War from Gloam Grows

War from gloam does grow, doom from deep.
At the edge of daylight, darkness creeps.
White Lady shines when’s time to sleep.
On down on ground forever lie
Beneath the light of bright forever sky.

Ago, ago, began the flow of power
And strength: opposed in dusk an’ opposed in dawn.
And thence that eddying, estuarial bower
All earthly life did spawn and flower.
Yet, mixed betwixt the beats of blood and breaths,
‘Twas also the birth of diametric strife
Created through inherent frictions’ depths
In balancing and driving life with death.
So up through those ebullient waters sneak
Tentacles, occluding with elation
To snuff the spark in inky darkness’ beak
And deep aphotic devastation wreak.

War from gloam does grow, thinkest not
Vorpa’s disrobing matters aught.
White Lady cools what burns too hot,
An’ tamed in flame forever vie
Beside the lights of bright forever sky.

On up, on up, come bubbling tears of earths;
Then down, then down, they pour forever lower
Together, seeking more and more ‘til curse
Of drowning deaths does froth and roar—a hearse
Borne swiftly out to sea. Yet warmth does rise,
Out of drowning depths, the resonating dew,
Which waters life upon all life from skies
A-dimmed by seeming gloam, a rude disguise—
Or ‘haps a truth revealed by lack of Sol.
Too much of one, too little the other, takes
The same in course whichever source: control.
Beware, it’s bits of both that makes us whole.

Soul from Sol does glow, hope from strength.
Forever’s measured in moral lengths.
White Lady comes to forge the links
Of He of She forever tied,
Become the lights of bright forever sky.

A Drift on a Bay

[Names of places and denizens of Azeroth are the property of Blizzard, Inc. This work is intended merely as a writing exercise placed within the wonderful universe they have created.]

South of the verdant forests of Ashenvale rise the craggy Stonetalon Mountains, whose jagged heights tower above western Kalimdor like a brooding giant. A range of lesser ridges cuts east across the continent, dividing the well-watered northern lands from the drier savannas that stretch on to the horizon like an ocean of grass, wavelike hills rolling gently up and down not unlike the shoulders of a loping Tauren, whose nomadic people wander the savannas, ranging out from the green hills of Mulgore in the west, forcing the Quillboar to carve out their thorny communes in the drier lands to the east, their spiky backs pressed up against the Great Sea and the Southfury River.

The great river, swelled from its final pass through Ashenvale, its banks lined with basking crocolisks, flows with power and danger in its mad rush to complete the final leg of its journey and embrace the Great Sea. Its waters divide an expansive, red-burnt peninsula from the savannas. Here boulders pile on top of one another, and cliffsides crumble down into wadis and twisting gullies. No grass grows in these harsh lands, where even the red dirt is baked by the sun into hard-chipped stone, though patches of cactus crop up in shallow depressions of sand. Even the savage Quillboar rarely traverse this rocky land, though their animal counterparts grunt and root amongst the rust-colored soil.

Along the peninsula’s eastern coast, where the waters of the Great Sea wash up against the rocky cliffs, lonely palm trees rise intermittently in the dull brown sand. The waves drift languidly in and out, quiet and unhurried, their motion smoothing the sand flat like glass until it becomes difficult to discern exactly where the land ends and the sea begins.

At this shore’s northernmost extreme, where the arm of the Stonetalons plunges into the Great Sea, a curved promontory juts out like a splayed claw, cutting a shallow bay from the peaceful waters.

A tall ridge forms the chine of this scythe-like cape, but along its inner edge lies a wide, flat swathe of muddy brown sand that reaps the detritus of the sea. The Great Sea, in accordance with its own unfathomable reasons, casts its currents so that its trash slowly, inevitably drifts into this shallow bay.

Shalaria could have chosen to hermit herself in the crags of Stonetalon, or even the mossy reaches of Feralas, but it was here that she settled, in a cave overlooking the reef-filled bay teeming with fish she often caught and roasted over a fire, and it was to the hot and salty sea air that she inevitably returned at the end of a her months-long forays. It was quiet enough: Easily bypassed on the west by land, and circumnavigated for its useless shallowness by those in ships. Nevertheless, it brought her nothing but trouble.

Driftwood, battered pieces of ships, and seaweed all washed up on her shore, tangling her feet and stubbing her toes. Once, the carcass of a great threshadon beached upon her doorstep, stinking for weeks as the crabs and seabirds slowly whittled away at the mountain of flesh, until only bleached bones and a faint odor of decay remained.

She called the bay Trash Heap, a place where the Great Sea swept its garbage to hide it from the world. And so she also called it home.

[End Friday Challenge Submission]

In the evenings Shalaria would rise and clear a circle of sand, piling the driftwood and seaweed into an unlit bonfire, and begin her training. The night air floating over the bay cooled her and tugged at the edges of her wraps, fluttering them in the wind. The sand flattened beneath her feet, feeling more like a single spongy entity than a multitude of tiny grits, though the perpetually presence of grains in her hair and between her toes reminded her of the sand’s true nature.

After training, she would check her lines, and then prepare a meal. Then a swim in the dark bay, replacing the salt of her sweat with that of the sea. Afterward whatever task arrested her attention she completed, finishing the midnight meal shortly before retiring as the seabirds called to daybreak.

That night, as she strode onto the sands, magic burned her eyes amidst the faded backdrop of the dusk-darkened shore. Her first thought was that the bay had yet again brought her trouble. It was not demonic, but it was not normal, either, to affect her vision so. It glimmered from amidst a pile of wreckage that had washed up onto her shore.

Shalaria approached the pile of jetsam cautiously, then bent over to inspect it closely. A girl lay atop the wreckage, her body slight and small for a night elf. Shalaria touched the girl’s skin and found it still warm from the day’s sun; she was not dead.

Shalaria ground her teeth. Trouble.

Sneak Preview: Emissary of the Loa

For, as Irontoe put it, the eight people who will eventually read the full work of Saturna's history, here is a sneak preview of the battle sequence that will end Chapter 9. First draft version.

The sandstone walls of the Coliseum, constructed from monumental slabs laid one atop another, rise sixteen and a half Zandali spears above the jungle floor. Alcoves dug into the stone contain images hewn from the yellowish brown walls themselves: an homage to the mighty loa that had raised the Gurubashi into an expansive empire that had stretched fully across the southern reaches of Azeroth. At one end hangs Hi’Reek, upside down, wings spread in acceptance of her jungle tribes; at the other sprawls the eight legs of Shadra. Between these prowl the patient and wise Bethekk and the powerful striped form of Shirvallah. And in the center, gazing down upon those who enter the gate, flies the mighty wind-serpent of Hakkar, the new might of the Gurubashi Empire.

Higher still, in the upper terraces, symbols of the lesser loa are etched in relief, signs of power used by the mighty shadow hunters: Legba, Lukou, Ogoun, Dambala, Shango, and Samedi. Everywhere the hollow-eyed skull of Mueh’zala can be seen, and rightly so, for each time the Coliseum’s gates swing open countless souls meet death within its walls.

Drumbeats boom from the tops of the walls, tumbling down the stadium seating to whirl as if a tempest of throbbing sound on the arena floor below. The tropical sun burns brightly down upon the sand of the arena, but the audience is spared from its relentless gaze by canvas stretched over the seating area and held aloft by a system of ropes operated by accomplished Gurubashi sailors. Their nets, pulleys, and canvases tilt and swivel to not only block the sun’s heat but also capture the cool sea breezes and funnel them over the sea of spectators within the stadium.

