropped from the trees above directly into their midst. It was small, stooped, and covered with short black hair. Its face was somewhat catlike, but massive fangs portruded from its mouth. It crouched on two legs, and the crowd of guards noticed that its arms seemed to be longer than its legs. It glanced suspiciously around before fixing its gaze on the captain of the guards. Velmeer fainted. He would recall later that its eyes were jet black, but still managed somehow to shine.
When Velmeer awoke, the Hrukal was gone. So was Cechar. When he asked a guard about what happened, the guard grunted, as if he didn’t understand what he said.
“Will someone tell me what’s going on here?”
“I will,” replied a voice behind him. Velmeer wheeled around and saw the most hideous thing he’d ever seen – it was a Puppig, grotesquely deformed and misshapen, as if it had been dead for two weeks and reanimated. Its head had been severed, yet now seemed to be crudely fused back onto its body with a small amulet.
“Our master Cechar has relieved you of your command. Your guards now answer to me, who was once called Graken. We ride immediately.”
“What will become of me?”
“You’re going to help me get stronger.” Vermeel suddenly realized he was frozen to the ground; the undead warthog held him there with an icy gesture. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. Graken touched him with a twisted forehoof, and seemed to sigh as energy flowed from Vermeel. His eyes grow wider and wider with horror as he saw wrinkles appearing on his hands, and it seemed that he was shrinking, being dessicated by the sucking grasp of the Puppig. The sinews in his arms and neck stuck out like ropes, his strength was vanishing, and from then on, his hair would be white. Graken finally released him, looking much more fat and almost alive again.
“Arrendan guards! We are the first glorious column of the coming flood! To Dryhuvil!”
“TO DRYHUVIL!!”

2001-02-06T08:50:00.000-06:00

Part XI

Dawn in the realm of Dryhuvil was a sight to behold. Today the view of the valley from the castle was textured and rich. Vegetable and mineral appeared fresh from the iridescent blush of the soft dew - the scenery nearly exotic and tropical but for the chill in the air. It was February 1, summer’s end in this part of the country and now two weeks since Rynin’s brutal assault in the woods.

The Palace of Queen Martha of Dryhuvil stood gleaming and erect in the first light of morning. Gothic moldings, finely crafted turrets, inlaid buttresses, multiple large balconies and carved railings made of the most expensive materials were obviously the rule, not the exception, for this matriarchal home. On one particularly large marble veranda servants and ladies-in-waiting actively fretted here and there, responding with haste to an occasional directive by a strong postured, tight-jawed Martha. She was standing near a Venetian art glass statue, fingering the heavy jewels at her slender neck, eagerly envisioning her magical Valentine evening and talking to her most loyal of advisors.

“Actually, Johan, I’ve decided against the red and white gingham. It’s too ‘country’ – and not rolling hills and currant preserves country, but hayseed and guarno manure country. I think that vibrant berry red upholstery cloth will accentuate the theme more appropriately. What do you think?”

Johan mustered all the sincerity necessary to respond wisely and professionally. “I think upholstery cloth would be luxurious beyond compare, my lady.” He struggled to maintain composure despite the fact he had just yesterday purchased two hundred yards of gingham. “You’ll excuse me madam, for I have new bolts of fabric to buy.”

Johan walked quickly down the expansive hallway toward his office, muttering sarcastically. “Indecisiveness abounds, as usual. I am absorbed completely in her drudgery of undoing daily all that is done before.” Idleness and frivolity over many years had contributed to a contemporary party-planning Queen who hummed and fussed over every last detail. This latest dinner was no exception.

Finally reaching his tiny cold room, Johan sighed laudably and quietly revisited all that had been spent (in time and gold) to plan this special evening. The Annual Royal Valentine Celebration was now only two weeks away and preparations had been underway for months. Already the “Queen’s Quirks” (coined by members of the bourgeois) had created superfluous tasks for her devoted subjects. Every last decoration, from the red and pink silk garland draped on poles of ivory to the fresh 20” bouquets of crimson Amaryllis and creamy Virginia roses to the individually hand chiseled butter cupids for each table setting, was personally instituted and approved by the Queen and universally executed and presented by Johan et al.

All particulars seemed to be in place (barring the recent gingham to upholstery cloth brouhaha). The only item remaining was to double check the guest list before the invitation carriage was dispatched and to discuss the small matter of the quail stuffing with the Royal Chef.

*********************************************

Farrell languished physically over thirst and emotionally over Rynin as he trudged through the arroyo’s dry sand. Summer was at an end and soon the rains would come. At the present however water was a precious commodity and one unseen by the companions for two days. Bastir consciously forced his rotund legs to move all the while unconsciously dreaming of fruit smoothies.

Arva had been preparing mentally for the meeting of the Red Lady during their sojourn without water – a shortage of liquid had only heightened her meditation. Although seemingly kind, the Lady spoke quickly and severely, using words Elves sometimes did not understand. A discussion, especially of this significance, would require focused concentration and ability. Furthermore, she must explain why only one of the chosen had been discovered.

The temperature had been dropping slowly but steadily as they moved forward. Just a hint of pomegranate fragrance was perceptible in the air. They were only a few hours away from rest at Rosemaling Cottage in Yiolyn Haven, the loving arms of Arva’s family and the culinary talents of Bastir the faithful guarno.

********************************************************

Later that day a commotion erupted in the kitchen of the castle.

“I will not change the recipe! I will not do it this time!” bellowed Hugo Sightmartin, the Royal Chef. His wide white belly quivered in anger and irritation.

“But Hugo, it is just a small change and Queen Martha will have it no other way,” reasoned Johan.

“I don’t care!” The enraged Chef shouted at the top of his lungs, globules of saliva flying freely over the clean countertops. “That woman, Queen or no, will not change the ingredients of a quail stuffing served to twelve happy generations of Dryhuvilian sovereigns!”

Johan immediately felt nauseous. Queen Martha was adamant that apples be used to compliment the other ingredients. Hugo obviously disagreed. He already dreaded having to inform the Queen. He didn’t want to see his friend beheaded.

Calming a moment to absorb the implication of his words, Hugo, in a softer, caring tone stated flatly, “Don’t worry, good Johan, about telling the Queen. Because I refuse to change the stuffing, I will leave immediately and flee to the Yiolyn region. She will not know I am gone until it is too late to send out the Knights - as long as I can count on your secrecy.” Chef Sightmartin marched directly to his sleeping quarters adjacent to the kitchen, and hastily thrust clothing, shoes and other essentials into a tattered carpet bag.

Johan looked on in desperation. Following the Chef nervously from bed to hutch to closet to hallway, he tried in vain to convince Hugo to stay. “Please don’t force me into this difficult position. Can’t you see she will demand to know where you went? She may send a contingent to track you down.” Johan was babbling now. “And what am I supposed to do about the cuisine for the Valentine Celebration? Oh no…she will be upset…Lady help me.”