And today, perhaps as never before, the grand Coliseum of the Gurubashi Empire is crowded beyond capacity. Trolls from every tribe of the Gurubashi have traveled to witness the challenge, overloading the stadium to the point where they have been forced to double up the rows, with some standing on the seats so that others might stand in the legroom to the seats’ fore. Young trolls ride the shoulders of their parents; a line of trolls perch atop the stone archway across the gate, their legs hanging off the edge; small trolls clamber up to sit upon the statuary; some trolls even hang from the nets of the awning (if not chased off by the sailors). Every nook, crevice, or hole in the wall has been seized by enterprising spectators looking to view the Battle of the Gods.

Seeing all of this, Zul’feriti is glad of the reserved seating earned him by his favored status as the sponsor for the Emissary of the Loa. He shoves his way through the packed crowd to his place of honor on the jin’apa. Here the various tribal leaders, witch doctors, and shadow hunters sat. Reaching his designated seat, he gazes out at the exuberant crowd of his people, every one excited at the prospect of blood and glory to be seen this day. The savage Bloodscalp with their scarlet-dyed hair, the ancient Zandalar bedecked with their fetishes and moss-woven hair, the powerful Skullsplitter in their dark blue hues, and the panoply of color that comprise the resourceful Darkspear: though gathered in pockets of their own tribes, for the most part all these are mixed together amongst the Gurubashi who had united them long ago.

Hanging across the stadium to the side of the main entrance, Zul’feriti’s eye is caught by the blood-red awning covering the jin’apa of the Atal’Ai. These sit apart from their brothers, holy and reserved in their devotion, marked by purple-dyed or white-bleached hair and flowing robes: an isle of green skin in the blue sea of the stadium. To Zul’feriti their separation seems all the more ominous in light of the events about to take place. Bethekk had warned him once of the danger of raising one’s self above one’s brethren.

Zul’feriti’s ears prick at a shift in the drum-beats; a hushed silence falls over the arena. The drum players then bounce a drag, rolling it into a deep bass rumble, vibrating a humming throb into the air that Zul’feriti feels pulsing against his body and pressing in on his ears. Then the steady clanking of chains and groaning of wood break through the thrumming sound of the drums, and the multitudes burst into wild cheers as a flat cart bearing the Champion of Hakkar is rolled out into the arena.

Four Atal’Ai warriors heave against poles protruding from the sides of the heavy cart, the force of their exertions slowly turning the wheels across the sandy arena floor. From each corner of the platform a wooden stanchion rises thick as a tree. Chained to these stanchions is Atal’alarion, the Champion of Hakkar. The colossal troll bellows and strains against his bonds, so strengthened by the rage of the blood god that the stanchions bow and bend ominously against his supernatural muscle. Even the dark god’s detractors cannot deny might and the potency of his gift.

With a simultaneous boom, the drumbeats end, and the Atal’Ai warriors finish wheeling Atal’alarion onto the field. Once again a hush falls over the Coliseum as the everyone stares in awe at Hakkar’s champion; and for his part, too, the massive dire troll ceases his strainings and glances about in confusion at the sudden silence.

Zul’feriti gapes at the gargantuan beast. Even without the platform, the dire troll stands half again the height of a regular troll, and his immense girth expands as wide to the tips of his elbows as he stands tall. The muscles of his thick shoulders, arms, and legs ripple and bulge, their definition clear even from the jin’apa despite the monster having ceased straining against his bonds. His broad, bat-like ears extend horizontally like a female troll’s rather than vertically like a male’s, though any doubt to Atal’alarion’s sex is obliterated by the tremendous size of his tusks. Thick around as a troll’s arm, they project an unbelievable half-spear in length, bedezined in jeweled rings and tipped with gold.

An odd reddish brown tinges the moss on the dire troll’s body, and Zul’feriti surmises the blood of souls sacrificed to Hakkar has drenched the champion’s body and then caked dry. Over this, yellow paint has been used to mark mighty symbols and flames across the muscles of his arms and back. Lightning bolts are painted across his face.

The span from the stands to the arena floor condenses the lines of the four Atal’Ai warriors, rendering them faceless symbols of a troll and stripping them of any personal details that might grant them the sympathy of the audience. But the incredible size of Hakkar’s champion plays tricks with the misperceptions of distance, so that movements such as the flexing and unflexing of his hands in anticipation are yet seen with detail, as if only a spear-length away. Yet the bulge of his eyes, the heft of his chest as he breathes and blows spittle—this is all dissipated over the stretch between the floor and the jan’apa, leaving the image of Atal’alarion powerful and unreal, as though not forged of flesh but of stone animated by the gods.

The Atal’Ai warriors, looking like miniature cave drawings in comparison to the sharp detail of their monstrous charge, move as one to the end of their respective poles and face the platform. Behind Atal’alarion, the main gate groans as it begins to swing closed. With a simultaneous dexterity, each of the warriors seize the poles and hoist them upward; on the cart, the stocky stanchions suddenly drop partway beneath the platform’s surface. The warriors then pull backwards to free the polls, immediately turning and running through the narrowing gap at the gate. They dared not even look back: already the bloodrage of Hakkar is upon their champion.

The stanchions fall slowly outward, their descent retarded by the friction of the chainlinks, gaining momentum as they near impact with the sand of the arena floor. At the same moment they collapse into the sand, the chains come free. Atal’alarion seizes the links of chain that dangle near his palms (the ends still fused to the thick manacles at his wrists) and begins twirling the fetters as if a sling. In astonishment, Zul’feriti realizes that the irons which had restrained him from destroying his keepers were intended to double as a flail in the fight.

With surprising alacrity for his bulk, Atal’alarion leaps sideways from the cart and by a vertical arc of his arms converts the momentum into a two-handed overhead chop with his shackles. Splinters explode outward as the cart shatters in half. Appreciative cheers call down from the stands. The dire troll raises his massive arms in triumph and roars along with them. He makes his way over to what had been the front axel of the cart and, with a mighty sweeping blow of the heavy irons, cracks it in half. With continued encouragement from the spectators, he trudges around to the back wheels. Skillfully, the Champion of Hakkar slings the fetters, wrapping them around the rear axel and remaining wooden pieces. Using two hands, the monster hurls the weight, smashing it against the spiked arena wall. One of the wheels continues to hang in mid-air, held aloft by the black iron of a wall spike piercing through its side.

To his shame, even from the safety of the jan’apa, Zul’feriti barely keeps from trembling in fear. To think that the loa might have chosen him to face this behemoth! Certainly he would have been torn limb from limb by the might of Hakkar. Zul’feriti watches frozen in terror as the colossal troll whips the sand of the floor with his massive irons, scoring through the fresh sand to reveal gouges of blood-stained dirt beneath.

With a start, the witch doctor suddenly realizes that if he is no match for Atal’alarion, then how much more so the emissary the loa had chosen! These many weeks he had done what he could to teach her to fight in tandem with the loa’s blessing, and though she obviously had some experience with the subtleties combat, he knew that in an open fight he could probably defeat her himself—were it not for Lukou’s favor upon her. Her abilities might be remarkable for a zufli, but she lacks the raw speed and power of male warriors. What can she possibly do against the awesome might of Atal’alarion?