When the odd pair reached the front doors of the castle Hugo turned, kissed his friend goodbye and stole out into the night. Johan watched his chubby friend run from view, still giddy from fear.

Suddenly a moan rang out, interrupting Johan’s silent self-pity. Inspecting more closely, Johan inched out of the doorway nearly stumbling on the small frame of a bloodied woman prostrated on the mud. He lifted her gingerly and swiftly, shouting for the castle doctor.

Turning to her face and the brave expression there Johan whispered, “Miss, what is your name? What happened to you?”

With all her remaining strength, the strange woman muttered, “Rynin…”

2001-01-26T17:59:00.000-06:00

Part X

She had not gone more than fifteen cubits when a soft snap of a branch to her left disrupted her inspection of the ground for any signs of passage. Instantly, she dropped into a defensive crouch with the dirk held firmly in her right hand. Remembering a break in the undergrowth, she darted in a half crouch to the narrow opening. Ducking under the prickly twigs that reached with eager fingers to tangle in her hair and clothes, she hunkered down, hoping that none had seen where she had taken to ground. Eyes distant, she cocked her head minutely, searching the sudden stillness for any further evidence of the clumsy stalker. Minutes passed in complete silence as Rynin focused more and more intently on her surrounds, hoping to detect any discord in the peaceful forest. Her survival may depend on discovering her would-be predator's position before it discovered her own.
As was her practice, Rynin quieted all inner turmoil, the fears and the adrenaline of being part of a hunt - whether predator or prey. As her concentration sharpened, she began to feel a slight draining, as if some part of her were being redirected in a new direction. Her vision wavered as a sudden bought of lightheadedness swept through her. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was passed.
With one hand probing her forehead, she wondered what could have led to such an unnerving sensation. She could think of no explanation nor did she have time. In a flash of clarity, Rynin perceived a man approaching her from behind her hidden alcove. For it was indeed a man who sought her now; a lone guard who had escaped the plight of his fellows, but who now, in his terrible fright and desperation, hoped to repay his troubles.
Had she time to think more deeply, she may have wondered how she came by such an awareness, but her present was filled with the need to evade both capture and further torment at the hands of this monster dressed as a human. And as she recalled her own troubles while held by men such as him, her face contorted into a visage that she would have been surprised to recognize as far more savage than even her predator turned prey. Lips curling in a feral grin, she stalked the man on the balls of her feet, making no noise to warn him of his coming doom.
She broke from the underbrush with a primordial cry and brutally brought her dirk up under the man's ribcage at the same moment that he rose from a crouch to meet the hurtling figure. As she drove the blade home, he grunted and pivoted in an effort to grapple with her. For an instant his advantage in size nearly toppled her; she would stand very little chance if the guard wrestled her to the ground. Desperate now, she rotated to her right and loosed the dagger hidden in her sleeve into the soft flesh of his groin while twisting the dirk that still remained buried in the flesh of his left side.
Screaming, the man's eyes glazed in madness, he defied credulity by continuing his struggles despite the certainty of his own death. Gleefully assuming the role of Death atop his pale horse, Rynin plunged her knives into the man again and again. The blood spattering her with each downward thrust held no meaning for her. She would destroy him. He would pay for trapping her, for hurting her, for forcing her hand, for making her do this.
The blood slicked knife slid from her hand as her strength drained from her as water. The silence was broken only by guttural grunts and heavy breathing. Shaking, Rynin drew her blood soaked knees to her chest and clasped them to her. She had done this. The realization of the butchery she had just presided over sunk into her very bones. Her body rattled in its small frame. She had just done what she had refused to give them the satisfaction of. She had become as they. So strong, she had thought, so strong that she would not break no matter what the pain. And now, she had shattered her humanity in one moment of vile brutality. As she rocked near the corpse that resembled little more than a bloody feast of scavengers, Rynin wondered if she would ever be free of the horror of Elzohr or if she had instead become another horror herself?

* * * * * * * * * *
With a small smile of amusement briefly dancing across her narrow face, Arva addressed the bedraggled and confused manchild, “Young men who run screaming through the woods and collapse at a stranger’s feet should not be so surprised to find themselves elsewhere when they awaken. So long as I have your word that you will not repeat your blunder, I will remove your restraints and we can discuss our situation as reasonable beings, hmm?”
“And if I won’t give my word, if I decline your hospitality? What then?” he demanded imperiously and just a touch peevishly. He had foolishly blundered into this predicament and his face reddened in embarrassment that someone else had not only witnessed the scene, but profited from his stupidity. To mask his chagrin, he lashed out angrily at his captor, “You think this’ll hold me? I’ll choke you in your sleep! I’ll skin your ugly pet and roast it over a fire for dinner!!!!! I’ll flay you both and salt your quivering remains!!!!! Release me before you taste my wrath!!!!” With each bellowed threat, he thrashed violently on the ground in a futile attempt to break the delicate reeds binding him.
Avra regarded him calmly with eyes wide. At last, she could restain herself no longer. A laugh bubbled to the surface, quickly followed by another. Soon she had joined the writhing and cursing Farrell on the ground, clutching her stomach as uncontrollable giggles wracked her body. In an unconscious mockery of his struggles, she flailed next to him.
Further enraged and embarrassed by her display, Farrel thrashed harder and only managed to succeed in breaking the skin of his cheek open on a sharp rock. The sight of blood on his face ended Arva’s merriment. The guarno, meanwhile, continued to emit a series of barking coughs that signaled his own amusement at the funny human now in their care.
“I am sorry. It was cruel of us,” she shot Bastir a meaningful look as she spoke,” to mock your plight. Here, calm yourself and I will tend your wounds and untie you. But, please, for your own safety, do not seek to harm me or my pet as you call him will demonstrate the finer points of skinning and preparing a human meal. He is an excellent chef.” Again the thought of one of the guarno's delectable meals was enough to make her mouth water and return a small smile to her lips.
Defeated, Farrel could only nod a disheartened assent.
Arva spoke as her fingers deftly untied the countless knots binding his limbs, “I am Arva and my friend here is Bastir. He is excellent company and if you are wise you will treat him with the same respect you will show me. I will not tolerate slights to his intelligence and I assure you he is much more pleasant to ride if you are on good terms with him. We will be moving swiftly and the unven gait of my floppy eared friend is not best experienced slung over his saddle if you take my meaning.”
Already feeling the bruises of their short journey, Farrel understood immediately and responded with another nod. Anger gave way quickly to resignation. Obviously, these two creatures possessed abilities that far surpassed his own. Self-recrimination weighed heavy on his mind. He had charged off into battle without bothering to check with the rest of his party. Thanks to his recklessness, Rynin could be suffering the same brutality from which she fought so hard to be free. The thought of those coarse and cruel men lying their foul and greedy hands upon her sweet flesh accompanied a surge of energy and determination.
Struggling to his feet, Farrel turned to face Arva and addressed her in much more humble tone than before. “It is I who should apologize. I… was too hasty in my anger. I rushed to a conclusion about your aims and I sense you mean me no harm else you would have made good on your intentions.” He paused briefly as Arva reconsidered her initial evaluation of the man. Her speculation as to what he hoped to accomplish with his sugared tone was cut short as he spoke gain. “However, your methods leave me wondering your purpose. In my experience, tying someone and slinging them over your saddle is not entirely suggestive of good intentions.” He flashed a toothy grin at the elf as he forged ahead, “As lovely as you are, an even more lovely woman is in dire need of my aid. I ask you to allow me to leave in peace so that I may be at her side.”
Arva’s brow furrowed. “The next time you use that sweet tongue of yours on another female, you may want to avoid telling her that her beauty pales in comparison to some other woman’s. Anyways, I cannot release you. You are slated for the Red Lady. You cannot yet grasp your role in the play that is afoot, but you must trust in me to guide you. Once we reach…..”
“NO! It is you who does not grasp the situation. Rynin may be hurt or in their hands already!!! I must go to her!” Farrel took a steadying breath before continuing, “Please, she barely escaped Elzohr the first time; I do not think they will be so lax with her again. Please...," he entreated, "I’ll not see her tortured again while I have breath in my body.” His voice trailed off at the end and his body slumped in response to his miserable mental state.
Arva’s head stopped mid shake, “Did you say she escaped Elzohr? Only one has done this!” Her mind spun; could this be the other they were sent to find? The Red Lady had not mentioned that they would be traveling together. Seeing the same realiztion dawn in Bastir’s eyes, she reached a decision quickly. “Alright, I will aid you if you pledge to journey with me and hear what destiny weaves around you.”
With no hesitation, Farrel kissed his grimy palm and pressed it to his heart. “You have my word.”
Arva nodded brusquely, hoping that this would not prove to be a waste of precious time. “Let us be on our way. The sun sets in a few hours and it will be easier to find her in the light of day.”
She swung onto Bastir's back, who bent a fore leg so as to better help the two smaller creatures aboard. The small party moved in the direction from which they had come. The dense foliage quickly swallowed them and they vanished from sight.
* * * * * * * * *
The Red Lady turned her gaze from the three racing figures to address other matters, but another being watched for sometime longer with a frightening intensity. He did not like the way these pieces were falling. Something would have to be done. He spoke to his minion, “Summon the Hrukal. It is time he tasted flesh again.”
As the stooped figure left his view, Cechar’s lips curled in a malignant and feral grin. This would be prime entertainment: far better than that crimson bitch’s technological musings. She would dance for him, too. They would all dance on strings in the end….