A murmur beneath the cheers of the crowd snaps him from his panicked reverie. He looks up to see the dark opening of the smaller side gate directly opposite the main and from it, walking steadily forth into the burning light of the sun, Saakesfonla, the chosen Emissary of the Loa. In one hand she carries a long-spear, ruining the chance for distance to hide the fact that she stands barely over a half-spear in height. Though not a shadow hunter, a ceremonial kaz’kah covers her face. From behind it two slender white ears rise and a tail of platinum blonde hair tumbles. The bright rays of the sun reflect a blinding whiteness from her frail, pale form that blots out any more details. But, despite her ears, it is obvious that she is a diminutive female.

At the sight of her, jeers begin bubbling up within the roar of the crowd, joined by more and more, until the entire stadium roils in derisive laughter. As the nearby tribal leaders share in this raucous scorn, Zul’feriti stares fixedly into the arena to so avoid giving any the chance to cast their ridicule toward he who named the loa’s emissary. A bead of sweat stings his eye and he wipes his hand across his forehead, smearing his ceremonial paint.

Atal’alarion is going to slaughter her. She will be slaughtered and then the Atal’Ai priests will choose his soul to sacrifice to Hakkar. Dismayed, Zul’feriti pulls on his tusk. Certainly she never had any intention of winning! She seeks to have herself killed at the hands of Atal’alarion, to finally find rest in Samedi’s embrace, and Zul’feriti would also die for her foolishness!

Then a sparkle of sand at Saakesfonla’s feet dances in his eyes, and he reminds himself that the loa will not abandon their chosen emissary. He remembers the words she had used to reassure him: “Why else would the loa allow me to challenge Hakkar’s champion, than to clearly demonstrate that by their power he was defeated?” He imagines Bethekk and Shirvallah prowling to either side in pace with her measured steps, the wisp of Legba darting about her feet, the cold grip of Mueh’zala at her hands, the life of Lukou beating in her breast, the calm of Samedi at her lips, and—though he cannot see them—the merciless gaze of Ula’Tek in her eyes. He chants a prayer to Ula’Tek, for without the crafty serpent’s help, how will she ever overcome the monstrous Atal’alarion? Too much weighs on the outcome of this challenge to fight only in the honorable spirit of Shirvallah. Valor has already been shown by entering the ring, and so no reason exists to handicap herself further in facing the bloodrage of Hakkar. If Ula’Tek wishes to take Hakkar’s place in the primal pantheon, then now is his chance to strike!

Still—and Zul’feriti rebuked himself for his lack of faith—he cannot help lamenting the absence of Ogoun. The potent venom of the loa’s dark magic might have evened the field between these two opponents, giving Saakesfonla an attack on Atal’alarion not dependent on physical contact. Or even Shango! But in the sky above the sun shines brightly, not a cloud in sight, and so the chaotic loa of thunder had not arrived to pour out judgment on Hakkar’s minion.

If it must be physical combat, then Saakesfonla’s victory depends on quickly gaining the upper hand by critically wounding her opponent in the first or second exchange—because clearly (Zul’feriti glances at the remaining rubble of the cart) if Atal’alarion lands the full-force of one of his blows on her it will spell her doom, Lukou or no Lukou.

If only she can—

Deafening cheers in the stadium jar Zul’feriti from his thoughts. The massive ball of muscle and the diminutive white speck are both charging one another! The witch doctor can see the dark void of Atal’alarion’s gaping mouth, though he cannot hear the monster’s bellow over the roar of the excited crowd. Plowing forward like a landslide, the dire troll raises high his left hand in preparation for a brutal strike with his flail. Without hesitation Saakesfonla sprints forward like a Stranglethorn raptor, the back of the spear her tail. Thanks to the telegraphing of his strike, she manages to side-step the crash of the heavy chain. Sand flies into the air and obscures Zul’feriti’s view of the clashing opponents. His heart pounds in his chest as he sees Atal’alarion’s other arm rise above the cloud and strike down quick as lightning.

Then out from the falling sand stumbles Saakesfonla. His heart lunges into his throat. Has she been hit?! No, merely off-balance from narrowly dodging the second blow! But her spear is missing! Has she landed a hit? Yes, there, the shaft extending sideways from Atal’arion’s knee! Not only has she dodged the deadly lashing of the flails, but she has pierced through the monster’s knee! The hope and relief causes Zul’feriti to nearly leap for joy.

Below, the bright speck of Saakesfonla continues to pedal backwards, Atal’alarion chasing her with horizontal swipes of his fetters. Even limping from his wound, the dire troll almost overtakes her with each step. He stops and allows her to skip away to a safe distance. Letting forth a deep, booming laugh, he reaches down to the spear shaft protruding from his knee and jerks it out. A plume of blood splatters across the sand. Gripping the spear from either end, Atal’alarion raises it high above his head and snaps it down over the same knee from which he had plucked it. The two halves seem like twigs in his massive hands, twigs which he tosses disdainfully into the stadium crowd.

Zul’feriti’s heart falls. Saakesfonla is weaponless.

Atal’alarion wastes no time in charging his unarmed opponent, raining down a flurry of strikes with his irons. A dodging game ensues, Saakesfonla dancing between the gouges wrought by Atal’alarion’s blows: forward, sideways, duck, sideways, back, sideways, duck, sideways, duck, sideways, back, sideways, forever sideways counter-clockwise to force the dire troll to pivot on his wounded knee. And still Legba only barely keeps her body beyond the reach of the champion’s fatal whips, each swing so close that Zul’feriti only knows it misses when her bright form continues to dance across the sand in revolution about the rotating Atal’alarion.

Zul’feriti can feel despair creeping in from the corners of his vision. The piercing of the knee had not sufficiently evened the odds between the two, particularly since it had disarmed Saakesfonla, so that now she was helpless against the colossal troll’s assaults. She can only continue to dodge, and eventually with fatigue her evasions will grow slower, while with time the trollish blood of Atal’alarion will knit back together the ligaments of his knee. With the relentlessness of the bloodrage, he will continue until one of her sidesteps proves just slow enough to be fatal.

Suddenly the dire troll leans back and sends forth a powerful kick with his wounded leg, but still the loa’s emissary sidesteps inward and avoids the blow. Zul’feriti has not even time to cry in surprise before the monstrous troll’s upper body whips powerfully inwards, delivering a forceful punch across his opponent’s chest. Saakesfonla’s body flies two spear-lengths before bouncing across the sand and coming to rest facedown. She lies still as though dead.

From the heights of the jan’apa, the voodoo master feels the weight of defeat pile down upon his shoulders as he watches Hakkar’s champion stomp over to Saakesfonla’s motionless form. He feels as if the sand of the arena floor were pouring down over him, burying him with dismay at the sight of Atal’alarion reaching down and pulling Saakesfonla up by her foot, the wooden kaz’kah falling away to the ground as she dangles limply from her ankle. Thin streams of blood drip from her nose and mouth, dotting the sand with red stains. With each successive blot, despair thrums against him like steady shovelfuls of dirt, each clodding down in a repetitive kal, kal, kal. He blinks as he realizes that the throbbing is actually the shouts of the trolls, excitedly chanting kal kal kal.

The spectators are calling for Atal’alarion to finish the match by kal—pinning the defeated opponent against the spikes of the arena wall. The champion of Hakkar hoists high his unconscious enemy, swinging her like a voodoo doll as he wheels to display his victory to the entire Coliseum. The crowd roars its approval and continues its call for kal. Atal’alarion turns and begins tromping over to the wall, Saakesfonla’s pale body flopping loosely in time with his lumbering gait as Atal’alarion draws closer to her doom.

And then suddenly she latches onto his arm and jerks her foot from his grasp. Her white form scurries up Atal’alarion’s broad forearm, winding upward to strike a blow at his face, not pausing to continue to flip over and dangle over his back, her hands gripping the back of his collar as Atal’alarion reaches upward to cover his face. The collective gasp of the audience is split by the dire troll’s pained howl.

Atal’alarion grips his face with his hands, stamping his feet and yowling in apparent agony. Saakesfonla flaps back and forth across his swaying back, then continues her momentum at the apex of a swing to land nimbly on the distracted troll’s shoulder. She vaults and swings herself across a forearm, then quickly slides down a dangling chain. As soon as her feet touch the arena floor she ducks between the giant’s legs and circles to wrap the chain about Atal’alarion’s foot. Feeling her beneath him, Atal’alarion slams down his foot to trample her, but the sudden tension in the irons jerks his hand from his face, causing him to lose his balance and stumble forward as Saakesfonla runs out from behind him.

With Atal’alarion still struggling to kick his foot free and rebalance himself, Saakesfonla skids to a halt four paces away and spins back around. Sand kicks up behind her as she sprints and leaps onto the dire troll’s expansive back. With one hand still latched over the left side of his face, Atal’alarion bucks from side to side to shake off the pest, to no avail. As he twists in his efforts, Zul’feriti catches a glimpse of the slick shine of blood on the fingers covering his face. Roaring in frustration, Atal’alarion grips the chain of his free hand and whips it over his shoulder, lashing his own back. Saakesfonla barely eludes the chain by releasing the grip of her right hand to swing out of the way. The dire troll responds by whirling into the direction of her dodge, but instead of losing her grip Saakesfonla, certainly aided by the deft Legba, grabs the bottom of the collar with her loose hand, thus allowing the momentum to wheel her upward and over the dire troll’s pointed head, smacking down to straddle his right shoulder. As Atal’arion jerks his head sideways to look at the annoyance on his shoulder, Zul’feriti can see the thin serpent of Saakesfonla’s arm strike forward and pluck out Atal’alarion’s right eye.

Again the gigantic troll howls in pain and claps his palms over his face. His elusive opponent uses this chance to fall sideways down his back, her left hand seizing again Atal’alarion’s collar to swing herself to the other side of the troll’s body and snake across the opposite shoulder. Seizing the freely hanging irons, she leaps like a monkey in the trees, the chain her vine as she flies between the troll’s massive limbs. Falling into the void between Atal’alarion’s crooked right arm and his elephantine tusk, the fetter catches across the ornamented tusk and swings her back up to the troll’s left side, where she reaches out to drape an arm over his bulging bicep, the other quickly wrapping the loose end of the chain once, twice, three times about the dire troll’s left tusk before dropping to the ground and rolling away from any possible retaliatory strikes by the colossal brute.

But Atal’alarion only stands with his palms over his eyes, still bellowing in pain. At a safe distance Saakesfonla raises high her hand to display the right eyeball of the Champion of Hakkar. The crowd explodes into cheers of astonished approval. Zul’feriti feels his chest swell at this chance for victory. By blinding her opponent, the Emissary of the Loa has evened the field between herself and the enraged dire troll.

The voodoo master watches as the bloody orb flies up and falls down once, Saakesfonla tossing it to gain a feel for its weight. Then she pivots and launches it at howling hole of Atal’alarion’s mouth. His yowls are choked off as the slimy sphere lodges in his gullet. The giant troll’s hands move from his eyes to his throat, revealing the empty socket and bloody mess where his eyes had once been.

Zul’feriti is distracted from the sight of Atal’alarion spitting out his own eye by a commotion and noise in the crowd near the main gate. He looks over to see the last of of Atal’alarion’s keepers dropping down into the arena and running toward the two combatants at the other end. The audience hoots in amusement at this new turn of events: just when the diminutive fighter for the loa has gained an advantage, now her opponents will also play dirty.

Alerted by the calls of the spectators, Saakesfonla turns and faces the oncoming Atal’Ai warriors. One of the trolls outstrips his brethren in the sprint across the arena, his knife ready to bite down into the flesh of the loa’s emissary. Saakesfonla runs forward to meet him, dipping into the swipe of his knife and then rising up to catch the troll’s lanky arm, seizing it across her shoulder. Zul’feriti sees the flash of the blade as it spins away; she disarmed him!

Saakesfonla yanks back on the warrior’s arm while lifting up a leg to deliver a kick across the troll’s chest. As the Atal’Ai stumbles backwards, she rolls away toward the spot where the knife had flown moments earlier. Up and running, the Emissary of the Loa begins sprinting back toward the colossal form of Atal’alarion, the recovered warrior and his companions in hot pursuit.

Zul’feriti tilts his head, straining to hear against excited shouts of the stadium crowd. He thinks he hears a piercing cry. Atal’alarion has turned to face the mice scurrying towards him. Saakesfonla’s body is flying through the air, arms raised. She sinks the knife into his belly and hangs from it, drawing down a bright red streak. With a furious yowl Atal’alarion plunges his arms down to seize her. Although his right hand finds its mark, the fetters on the left snap taut across his tusks and jerk his head around, causing him to lose his balance. A thunderous crack sounds out above the roar of the crowd, echoing across the arena walls. He wheels, stumbles backwards, and then falls, sending up an incredible spray of sand.

Out flops the dire troll’s arm, sending two white shapes tumbling away from the colossal beast’s right side. One is Saakesfonla—and the other, one of Atal’alarion’s gigantic tusks! Saakesfonla’s body skips across the arena floor, leaving a successive line of impact points until skidding to a halt three spear-lengths away. Running in her wake is the dark figure of an Atal’Ai warrior. He is alone. As the sand settles, the figures of two others are seen on the far side Atal’alarion—but what of the fourth?

A squirming at the dire troll’s side guides Zul’feriti to the answer: the legs of the one Saakesfonla had disarmed are trapped beneath the bulk of Hakkar’s champion. The troll slaps against Atal’alarion’s side, struggling to free himself from the crushing weight of the dire troll, but furious and in pain, Atal’alarion instead grants release through a shattering blow with his elbow. The long arms of the Atal’Ai warrior twitch once and then cease their movement.

Zul’feriti snaps his attention back to Saakesfonla and the other warrior. She is up and circling with her opponent. The clang of metal upon metal ricochets up from the arena floor. The warrior’s swipes with his sword flash out in bursts like lightning; Saakesfonla manages to deflect the thrusts with the dagger, but is losing ground against his relentless speed. Another serious of strikes—Saakesfonla stumbles backwards! As she staggers, a spreading stain of scarlet appears on her leg. One of the Atal’Ai’s attacks has struck true. Wasting no time, the warrior presses forward again, but the Emissary of the Loa eludes him and begins running—Zul’feriti can see a limp in her motions—back toward Atal’alarion.

The Champion of Hakkar is regaining his feet. He bellows in a rage and rapidly twists his immense frame to send his chains swinging in deadly arcs about him. The other pair of warriors give him a generous berth as they circle to intercept Saakesfonla. Atal’alarion continues to windmill his fetters, stomping blindly in search of his opponent. With the Atal’Ai swordsman right behind her, Saakesfonla avoids a chop of the sword by diving into the circle of death wrought by Atal’alarion’s sweeping chains.