2001-01-19T15:35:00.000-06:00

Part IX

The Red Lady monitored all of this activity from her satellite home. She was not superhuman. She was not divine. She simply had access to vastly superior technology than the elves and their guarnoes or the puppigs or the humans of this world.

She had superior technology, and a perspective on the world that was much larger and sophisticated than anything dreamt of in its lower denizens’ philosophies.

So she watched and she intervened when she thought it necessary. And if she derived some amount of pleasure from her magnanimity, well, that seemed warranted and harmless enough.

It amused her mildly that the elves referred to her as the Red Lady. They didn’t know what else to think of her or how to describe her and she didn’t give them anything to go on. She happened to wear her red mask the first time she talked with them. Had they dared to ask her why she wore a mask, she would have said ‘They’re terribly comfortable. Everyone civilized wears them.’

She could barter for anything she wanted from the elves, of course. She could trade some small skill or technological trinket or even some valuable material that her fabricators could easily produce. She had thought of actively encouraging a cult of her deity, but had decided against it. So she came mysteriously and tried to guide the beings toward good ends.

She found the elves to be most receptive to her direction, so she invested most of her time with them.

These days her direction was against the guards. She despised their subhuman behavior. She wanted to end their reign of terror. And she believed that Farrell and Rynin were just the ones to do it.

***

Rynin sought out Sozleg. She found him grooming himself near the fire. While she tried to remember that different lifeforms have different customs that are valuable, she continued to find the puppigs revolting. Sozleg’s public grooming was simply repulsive to her.

‘Mighty Sozleg’ she said ‘thank you for your help and your care for me. But the time has come for me to seek out my comrade.’

‘Your comrade is a fool.’ said Sozleg with warthog hair stuck between his teeth.’

‘He may be a fool’ said she ‘but he is also my companion who has shared hardship with me. I must find him.’

‘If you must find him, then you must.’ said Sozleg. ‘But you’ll get no help from us. The elves are involved now, and we want no part of their machinations, or those of their Red Lady.’

Rynin’s head reeled. ‘Elves…Red Lady…’ she said ‘whatever do you mean?’

‘This interview is over’ said Sozleg. ‘I wish you well, but I won’t lift a hind hoof to help you. Your comrade ran off in that direction.’ He gestured with his snout, bloody from ‘grooming’.

So Rynin collected her things, and trudged off into the forest to find Farrell…

2001-01-15T14:12:00.000-06:00

Part VIII

“We were unable to locate the fool.” Jernstul rolled over lethargically, abruptly ending the conversation.

Rynin, thoroughly unable to sleep, peered carefully through the coniferous curtain covering the door of the Puppig den. Her eyes squinted instinctively – the forest, even in the dense thicket surrounding them, was radiantly alive and vibrant in the diamante of an early morning sun. A small creek close by churned and gurgled gladly as birds cast their fresh airborne shadows on its slim banks. The momentum of a light summer breeze reified Rynin’s unspoken pronouncement: “The earth is beautiful.”

Lost in thought, mildly bewildered by the serenity of the scenery and unnoticed by the vast horde of slumbering Puppigs, Rynin privately reviewed the events of the previous day. Her activity had been a manic whirlwind, continuously spinning and madly dizzying, never reaching a resting point. From stormy heights unknown she had now been dropped suddenly into a lair of miniature hogs. Now the whispering waters, the jovial feathered creatures, the comfort and warmth of the silt-covered ground, even the variegated ivy winding dextrorsely from the base of grand trees contributed to rebirth, forgiveness and renovation.

Some minutes later Rynin realized she was smiling. It seemed as the magical beauty of Grackel’s thicket washed over her, confusion and acidulation ebbed. Clarity was preeminent. She was no longer only a woman, propagating gender stereotypes, prone to fainting spells and chauvinistic sexual arousal. Meditation had enriched her dharma and now she would be Rynin.

Sitting up she turned towards the den’s interior, aching to hear word of Farrell. These Puppigs were obviously astute in their tracking ability. Why were they not able to locate him? The warthogs would not keep looking forever.

Rynin was worried but clear-headed. It was time to find Farrell.

* * * * * * *

Bastir, the Guarno trudged doggedly through the undergrowth, the weight of his additional burden slowly him significantly. Arva sat like a stoic finial cross-legged on Bastir’s spacious shoulders, meticulously carving a cameo in a substantial block of obsidian. Small and nimble, she was born to work stone. Farrell’s limp limbs hung lifelessly over the bovid’s haunches.