She lands on her belly and rolls sideways as the links of iron pass only feet above her body. Drawing up into a crouch, she leaps between the colossal pillars of Atal’alarion’s legs. The warrior chasing her likewise ducks and dodges through the scythe-like sweeps of the chains, determined to finish her. Zul’feriti loses sight of her to the other side of the dire troll. One of the trolls on the outside of the chains’ circumference throws a spear. An instant later it spins harmlessly away, knocked aside by the arcing irons. The spearman’s companion slips into the dangerous zone of flying fetters.

Zul’feriti cannot understand how anyone could avoid the deadly swinging chains, much less three all locked in mortal combat. His view of Saakesfonla is still occluded by Atal’alarion’s bulk. Suddenly the dire troll jerks down his hands, then repeatedly bashes his fists downward. Drops of blood fly into the air.

Then a pale, blood-speckled form can be seen moving from the monster’s side. Her arm reaches out toward Atal’alarion’s calf and the titanic troll flinches. He roars in anger and twirls around, revealing the limp corpse of an Atal’Ai warrior behind him.

The other warrior, the swordsman who has wounded Saakesfonla, also emerges into view, and launches himself in an attack on his quarry. Again the sound of blade upon blade rings out into the arena air. Incensed at the sound of his enemy fighting so closely to him, but unable to determine her exact position, Atal’alarion begins to whip the arena floor randomly, trying to smash the Emissary of the Loa and the Atal’Ai warrior alike. Saakesfonla darts forward into her adversary, ducking beneath a swipe of his sword—and throws him! The Atal’Ai flips into Atal’alarion’s legs. Enraged, the dire troll stamps downward with his feet, sending up a cloud of sand.

Screeching loudly, Saakesfonla immediately charges the last Atal’Ai. She twists out of his attempt to seize her in a hold and breaks away, still screaming. The warrior turns to follow when she skids to a sudden halt and turns back to face him. He pauses. Her knife wobbles in an unsteady arc in the air toward him. He side-steps to dodge the blade, then regains his balance. Suddenly his body flies to the side as the swipe of one of Atal’alrion’s chains catches him across the neck. He tumbles end over end before coming to a rest.

The crowd bursts into exhilarated applause. The Atal’Ai warriors have all been defeated, and now it once again comes down to the Champion of Hakkar and the Emissary of the Loa. The trolls whoop and cheer at the amazing spectacle. In the ring, Atal’alarion continues to stomp blindly about and swing his fetters in deadly arcs.

Saakesfonla keeps her distance, moving cautiously and quietly in a circle about him. She reaches down and picks up Atal’alarion’s broken tusk, then continues to move behind him. The audience roars in appreciative anticipation of her next move.

She dives once again into the scything chains. Rolling, she comes up with the sword and punches it into the small of the dire troll’s back, which arches in agony. Atal’alarion howls. Saakesfonla has already jumped upward, using the hilt of the sword buried in her opponent’s back as a step upward. She brings the gold-tipped tusk of the dire troll high, preparing to jab it into the back of his skull. The crowd cheers.

Atal’alarion reaches backwards over his head and seizes her by the hands. He whips her forward and releases. For a moment time seems to move in slow motion as her body arcs through the air. She slams into the arena wall. Now time seems to stand still as she hangs suspended, until Zul’feriti realizes that she has been skewered by a wall spike. A triangle of deep vermillion extends downward from where the iron point protrudes from her shoulder; another tip can be seen poking through a scarlet circle on her calf. She struggles weakly to free herself.

The crowd roars at this, yet another upset. Atal’alarion continues to sweep in the middle of the ring, unaware of what has happened. Once again the crowd begins to chant kal kal kal. Finally realizing what has occurred, the Champion of Hakkar raises his arms in victory. The Gurubashi multitude cheers loudly, continuing their chant of kal kal kal. Atal’alarion begins to make his way over to the wall, but apparently his spinning has disoriented him, because he approaches a section several spear-lengths over from where Saakesfonla hangs impaled upon a spike.

As Atal’alarion feels his way along the wall, guided closer and closer by the calls of the trolls in the stands, Saakesfonla finally wriggles herself free and falls down to the sand below. She barely stumbles out of the way just as the massive dire troll stomps over. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar. Misinterpreting the sound, Atal’alarion slows his progress and carefully feels amongst the spikes, thinking his adversary to still be pinned in front of him. Behind him, Saakesfonla picks up the broken tusk and raises it over her head. To the exultant cheers of the crowd, she drives it deeply into the back of Atal’alarion’s knee.

The damaged knee buckles beneath the colossal bulk of Hakkar’s champion, sending him toppling forward into the arena spikes. Spikes impale him at his waist and puncture his chest, but his hands pushing against the arena wall prevent him from falling completely. The metal point of a spike hovers inches from his empty eye socket. He strains to push himself away from the wall; unsuccessful, he reaches down to grab the metal skewering his midsection.

Behind, Saakesfonla is racing towards him. She leaps and brings both of her feet up, slamming into Atal’alarion’s back. The dire troll’s head snaps forward in whiplash from the impact, transfixing his head onto the spike before him. Saakesfonla collapses between his legs.

The clamor erupting from the Coliseum seemed paralyzing. Zul’feriti brings his hands up to cover his ears. The stadium boils and froths with the excited cheers and arm-waving of the multitudes. A tumult breaks out on the far end near the Atal’Ai’s jan’apa, with masses of bodies sliding forward and receding as if waves across the sand of the seashore. The clangor of metal can be heard. Zul’feriti realizes that the emotionally-charged troll masses, impassioned by outcome of the match, are now attacking the Atal’Ai priests. He can barely maintain his senses over the din.

A line of Atal’Ai stand bravely against the feverish crowd, directing powerful juju at their frenetic masses and fighting with the vicious bravery distinctive to trolls. However, their opponents, too, are powerful troll warriors, and multitudes threaten to sweep over the Devoted Ones. A large contingent of Atal’Ai begin streaming out through the main gate in retreat.

Zul’feriti strains to catch sight of Saakesfonla. Whooping spectators have dropped into the arena below and are converging upon Atal’alarion’s inert form. Zul’feriti panics that she has overcome her foe only to be slaughtered by the unruly mob. Moments later they raise high the alien, bright form of the Emissary of the Loa: limp and slick with blood. The exultant mob carries high her ragged body, celebrating and honoring the Loa’s victory against the Champion of Hakkar. Zul’feriti smiles grimly at her insensate body held aloft by the teeming masses; perhaps in freeing the Gurubashi from the grip of Hakkar she has also finally found rest.

The Third Knot

Please forgive any obvious typos; though the idea had a lot of time to percolate, I only cranked the text out in one evening to make the contest. Inspired by this Friday Challenge.

Update April 27, 2009: Ran a quick copy edit, but left other desired improvements alone since this entry has already been judged. Turns out we have a winner!

Hours had passed since the sun had finally ceased its attempts to penetrate the thick gloom of the woods, languishing slowly in the west until admitting defeat altogether and plunging the forest into utter darkness. Despite lack of vision, Arne Icehawk trudged along the forest path, one had gripping the haft of his battle-axe, the other poking at the ground with a make-shift staff so as to avoid turning an ankle on a tree root. The barbarian warrior had decided to travel through the night; he refused to stop until he had put the witch’s domain far behind him.

The moon rose and seemed to succeed where its brother had failed. Thin, silver threads pierced the fabric of the canopy and illuminated the pale dirt of the forest path with a white glow, though the forest to either side remained buried in shadow. Icehawk was glad for this lucky omen of the gods’ favor, but his mood failed to lighten along with the path, because by this time Arne was certain that he was being followed.

His pursuer was skilled at avoiding detection, quite possibly as good as the barbarian himself. Icehawk had not been named after the bear nor the lynx; his warrior name was that of the raptor, who surveyed its quarry from afar. Icehawk’s familiarity with tracking a foe had heightened his awareness of the pitfalls that could indicate a shadow.

He had first noticed the owls. The cantankerous fowl would hoot with irritation as Arne walked by, then again after he had walked on for a several minutes. He began listening carefully to the chirping of the night insects, noting any identifiable calls. They silenced themselves as he passed by, then resumed their song immediately. But when he would get one hundred yards further, that patch would quiet again. At turns in the path he attempted to glance casually over his shoulder, but he couldn’t be sure whether he saw a shadow duck behind a bush or step under a tree, or if his paranoia was creating movement in his mind.

He angrily wondered where Jarl had gone. He had whistled for his pet when he had reached the edge of the forest, but no sign of the eagle could be seen. He felt half-blind without his Eyes in the Sky. Not only could Jarl have been sent to confirm his suspicions, the bird probably would have alerted him of the shadowy tail long before Arne himself had become aware of it.

Finally, a bend in the road gave the warrior the opportunity he needed. After turning through the bend, Arne waited several moments and then peered around the side of a tree up the path from which he had come. He saw nothing on the softly illumined path. Just when he had decided that perhaps his unease was nothing more than a lingering aftereffect of his meeting with the Seer, a cloaked figure emerged from the darkness at the side of the path, perhaps sixty yards away, and began walking slowly down the path towards him. His heart thumping loudly in his ears from a sudden burst of adrenaline, Icehawk crept carefully back around the corner and then jogged down the path to gain some distance from his pursuer. Up ahead, the way turned once more, offering him the perfect opportunity to slip behind his tail. He found an inconspicuous spot and crouched, waiting to get a good view of the cloaked figure as he passed him on the path.

The seconds passed by like hours. Icehawk knew that the person tracking him was moving cautiously, hoping to keep enough distance between them to avoid detection. More than likely he had reached the turn in the path by now and was circumspectly peeking ahead to make certain Arne was not too close. He would see nothing but an empty path and assume that Arne had already rounded the bend.

As if on cue, a shadow blossomed from the tree at the bend and coalesced into the form of his cloaked pursuer. The figure progressed slowly and carefully down the path. Unfortunately because of the cloak’s heavily drawn hood and billowy wrap, Arne ascertained nothing of the person as he passed. The barbarian warrior shifted not an ounce of his weight, turning only his eyes to follow the cloaked shadow until it had cautiously traversed beyond the second turn. Then he moved carefully after it, now the hunter instead of the hunted.

Suddenly a shout rang out ahead, and he heard the scuffling of feet moving rapidly on the path. Icehawk used the cover noise to quickly race ahead so he could find out what was going on. Around the bend he saw his cloaked pursuer set upon by two highwaymen. They were dragging the struggling figure, cloak and all, off into the woods. For a moment Arne smiled grimly at the justice that one threat to his travel should fall prey to another, but his amusement suddenly ended when one of the robber’s hands snatched away the hood of the cloak, revealing the soft curves of a woman’s jaw and a river of flaxen hair turned hoary-white in the pale moonbeams. She cried out once and then was gone.

Had he been named after the boar, Icehawk might have bellowed out a mighty warcry and charged straight down into the path toward the place where they had disappeared into the forest. Instead, the warrior readied his axe and cautiously entered woods immediately on his right to avoid any bandit lookouts and maintain the element of surprise. The woman’s thrashing against the robbers as they dragged her through the undergrowth guided him as clearly as any map. He crept quickly and quietly to intercept.

He found them on top of her. One held down her arms as the other crouched aside her waist, checking her cloak and pockets for valuables. She tossed her head and struggled feebly, as if resigned to her fate. The one gripping her wrists gave out a raspy laugh. “She’s got some fight in ‘er. I’s bet she can fetch twice the price o’ th’usual in Estermark.”

“She’d better,” the other growled back. “She don’t seem ta be carryin’ nothin’ else worth nothin’.”

“Well,” cackled the first, “then ya might as well sample th’goods so as we can price her, eh?”

The crouching robber grinned at his companion. He began to speak, and then the blade of Icehawk’s axe tore into his open mouth. At the same time the barbarian let loose his blood-curdling cry, the cry of a bird of prey having caught its unsuspecting quarry. In one motion, Icehawk loosed the bit of his double-bladed axe from the robber’s gullet by planting a foot on the man’s chest and kicking the body away, using the momentum to swing back and catch the other highwayman—still sputtering and staring in surprise at the carnage wreaked upon his cohort—with a blow across the temple. Both bandits collapsed to the ground, dead.

The woman tore herself away from the robber and scampered quickly out from beneath Icehawk, her cloak coming completely free on account of Arne’s foot being on top of the hem. She stopped a few paces away under a shaft of moonlight, then turned and stood to face him. She was clothed a linen wrap bleached white as sea salt, her startlingly pale skin and snowy hair equally bereft of hue. Beneath the moonbeam as she was, she reflected a nearly otherworldly air, shimmering brightly against the black forest background. Her appealing countenance regarded Icehawk calmly. It was at this time he realized that she had never shown any fear on her face or in her colorless eyes.

“Are… are you a ghost?” Arne asked.

“A wayward spirit avoiding final-rest?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. She extended an arm. “Touch me and see that I am not.”

Icehawk fingered the grip of his axe nervously. “If you be a ghost, it doesn’t seem wise to touch you. Perhaps your touch would kill me.”

She pointed at the man who had been holding her wrists. “He touched me.”

“He is dead.”

“Aye,” she nodded, “but it was you who killed him.”

“Fair enough,” replied Icehawk. He stepped forward and gingerly gripped the woman’s arm. It felt solid enough, but surprisingly cool. The thought of a spring breeze came unbidden to his mind. “Who are you then, if you are not a wraith?”

She considered his question for a moment before replying. “You may call me Dìsira.”

“Dìsira. Fine. But that doesn’t answer who you are or why you were attempting to follow me through the forest. What do you want with me?”

“You are Arne Icehawk, feeder of the war-gull and sleeper under the naked-sky, having just come from seeing the bone-thrower, that who calls herself Skulvolva.”

Skulvolva the Seer, the Prophetess, the Mad Spinner of Fate. Indeed, he had sought the Seer’s augury, as he had done twice before, but after her nonsensical telling he had cursed himself for a fool. Begging for foresight from that hag, Icehawk the Barbarian felt reduced a mere dog to whom the Seer tossed enigmatical bones of portent in order to cease his yapping. Aye, Icehawk the Cur, tossed scraps of augury from Skulvolva’s table of divination. Even now he could see the woman in his mind’s eye as her fingers stirred the dove’s innards and she said—

Dìsira interrupted his thoughts. “She is no wand-carrier of Skuld, by true name I call her Skynvasa. She weaves threads that the Norns have lain out for themselves, and in arrogance she sits at her wyrd-loom to direct the paths of men.”