The unusual trio had been in motion for almost fifteen hours. The anticipation of returning to Yiolyn Haven had motivated Arva to hasten their trip despite her lazy guarno’s protestations. “It has been almost two months,” she thought sanguinely. How she longed to see the sapient features of her mother, the mischievous eyes of her three younger brothers, and most of all the weathered skin of her father’s granite-dusted face. To venture towards the orchard, the quarry and to home was a splendiferous journey.

Bastir finally came to a stop near the edge of a small pond and began to drink. Arva hopped effortlessly off his back, leaving the half-completed ornament in a leather ox pannier. She surveyed their location quickly. Although the surrounding terrain was unfortunately comprised of low-quality limestone (as all Rock Elves know, inexpensive porous stone is not worth scavenging), the water was good enough to drink and scrumptious tulbabi berries grew near by. They would be nourished and rested well in this place.

Bastir meanwhile was busying himself single-handedly lowering the tiny pond’s water table and stripping the berry bushes clean. Guarno adolescents always require ample food and liquid, but today’s respite from movement necessitated overindulgence. To be sure, tulbabi berries were a rare treat, but not even these splendid fruits could compare to the radiant pomegranates from Yiolyn Haven’s orchard. Eating and thinking aroused memories of a time when he had fresh ingredients to create proper meals.

Arva seated herself pragmatically beside the pond and hastily began to wash behind her tiny pointed ears. She glanced at the now tumescent flanks of Bastir’s stomach and knew his thoughts immediately. He was mourning the quality of their recent sustenance. Bastir had an unparallel ability for gourmet cooking.

Elves knew little of guarno legend and tradition in general but Bastir had tutored Arva in the finer points of his culture. While picking pomegranates on a sunny spring day in Yiolyn Haven, a young Bastir had explained in confidence that guarno are blessed with two magical gifts from their parents upon birth. Bastir had received culinary acumen from his father and Norwegian rosemaling artistry from his mother.

Arva was stimulated and thrilled by Bastir’s birth abilities and encouraged him to use them to enrich their lives. Her parent’s wooden cottage was filled with rosemaling surfaces of unabashed beauty and an original five-course meal would melt in their mouths on a nightly basis. Menus of old thrust Arva’s mouth into profuse salivation. Soon she would again be eating tandoori-baked sea bass with pomegranate and apricot chutney…

Awaken suddenly from equally consumptive daydreams, Elf and beast were startled to hear a vehement thud. The forgotten valetudinarian Farrell had returned to consciousness from an exhaustion-induced slumber and, discovering the reed shackles at both his wrists and ankles, propelled himself off the haunches of the guarno. Scuffed and bruised from the unnecessary facedown fall, Farrell attempted arduously to rotate his head to one side. Squinting in the muted sunlight, Farrell desperately shouted, “Where am I? Who are you? And what do you want with me?”…

2001-01-11T21:40:00.000-06:00

Part VII

"Atttttacccccckkkkkkkk!!!!!!" Farrell pulled the sword from his scabbard and ran screaming like an injured nine year old into the forest.
"Your mad partner's gone off bloody half cocked," Sozleg said. "He's running the wrong direction. The guards are coming from there." he gestured toward the edge of the wood with a gnarled, warty, twistedly hoofy hand in virtually the opposite direction that Farrell had run.
For a moment there was an absolute maelstrom of activity. The bloodhounds, released from their tethers, all ran straight through the clearing, past the Puppigs and Rylin and after the streaking figure of Farrell. Rylin, seeing four Arrendan Guards, unconsciously pulled her blouse down slightly, revealing a bit of cleavage before unsheathing her throwing dagger in her left hand and her ebony handled dirk in the right. The vicious looking Puppigs, fiercely brandishing their weapons a moment before, now broke ranks in a flurry and scattered, presumably at some invisible signal by Sozleg. The guards stopped, looked in bewilderment at the scattering porcine phalanx, and then laughed. The leader slowly unbuckled a large iron mace at his belt and moved towards Rylin. The other three, still chuckling, turned and slowly loped after the dogs.

* * *

About a mile east of the clearing of Grakel's tree, a queer beast sat and waited in a small glen. The thing was a fat, red, hairy, flat-backed sort of beast. It looked like a small ox, but its head was buried under a dense matted clump of hair that two spiral horns twisted from. They were locally known as Guarnos, and their bodies were built as thick as two men standing side by side. A thin, elflike figure sat astride the creature's shoulders as it sat firmly on the ground and lazily chewed its cud. The Guarno looked up through the mass of hair at its rider, who was listening intently.
"Listen, Bastir, our cue." The spritely creature reached into a cunning little satchel trussed neatly underneath her cloak. She produced a slender fluted blowgun, carved finely with fair sylvan creatures up and down the length of it.
"I'm still not sure what you expect is going to happen," intoned the Guarno. "Do you think our quarry will just come to us?"
"The Red Lady said he would. Besides, my friend, don't you hear that clumsy thing crashing through the forest?" Saying this, the elfin being placed a dart into the muzzle of her weapon, and held it to her pursed lips. At this, the Guarno raised himself remarkably swiftly to a standing position. His ears, which up until now had been hidden underneath the carpet of fur on its head, now swept up from where they were hanging. Guarnos have large ears, and when they were listening, the fuzzy scoops tilted from side to side slowly like huge lily blossoms.
"Yes, Arva, I do hear the man. And many dogs, too, I think." Bastir began to scan the rise ahead of them intently for signs of their target.
"Leave the dogs to me." And as if on that signal, the figure of Farrell crashed through a shrub at the top of the hill and tumbled down it. Striking nearly every stump, boulder, and thorn bush on the way down with an accompanying obscenity, Farrell fell finally in a clump at the feet of the Guarno.
The elf and the beast traded glances, as if to disbelieve the ease of their task. As Arva put away her blowgun, a passel of hounds streamed down the hill, no longer barking.
"Hello, my darlings. Yes, I love each one of you!" Arva excitedly greeted the dogs, licking the first one on the nose. The dog licked her back, and she scratched each behind the ear and gave it a morsel from her satchel. "Now, those nasty men that keep you are about to come back and ruin my plans," she said sternly. "Go eat them! Eat them now!!" With that, Arva pointed to the top of the rise, where the first guard appeared huffing and puffing as he tried to catch its breath. The Guarno began chuckling, as the dogs turned and ran swiftly up the hill snarling.
"Wha. . . poochy, good poochy. . . AAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!" The guard screamed in abject terror and ran from sight.
Within five minutes Arva had Farrell securely tied to the back of the Guarno and they had disappeared from the glen.

* * *
"So, milady, have we met before?" The guard held his mace in front of him lazily, as if not concerned in the slightest by this slight woman with a weapon in each hand.
"Ever been to the dungeons of Elzohr?" Rynin spat the words from between her clenched teeth. Elzohr had been the scene to her most awful trials -- and most bloody escape. The guard paused, as if taken aback by the notion of this near legendary criminal, and then stepped towards her.
". . . he should be good for a ransom, don't you think, Yenzlik?. . . "
". . . at least 40 gold, I'd reckon . . . "
Hearing this exchange behind him, the guard turned and saw a line of forty Puppigs advancing from all sides, dagger length short swords held by twisted hands. Seeing his predicament, he dropped the mace and held up his hands.
"Don't hurt me, demons!! I have a wife!! And a pension in only two months!! Please don't kill me, uh, huh, huh. . . " the guard began blubbering incomprehensibly. Rynin scoffed in disgust.
"You deserve anything we do to you. Now pull out those hand irons from your belt and put them on yourself," commanded Rynin. Sozlek walked up from the line of Puppigs.
"You've handled this situation well," said the former warthog.
"Next time, tell me to run too," snapped Rynin. "Now where's that Farrell? I'll be damned if I let that fool get killed by those dogs. And why do you have hands, when Graken only had hooves?"
"Graken didn't wear these more human trappings that we do, either, and probably fouled the earth of his den with his own filth as well," said the old chief haughtily. "As for your companion, he may be lost. However, I can tell from where I stand that you cannot fight nor run any further tonight. We must create a shelter and make our hard decisions by morning's light." With that, Sozlek made some strange grunting noises and the whole group of Puppigs threw their armor and weapons aside and began digging feverishly at a small earthen bank on the outskirt of the clearing. "As for this guard, hmmmm." The grizzled old piggish humanoid listened to the distant sounds of screams and barks. With a knowing smile, he turned to the guard. "Run away, but run that way." He pointed towards the direction Farrell, the dogs, and the guards had run. With a crazed look in his eyes and his hands still shackled, the guard did just that.
"Jernstul! Fervlin! Come here." At his command, two young pigs scuttled quickly out of the rapidly expanding hole and ran eagerly to Sozlek. In a soft voice he said, "Take one or two of your group and track the stupid man. Bring him to camp or report on his outcome. And find out why an elf is involved here. Go now!"
By the time Sozlek turned back to Rynin, she had already collapsed in exhaustion.

Dawn found Rynin awake in a well camoflauged den, expansive enough to accommodate the troupe of Puppigs strewn about the floor around her, and branches cleverly placed to hide the opening. She awoke with a start, and saw the scout Jernstul asleep by the door. She shook him hard, and cried, "Swine!! Where is Farrell? Where is he?!" Jernstul awoke suddenly and bleated, ". . .