“She seems harmless enough to me,” Icehawk lied, very ill at ease with this talk of wyrd-looms and the Norns. “She collects boxes of rotting kittens and feeds offerings given her to the live ones. You should have heard the silly omen that she gave me: ‘Slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—’ ”

“ ‘—seize your destiny,’ ” Dìsira completed for him, nodding. “I will help you fulfill these words.”

Icehawk was glad for the darkness that hid his gaping mouth. “You’ll what? You didn’t sound so approving of Skulvolva’s trade a moment ago, and now you’re going to help me chase after her nonsensical prophecy?”

Dìsira put two fingers to her lips and let out a piercing whistle. An eagle screeched in reply and swooped down to alight on her extended arm. Icehawk stared at Jarl in consternation, then stammered at the woman, “Wh-what? How did you…?”

“Several leagues from the other end of the tree-city lies the border of Svamperreik, whose treaty-maiden seeks marriage with Szuth, Emperor of the Lower Kingdoms. As a maiden-price she has captured a young sky-serpent, whose swisher of the wound-sea she intends to give to Szuth. The resulting alliance between Svamperreik and the Lower Empire, as well as the power Szuth will derive from the heart of the sky-serpent, would position the Emperor within a hand’s breath of ruling the Upper Kingdoms. You have vowed to kill Szuth, and so you shall achieve your destiny.”

Icehawk fought to quell the rage that bubbled up from deep within at the mention of the name of Emperor of the Lower Kingdoms. “In fulfilling these words I will have an opportunity to face Szuth?”

“No. But in failing at these tasks you will never gain that opportunity. I have come to help you slay the treaty-maiden and save the sky-serpent. During this time I will be your sky-eyes.” She paused and let Jarl fly. Icehawk whistled for him to return, but the eagle disappeared into the night sky. “In exchange for my help you must agree to seize your wyrd-threads.” Her summary finished, Dìsira walked forward and picked up her inky-black cloak from the ground. Arne took a step backwards, more in confusion than out of politeness.

“Seize my destiny?” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to do that if I will not have the opportunity to battle with Szuth?”

Wrapping her cloak about her, Dìsira began walking back toward the forest path. She paused for a moment, turning her head backwards to direct her answer at the barbarian before moving on to disappear from his night vision. “You will kill Skynvasa.”

Arne Icehawk, Warrior of the North, stared in shock before hastening after her.

Several hours later they were traveling silently side by side down the forest path, the barbarian in his tanned leathers dusky brown as the stones on the path and the woman in her cowl sable as the night sky above. There was yet no lightening in the east, but Icehawk heard the tell-tale sounds of the changing of the guard between the nocturnal and diurnal creatures of the forest as well as the occasional songs of birds too anxious to wait for the light of day. As they had walked along, Arne had had time to turn Dìsira’s words over in his mind.

He cleared his throat to broach the silence, then announced. “I have a question.”

“Then ask it,” Dìsira calmly replied, not missing a step in her stride.

“You want Sku—”

“Skynvasa,” interrupted Dìsira. “She is Skynvasa, a bone-thrower, not the other.”

“Right. Sorry. You want Skynvasa killed because she blasphemes the Norns with her divinations.”

“You speak rightly.”

“And you are going to help me kill the daughter of the king of Svamperreik and rescue a dragon, so that I can return to Skynvasa and kill her.”

“That is also correct.”

“Then if you have the power to help me kill the daughter of the king of Svamperreik, why don’t you kill Skynvasa yourself and be done with it?”

“How can one murder a soothsayer without her knowing of it in advance? I cannot kill Skynvasa because the moment I should decide so she will know of her fate. Then she will seat herself before her wyrd-loom and weave a new direction for her wyrd-string.”

“Then how shall I kill Skynvasa?”

At the question, the woman threw out an arm and stopped Arne with her hand to his chest. “Do not decide,” she warned, “or else you shall be known.” After a pause for significance, she resumed her pace.

“I mean more along the lines of why you think I can do it.”

“You are of a people with a brutish unpredictability to their nature. As a hat-wearer of your people you are dangerous and cunning. To a Seer, meeting with you is like tracking a woods-cow by ear on a windy day. All of her visions include the possibility that you might kill her. This is why Skynvasa meets with you as she does.”

“No weapons, as rule,” grunted Icehawk.

“Yes,” spoke Dìsira, and her hood dipped lower in what Arne assumed was a nod. “But that is not my meaning. She performs augury for you in order to wind your wyrd-thread about her spindle.”

“Loki’s beard, what does that mean?”

“Twice now you have acted in accordance with her prophecies. Two knots has she in your thread. A third knot and then it shall be sealed, your life entwined. She loosens your thread, you fly into battle and are victorious; she tightens your thread and your body seizes, helpless before your enemies.”

Arne felt a warm hollow in his chest. Fear was a rare feeling for Icehawk the Barbarian. “If that’s true, then I have no wish to fulfill her words and grant her such power over me. I just won’t kill the princess nor save the dragon.”

“But you must. Otherwise she will see you amiss in her bone-throws and know the danger you represent. However, if you complete her prophecy she will have a third knot in sight. She will not expect aught to go wrong at the sealing ceremony.”

“The sealing ceremony? Is that why she wanted me to bring her a pig when I was ready—rather, when she was ready—to ‘seize my destiny’? ”

“Yes. With the augury of the pig the knots shall be as a noose about your neck.”

“Then how am I going to stop her?”

“Fear not. The ceremony is also your chance to truly seize your destiny.”

Dawn broke on the two travelers shortly after their conversation. Arne realized that the forest was not as thickly wooded here. By mid-morning they reached the borderlands of Svemperreik, with its rolling cave-pocked hills and tree-filled vales. The forest path opened up at the end of a long valley. Dìsira pointed out a castle with a tall tower at the other end, telling him that was where the princess was. Then she led him to a cave where they could rest for the day. Exhausted from traveling and not having slept the night before, he lay down on the cave floor and fell asleep before his better judgment even had time to question him about it. When he awoke, Dìsira had a fire going and offered him some stew. It was hearty and warmed him to the bone as he gulped it down. Outside it was already dusk. They put out the fire and begin traveling in the direction of the castle at the opposite end of the valley.

“So, what are we going to do when we get there?” Icehawk asked as the enormous size of the castle became apparent. “Do you have a plan, fylgja?”

Dìsira tilted her head. “I said you may call me Dìsira, not this ‘fylgja.’”

“Oh,” Icehawk shrugged. “That’s just a myth that my people have. A fylgja is a supernatural creature in the form of an animal that accompanies one on a journey in connection with their fate. Your pale skin and white hair seem rather otherworldly, and this journey definitely has something to do with my fate!”

“Yes,” replied the woman. “I have a plan. The treaty-maiden Asta is great with child.”

“She’s pregnant?” cried Arne. “And she expects to wed the Emperor of the Lower Kingdoms!”

“The sky-serpent’s heart as dowry is her second ploy. The child was her first. It is Szuth’s.”

Icehawk scowled and they walked a few moments in silence. “She’s bearing Szuth’s child. What does this mean for your plan?”

“Her loin-quakes have already begun. The word-bearer sent for the midwife has been thrown from his horse. A second will be set upon by bandits. I shall aid her in her birth to the child and grant you access to her chambers.”

“Dìsira the Midwife, hm? Where are her chambers?”

“At the top of that stone-tree,” she said, pointing a pale and delicate finger at the tower rising up in the middle of the castle.

By the time they reached the foot of the tower, the moon had risen. Icehawk hid in the shadows while Dìsira climbed the sheer face of the tower. He watched in awe as she vaulted and twisted her way upward. It reminded him of a Far East acrobat he had once seen in a circus. As she climbed further she became nothing more than a smudge on the surface of the tower. A while later the end of a weighted rope smacked down onto the empty cobble-stone street. Icehawk ran forward and began his own ascent.

When he reached the window, Dìsira was nowhere to be seen. He pulled up the rope and then cautiously entered a hallway through the open door. Voices could be heard from down the hall.

“—you perverted and worthless lummoxes out! Every single one of you!”

“We’ll be right outside your door, milady.”

“So you can hear me scream?” As if to accentuate her point, she cried out as a pang of labor hit. “You tell the Captain that I want this Tower cleared of men! Anyone who so much as looks higher than the first floor will be hanged by morning!”

“Y-yes, milady,” replied the voice of the guard to the sound of shuffling feet and bedroom items being thrown after them. Icehawk waited for several minutes and then crept down the hallway to where the voices had originated. There were no signs of the guards now. As agreed earlier, he waited to enter Princess Asta’s bedchambers until after he heard the cry of her newborn.

When he came into the room, Dìsira was holding the baby to her breast, her faintly pink eyes shining down on the bundle, while the mother lay covered in sweat and breathing heavily. As the otherworldly, wan woman began washing the baby and wrapping him in its swaddling clothes, she sang a song:

Each day as she swelled, she sang to you ‘Roald’
Thus desired transpired, ‘til mother’s wound-sea
Draws flowing and sewing ‘fore e’en one day old
Though you may live on, only ‘Aric’ you’ll be

Four less than a score with a scepter to hold
Yet never endeavors to fulfill mum’s plea
Stop famine, bring glory, then fall to the cold
A roald greater than Szuth, but ‘Aric’ you’ll be

Having finished her blessing, Dìsira placed the child in his mother’s arms. “Every mother deserves the joy of seeing the life she has carried,” she said, but Asta did not seem to hear it. Then Dìsira turned began walking toward the door beside which Icehawk was standing, dumbfounded. “Kill the mother, but let the child live,” she muttered as she passed out of the room.

A minute later Icehawk joined her in the hall, droplets of blood spattering onto the stone floor as they dripped from his axe. He closed the door behind him, but the child’s cries could still be heard. “Follow me to the next,” said Dìsira, then turned and hurried down the stairs.

The Captain had apparently complied completely with the late princess’s order to clear the tower of guards, because the two did not run into any trouble as they made their way down. Even the first floor was surprisingly vacant. They passed quickly through a large foyer to a staircase leading down into the dungeon. Icehawk made quick work of the guard at the base of the stair. Using the guard’s key, they let themselves into the dungeon.

Inside there were three soldiers and a remarkably fat jailer sitting about a table. At the sight of the wild-eyed barbarian and his pale escort they leapt up and began drawing their swords, but Icehawk was already upon them. The nearest guard failed to bring his sword up in time to block the warrior’s axe, which passed in an arc through the man’s arm, sending the sword clattering to the floor with the man’s hand still attached. As the guard tumbled backwards, screaming and spurting blood, Icehawk kicked over the table into the two men on the other side, allowing him to focus his attention on the isolated jailer still standing closest to him.

The enormous man bellowed as he swung his sword at Icehawk. The barbarian parried his enemy’s initial strike, then pushed off the second and sunk the point of his axe in the jailer’s corpulent stomach. Icehawk was in the process of wrenching his battle-axe back out of the jailer’s midsection in preparation for a killing blow when he was slammed into from the side by the table, still upended but now being pushed by the two guards in order to wedge him against the wall. Icehawk used his shoulder and the momentum of the table to roll over the moving barricade, landing low and swinging his weapon out to cut the legs out from one of the guards. As luck would have it, at this same moment the lower edge of the table clipped the body of the armless guard and suddenly righted itself, flipping the two guards who had been pushing it. The one whose feet had been severed did not get back up, and Icehawk sunk his axe deep into the pate of the other as he attempted to pull himself up from the table.

As he attempted to free his axe, Icehawk heard the bellow of the wounded jailer close behind him. Knowing he would not free it in time, the barbarian released his weapon and dodged to the side, barely escaping a killing blow from the fat man’s sword. The jailer pressed on the attack, swinging viciously for the now-unarmed warrior. Icehawk ducked and dodged as best as he could, until his back suddenly came against the hard stone surface of the dungeon wall. The jailer loomed before him, a sneer on his face as he drew back the sword for a fatal lunge. Then with a loud snap his head suddenly disappeared behind rows of jagged teeth. Icehawk blinked. Before him stood the enormous body but headless of the jailer. It slowly toppled backwards, revealing the serpentine body of a juvenile wyrm.

Dìsira stood among its coils; in fact, its tail wound up and around her legs, while its main segments circled behind with a claw gripping her left waist and then right shoulder, its body flowing forward over that shoulder and bunching up on the ground in front of her, ready to strike a second time. The forward half of the body seemed oddly proportioned; it reminded Icehawk of the shape of a locust’s thorax. The monster’s slitted eyes stared at him, and its tongue protruded to taste his scent. Dìsira murmured some strange-sounding sibilants and it lowered its head and turned it to one side, leaving a single green eye to watch the barbarian.

Icehawk suddenly realized that the reason the creature’s body was shaped like that was because its wings were folded about its torso. He stared blankly at Dìsira. “I thought the second part of the augury was ‘rescue the dragon.’ That’s not a dragon; it’s a wyvern!”

“Aye, a two-legged sky-snake. It also said ‘rescue the dragon,’ not ‘rescued by the dragon.' ” And then she smirked at him.

“Does that mean I have failed?”

“We’re not out of the castle yet.”

* * *

Three days and two pigs later (the wyvern ate the one), Arne Icehawk, Warrior of the North, once again stood before Skulvolva the Seer, the Prophetess, the Mad Spinner of Fate in the inner chambers of her temple. On a rope next to him hung frantic, squealing pig that he had brought with him. Skulvolva, chanting to herself in an unearthly tongue, spread about ashes and lit incense in preparation for the ceremony. Wind blew in through the windows and sent smoke and ash swirling even this far into the room. Icehawk wished that he didn’t have to stand so near to the pig’s ear-shattering squeals. Finally, the witch turned and widened her toothless smile toward the barbarian.

“Arne Icehawk, Warrior of the North, be ye ready to seize your destiny?”

Arne nodded, now quite worried that he had missed his chance to stop the ceremony and save his fate. Skulvolva padded over to a nearby altar and retrieved a stone-bladed ceremonial dagger. Holding it flat upon two palms, she approached Icehawk while chanting, her voice mixing with the panic of the hanging pig and the fury of the buffeting wind.

“Plunge it into the creature’s heart, Icehawk the Barbarian, and seize your destiny!” She bowed her head and extended the knife to the barbarian.

Icehawk gripped the pearl handle of the dagger. Outside the temple the wind howled and, inside, Arne Icehawk, Warrior of the North, seized his destiny.