2001-01-10T19:52:00.000-06:00

Part VI

...with a blinding blue light. As she grasped the amulet, she felt power surge through her. Frantically she sought to focus and tame the tide that washed over her. Completely frenzied by recent events, all she wanted was for
everything to stop, to stand still for a moment. No sooner had the wish clarified in her mind than she felt the power sharpen and twine with some part of herself. To her amazement, a tendril of energy reached out towards
the nearest warthog and encased it in a blue sphere. With growing swiftness, tendrils sprang forth to capture the advancing beasts. Within seconds, each warthog was bound in, what appeared to them to be, solid air.
Ignoring the slumped form of Farrel, Rynin paused in the sudden stillness to examine what had just occurred. She had to make sense of the world again if she were to see them through this.
She was painfully aware that they had just walked blithely into a trap and had barely managed to extract themselves. Tired and desperately seeking even temporary security, Rynin had foolishly ignored the signs of someone attempting to alter her perceptions of reality. The glowing disc was obviously a grounded magical charm which did much more than provide illumination. Within its circle of light, a person's mind becomes open to
manipulation. Each subject experiences a different reaction, but invariably it is one that goes directly counter to their normal behavior. Scoffing at the need for faith in some higher power, Rynin believed only in herself.
Normally the most staunch of fighters, she was unaccustomed to the grip of paralyzing fear that had seized her. Her mind had nearly shattered under the fierce mental blows that rained upon her as she sought to regain control.
Slipping into unconsciousness and thus escaping the disc's hold on her conscious mind, Rynin was able to recover from the effects.
Unfortunately, Farrel remained awake long enough to be more seriously affected by the magic. He was naturally a slow thinker and preferred to avoid rash actions that could land him in trouble. As the magic took hold of his mind, he lost all control of his temper and suppressed aggression. All the frustration of the hunt had flared into relief in his face just before he struck her down. She was not sure, even now, why she was not dead. Crazed as he was, it was astonishing that he could differentiate to any degree friend from foe.
She cursed herself again for her stupidity. She had long since began sensing currents in the air that no one else seemed aware of. She had an innate sense of some things. Intuition, for her, was certainty. Very rarely, she could alter the dynamics of what she sensed in small ways: make someone believe her when they doubted or protect herself from harm.
The 'feminine wiles' that Farrel seemed so disgusted by were usually an unconscious manipulation of the man's desires: a sort of diversionary tactic. What Farrel could never understand is that in every man with whom
she flirted, she had sensed a desire to do harm. Usually, the man was bent on taking the affections from her that she now refused to give to any man willingly. If the man's desire to do harm was great enough to put her in
serious jeopardy, she found that she was able to alter his mentality and redirect his thinking. Lacking conscious control and physically equipped to deal with most threats to her well being, her attempts to use her magic
faltered and she was forced to resort to the cruder tactic of befuddlement by beauty.
On the cliff, she had desperately sought to summon the magic by placing herself directly in danger, but she had had no chance to see if such a deliberate ploy would still be effective since her would-be hero had leaped
to the rescue. She would have to do something about that protectiveness later, but then it had saved her life. She simply could not count on her powers.
Somehow the amulet had altered this truth. Power that had in the past only responded on an instinctual level, was at that moment as tangible and easy to direct as her dirk. The implications of such control were enormous. Rynin cast a speculative eye down to where the amulet lie against her breast. The odd sensation she had felt earlier was no longer present, but she could still sense a power lurking, crouching in the shadows. It had been such a swell of power that in its absence, she felt empty.
Dismissing the mystery of the amulet from her mind for the time being, Rynin turned her attention to her companion. She hoped that his brief moment of sexual exploration was at an end; it had been entirely too uncomfortable to see the almost prudish man fondling himself. She may have a reputation for being free with her affections, but most of that reputation was earned and used to further her own schemes against the interlopers in her land. A woman needed to be perceived as cold, unfeeling, and brutal if she were to survive. She had long ago learned the price of forgetting that reality.
As the last of the fog hazing her mind lifted, Rynin turned to address her captive audience. Bound as they were, they were not even free to move their tongues and the resulting silence soothed the last of her edgy nerves. The odious little furballs all wore leather armor with varying amounts of ornamentation. Many of those with gray surrounding their tusks had not only the most silver ornamentation, but also silver hoops fastened
to the skin of their snouts and extra chins. Deciding that age and hoops denoted rank, she turned her attention to the most grizzled and bejeweled of the warthogs.
"Your comrade is dead. He unwisely attempted to ensnare us in some magical trap. As you can see, we are not easy prey. Should you wish us harm, I will simply leave here for the Guards or the beasts. If you wish to be of some assistance and can convince me of your sincerity, you will suffer no harm. I warn you, I will sense any attempt at deception and such an attempt will be punished severely."
The hog just stared at her unblinkingly and she belatedly recalled that the little thing could not speak. Not sure that she could release his gag and still maintain the binding on the others, Rynin hesitantly embraced
the amulet and concentrated on allowing only the leader to speak.
So intent was she on succeeding, she was startled by the aged and gravelly voice which addressed her. "Fair lady, you mistake our purpose. Graken was an exile among us. Gifted as he was with metal, we banished him for deeds similar to what he has evidently done here. Please be assured that we wish you no harm. Our outlooks spotted you as soon as you entered the woods. Our hunting party quickly mobilized to intercept you in the hopes of preventing this very confrontation." He leaned forward earnestly as Rynin took note that her magic had evidently loosened his limbs as well as his tongue. He continued, "Long has Graken obstructed the trade and normal relations of our Southern territories. There are no end to the wild stories that people have concocted urrounding his exile and subsequent activities, but the truth may never be known now.” The warthog seemed to feel genuine regret at the loss of such information or perhaps, given the artillery he and his fellows were toting, he lamented the missed opportunity to pry the information out of Graken.
“But what the hell are you?!” exclaimed a slurred, yet unmistakably frustrated voice.
Rynin turned to see Farrel standing with legs spread awkwardly as he clutched the pommel of the saddle next to him. The look he shot her was befuddled and pained. She felt little remorse for kicking him; the alternative of leaving a crazed, sexually deranged, and violent loose while she lie hapless on the ground was simply unacceptable.
“What we were was warthogs. What we are is more difficult to explain. Suffice to say for the moment that we are more human than you could credit. We call ourselves Puppigs and call these great woods home. Centuries ago, the Emperor forbade anyone from entering these woods for fear of rumors that savage beasts with frightening powers lurked in the darkness of the forest. Miles of land where no light ever reached the surface provided ample romping ground for an endless variety of monsters. Travelers disappeared and were later discovered at the forest’s border inside out, strangled with their own intestines. The demons enjoyed playing with their victims and they considered all of humanity their eventual prey.
Despite the truth of these stories, we chose to call these woods our sanctuary. In the years since, we have developed a sophisticated society in a land where none can disturb us or enslave us again,” he finished with a morose look at the humans before him.
“How is it I have never heard of you? And what sort of stories surround this….Graken? Why the interest in us?” Rynin demanded impatiently. She was growing tired of the little man, she could not think of him as a beast when he spoke so well.
The man cast an anxious glance overhead as a small bird flew by. “ The eyes are out tonight in force. They hunt,” he virtually whispered. Then he seemed to get hold of himself, although the fear still remained in his eyes. “Come, we must go. The Leerats are searching the outskirts of the forest. They will report back to your enemies. The time has come for a decision. Do you trust what I say enough to come with me into the darkness of the forest and see our city? Or will you remain here and leave us defenseless against the certain evil of what follows?”
The man was fighting for the life of his people now and she was struck by the determination in his voice. Her instincts told her that this man was hiding something, but he had not yet actually lied. Without waiting for Farrel’s consent, she spoke, “Yes, please. We will follow, but remember my earlier words.”
Farrel began to voice an objection, but Rynin had already unraveled the bonds holding the rest of the troupe. She moved close enough to whisper in his ear, “We have no choice. We are too drained to stand and fight; I’m bluffing and he knows it. We will die here for lack of trust.” His eyes met her own and he nodded briskly.
“Lead on…..,” she began.
“Sozleg. But we have no time for introductions. The Guards were nearing even as we departed. We must make the shelter of the denser forest; they will not follow us there.”
As he swiveled to suit action to words, Farrel’s resigned voice spoke, “It may be too late…” The sound of baying hounds filled the night, echoing his assertion.
Rynin’s head spun. Should they flee and hope to make safety in time or stand and fight with the Puppigs? Farrel took the decision out of her hands.
He shouted, “…

2001-01-09T13:29:00.000-06:00

Part V

"No!! No, no, no! What on Jesus' sweet green Earth am I doing here!?"Farrell seemed to be bellowing at himself rather than in response to the warthog's question, "We're being hunted by crazed guards, my brother isdead, the lady is fanatical, and I am TALKING TO A WARTHOG!! All I ever wanted was a little bit of excitement, I said 'just something to spruce up my life' - to cure the daily boredom of village life, and nightly exhaustion of sheep chasing - and WHAT DO I GET!? A talking, monster-truck racing, warthog."
As he paced the oval of the inner tree, Rynin sensed she had better do something. The warthog had been taken aback and now stood huddled in a far corner of the room, hooves clutching the shiny object dangling from its neck.
"Now Farrell," she was up and active once more, seemingly unaware of her own outburst just moments ago. The women of Arrend has long harbored that special ability. Eyes flittering, reaching deep into her grab bag of feminine wiles she continued, "it's not soo bad..."
SMACK! Farrell had busted her in the nose with the butt of his scabbard. His motion was so quick and effortless that she hadn't even seen it coming.
"Whuuuu..." the warthog began, but could not finish his simple inquiry. With the same grace and smoothness that he had used to contain Rynin, Farrell unsheathed his man tool and separated warthog-head from warthog-body. The head flew across the room caroming off an old oaken desk, taking with it some random scattered papers as it rolled onto the floor next to the crumpled mass of Rynin.
Seconds ticked for an eternity. Farrell surveyed the room and saw that it was a nice atmosphere, nothing overwhelming. The decorating was rather impressive for a warthog he thought to himself. The oaken walls and furniture was given a nice ambience by the high tech disc-light-thing. The color scheme and post-modern art hanging on the walls meshed nicely. Save for the giant sized monster truck this place would provide fine material for the Better Homes and Gardens Animal Abode issue.
Farrell's glance turned to the floor. "Hah. Why'd you paint red splotches on the floor you moron?" He returned his gaze to the lifeless lump that once was a talking, magical warthog. "Ach, what happened!? Did I do this," impersonating the best Shakespearean soliloquy he could muster, Farrell began prancing about the room with dramatic flair, pointing to the fallen beast and to himself and to the heavens. His voice trailed off, "But wait! There is a greater question at hand: if I wreaked this horrible fate upon my poor helpless, but magical, warthog friend and yet do not remember thither my actions wither thine woe alas?" He had begun to confuse himself. "Am I a woman of Arrend?!?" His hands traced the masculine curves of his body finding all vital appendages indicating man. He found this diagnostic check to be quite comfortable and the tingling sensation his body felt led him to make a mental note to himself to perform this routine maintenance on a regular basis.
A stir from behind interrupted his mental sticky note. "Oooh, shiny." The voice was Rynin's as she came to for the second time over the course of several minutes. Kicking the decapitated head to the side, she stooped down and placed the silver necklace and pendant around her own neck. Once again her voice seemed in awe, but this time it was several pitches higher, "shiny." Her voice stopped short of repeating the word 'shiny' a third time as she seemed to remember exactly why she had been unconscious this time around. She bolted towards Farrell, who seemed to have one hand down the front of his pants and the other tracing the curves of his torso. She had reached a considerable speed when her boot was swiftly and precisely planted on the very spot he was so enthusiastically fondling.
"Let's go" her words were firm and allowed no room for misinterpretation.
She hoisted Farrell up and onto the back of his horse and proceeded mount her own steed. The magical charm burnt slightly on her revealed chest. It was more soothing than irritating so she left it for consideration at some other time. For now her mind was occupied with an urgency to exit the tree, the forest, and all of these lands that filled her with memories of death and sorrow.
As she lead her and Farrell's horse out of the animal's tree home, panic was added to her urgency. Several hundred little torches were held by several hundred little warthog's arms. Maybe they should have just listened to the magical warthog's story. Guided by her instincts, Rynin clutched the valuable looking charm that she had just obtained. A brilliant flash filled the forest.....

2001-01-08T10:28:00.000-06:00

Part IV

…a bright orange 1951 Ford truck frame atop a World War I era tank chassis, the headline "EXTERMINATOR" affixed in obese graffiti letters to each pudgy side of the beautifully designed classic. Rynin stared at the strange beast, her eyes as large and round and bulging as over-meringued mile-high lemon pies. "What is it, Farrell?" she whispered, choking slightly on her own spittle. "I'm frightened."

Farrell drew his sword, just as afraid of the unknown metal Balrog as Rynin, pulling her diminutive frame closer to his own, hardly straining his brutish biceps. He was naturally a selfish being, but the last few weeks had made him instinctively protective of his lifetime companion. Oh, how he treasured her bravery, her boldness and most of all her heart-shaped face. In his boyhood days he would hold onto the memory of her face and weep bitterly in his bed as Rynin scampered away with his brother to her father's hayloft.

The obtuse warthog was meanwhile watching their amazement from the sidelines, paying the vast majority of attention to an appetizing pile of worms and grubs he was hastily consuming. Surreptitiously he turned and adding to their confusion he gleefully shouted, "the body of EXTERMINATOR used to be a Ford Aerostar, much like the Bigfoot Fastrax, but Kyosho Toys convinced me the S-value of the Ford exterior far outstripped the minivan's worthiness…and the rest is history."

Rynin pivoted violently towards the warthog. She stood hopeless and frustrated before the warthog as he giggled, slurping slimy grubs through all facial orifices. Was she in the midst of some horrible nightmare? Had a powerful sorcerer sent them to a world beyond imagination? Her face stung and her mind swirled with unwanted images and colors. Every sense loathed her physical being, her brain was a heart-shaped pillow used as target practice for murderous naked cupids. Feeling backed into a corner, trapped in a place not made for her to witness, lost in a frantic struggle to overcome hysteria, Rynin resolved to fight the figurative battle with consciousness and a physical war with the plump pig. Drawing her sword, she screamed her village's battle cry into the dim chamber of horrors. "Onward, Christian soldiers," she shouted in a vain moment of perplexity and insanity, tears mixing with stalactite drippings down her cheeks. "May the forces of Jesus' shield come thither and protect us from the unholy EXTERMINATOR and its demoniac creature master."

Rynin could feel her legs giving way to the sharp force of gravity. Memories of her unvanquished kin and notorious sexual history swept over her in a wave of panic and fear. Twinkling sparks of unimaginable brightness entered her field of vision and a moment later she collapsed in the muddy wash of the tree hollow floor, unconscious.

Farrell exploded with anxiety, suddenly aware of the small shadow next to him falling to the ground. "Ryyyyynninnnnnnn," he bayed like a heavily coated she-wolf mourning the loss of her unborn young. "Ryyyynniinnnnnn!" His empty howls went unheeded, drowning in the darkness of the warthog's titillating torture.

The warthog, leaving the remaining remnants of gluttony on his small dinner table, still with a childish smirk on his repulsive snout, stood up to approach the unresponsive girl. With a careless glance at Rynin's body he shook his head and muttered, "She obviously has deep-rooted personal issues which must be addressed immediately." Then, softening his smile and his posture he added, "I didn't mean to frighten her. I'm just a monster truck buff."

Farrell's concern for Rynin faded slightly as her consciousness quickly began to return. As she moaned and muttered her way back to reality, Farrell was overcome with a surprising sense of humor at the unfolding events. He slipped his sword back into its scabbard and let his jaw relax.

"You see," said the warthog in the high-pitched voice of an eager toddler, "I recently raced this baby in the PACE USHRA World Finals. Would you like to hear my story?"

Farrell looked dearly at the waking Rynin, taking notice of her beautiful figure and soft features. He glanced over at the furry face of the warthog, worm mucus clinging to his nasty forehooves as he feverishly moved his legs up and down as if to prevent urination. He understood they had reached a turning point in their adventure. Farrell looked deep into the puny eyes of the warthog and bellowed…

2001-01-05T11:21:00.000-06:00

Part III

"Quick!! Fly!" Farrell grabbed Rynin by the hand and they ran down the muddy path.
"You didn't have to kill the horse," Rynin said between clenched teeth.
"I don't suppose you had a better idea," answered Farrell. "Methinks using the dumb beast as our shield was a fine idea." They jumped quickly down the hillside, rapidly moving from the naked cliffside into the woods.
"I could very easily have used my feminine wiles to free us." Rynin could not forget the sight of the horse.
"What's done is done. Besides, how many men do you need to bury your dirk in just as they are feasting their eyes on your heaving bosom?" Farrell always harbored a bit of resentment towards Rynin's never ending flirtatiousness, even when it had managed to save her life before.
Rynin ignored his comment. She did know how to use a dirk, and a dagger, and a stiletto, and most other sorts of piercing, stabbing, penetrative edged weapons. It was her specialty, if you will. Ever since her escape from the guards armed with only a sharpened comb and a hat pin, she had trained herself incessantly on the killing arts.
"Look, the guards are evil. They've perpetrated horrible crime and lawlessness on our nation. But what did the horse do?"
"Oh, hush, woman. Now we've had to turn back from the path. How are we possibly going to escape to Dryhuvil if the pass is taken?"
It was a hard question. They had thought their only chance after the harrowing escape and journey was to flee to the neighboring country in hope of telling their plight to Queen Martha. Now they were stuck at the border in the dark forest that both shielded them from their pursuers but also seemed to suck the hope from their souls. Hearts weary and soaked to the bone, they decided to make camp. As the rain stopped, Farrell stiffly unpacked his tinder box to find some dry kindling. Just then, they realized they weren't alone.
"What's that, an ugly boar?" Farrell saw a chubby, squat thing dart from tree to tree just on the outskirts of where their lantern lit the area around where they sat.
"I'm a warthog, I am," called the fat little creature. "You are trespassing."
"Can't snog your way out of this one," chuckled Farrell to Rynin. "I don't imagine pigs like girls obsessed with horses."
"Hold your tongue, manspawn. Justify your presence or I'll run you through with my tusks." Farrell bristled at the comment, but then had to stifle a laugh at the thought that the two inch tusks could do anything to his well made armor.
"Um, gentle animal, we flee the evil guards of Arrend, who are this moment cutting down your forest to light their fires," said Rynin, eyes wide open for maximum earnestness value.
"Hrrmph." The warthog paused. "The lady has a sugared tongue. Very well, I shall listen to your plight But it is almost morning, and soon the scum shall scour the area for you. Let us hide here until nightfall."
And with a bizarre motion, the little warthog sat back on its haunches, and began using its front hooves to rub a tiny metal amulet that hung from its neck. With a blinding flash, a large hole opened at the base of a large tree just in front of the party, and horses and all, they scampered in to a huge, warm, dark room. As their eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by a glowing disc in the center, Rynin and Farrell were shocked to see. . . . . . . . . .

2001-01-04T20:23:00.000-06:00

Part II

The first guard came at them with determination. He wasn't in a hurry. Where were they going to go? They weren't going to get away again. He hefted his spear and closed to attack.

Farrel was used to quick action. It had kept him alive this long. He jumped from his horse and closed with the guard, deflecting the spear with his sword, but only long enough to get by. He was no match for the guard's armor or trained war-horse. He wasn't about to try to trade blows with him, here on the cliff face, mounted, and certainly not on foot.

After blocking the spear, he went to work on the horse's right foreleg. He aimed for the side of the knee, even behind it if he could reach, and slashed with all his might. The horse reared and neighed in pain, totally surprising and unsettling its rider. It was a credit to the guard that he stayed in his saddle. A moment later he wished he hadn't. The horse came down, and leaned forward and cliff-ward, favoring the wounded leg. The guard pitched forward. Farrel raised his sword with both hands and struck the exposed neck, biting deeply. The guard hung lifeless from his stirrups.

The other guards watched from behind, essentially helpless to assist. Now they wanted into the fray, with a renewed desire for vengeance. But they needed to get by the maimed horse. Or use it to their advantage. They tried to drive the poor creature toward Farrel and Rynin, hoping to force them over the edge, or down the path where the soil was washing away.

But Farrel was ready for that, too. He had already lowered himself in front of the beast. And as the guards goaded it from behind with their spears, he pushed against it and stabbed with his sword. The horse leapt from the path and the cliff in fright, carrying its dead burden with it.

2001-01-04T13:56:00.000-06:00

Part I

Farrel clung to his saddle as the darkened skies unleashed yet another torrent of rain upon his unsheltered head. For a moment, lightning illuminated the narrow and precarious path that wound around the cliff. In the brief illumination, Farrel wearily lifted his head to verify that his companion had not succumb to either the elements or her own exhaustion.
She rode hunched in her own saddle, seeming lost within her own exhaustion and grief. Then, surprisingly, she lifted her head and the cold, determined gaze she directed at him was anything but defeated. Somehow, that brief look bespoke a strength that far outstripped his own and yet, was he not the one sworn to protect her? Of course, when he made that solemn vow four years ago, the charge had seemed much easier to fulfill. Now, the older brother to whom he had made that pledge was dead and Farrel felt the weight of his responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders as it threatened to bear him down.
His task was not made easier by the reality that his brother’s betrothed was no longer the girl she was when he pledged to protect her. Slight of build with a sweet, heart shaped face, Rynin appeared in need of a watchful eye. Her beauty often attracted the rougher variety of men and her small frame seemed scant protection against their desires. Now, while her face remained beautiful, it had hardened and refined. As such, Rynin had lost the last semblance to maidenhood she possessed. After the ministrations of the guards, any other claim to maidenly virtue had been likewise shattered. Three years in their brutal hands was enough to break many of the fiercest warriors in all of Arrend, but this woman chose to be remade rather than allow anyone the satisfaction of breaking her. The inner changes in her personality was mirrored on the surface. Fighting for food and plotting the demise of her captors had turned what little softness she possessed into sinewy muscle. Farrel wondered, not for the first time, whether his dead brother’s betrothed was the one in the pair to need protection.
Rynin’s eyes returned to the trail in front of her. She did not care for the hesitant and cautious manner in which Farrel regarded her- as if she were some strange and dangerous beast rather than a lonely and confused woman. He had always been open and kind to her in their lives in the village. Even as children, Farrel had always shown a sensitivity towards her that was unusual for a boy so young. He had grown into a handsome and strong man, but he would never match the stature of his brother. Born one year behind Driek, Farrel always seemed to hide in the shadows. Fiercely loyal to his brother, Farrel simply chose not to compete with him and risk bettering the man he was in awe of. It was not a matter of intimidation. Rynin could never have agreed to marry a man who was in the habit of using his size to manipulate someone so obviously devoted to him. Rather, it seemed to her that Farrel simply could not conceive of besting his brother. He had always been content to be the average man with the extraordinary brother. Now, Farrel no longer had a man larger than life to cast a shadow over his life and Rynin no longer had the man she loved. They had both lost much when the village had chosen to stand against the guards and their demands rather than acquiesce and be subjected to their harsh discipline and so-called justice. Now, she and Farrel were all that were left of their village and the memories of loved ones lost haunted them both as they fled along the mountainside. She had been taken and remade by guards that saw no threat in her wandering the grounds and improving her strength. They took greater pride in their conquest when Rynin fought harder and yet still was defeated and ravaged time and time again. They were not permitted to disfigure or handicap her, not for her own benefit, but because it would spoil the fun for others. Her limited freedom, beauty, and growing strength served only to entice the men more fully. They had underestimated her and they had paid dearly for it. Her long raven black hair swung into her face as another gust of wind pounded against the trail. She knew they would not make the same mistake twice and now they sent all their might against the two figures creeping along the cliff face.
Again lightning illuminated the trail and in the sudden brightness, Rynin saw that the trail ahead had been washed out by the hammering rain. Only a sliver of unstable mud remained to testify that a trail had once existed at all. Farrel turned in his saddle, perhaps to suggest they back up, but he pulled up short. His brown eyes widened in shock and horror as his hands sought his sword desperately.
Then over the fury of the rain came the scrabbling sound of metal or claws against stone. Rynin narrowed her green eyes determinedly as she raised her arms. They would find her no easy prey. If they wished to take her again, they would feel her bite as she went down. Reading the same determination on Farrel’s face, she turned to meet their enemies with him…