The great black wolf lay snoring on the opposite side of the campfire from Pidwermin and Mlasha.

  “Always amazes me how he does that.” The frog remarked. “He’ll go days without a wink, and hard-working days at that, then when the time comes to rest he’s down and out, snoring as soon as he decides he’ll sleep a while now.”

  “The gift of a clean conscious.” Mlasha pointed out. “How about you frog? What keeps you up at night, besides thinking about me I mean.” She reached down and stroked Pidwermin’s snout gently with her large yet somehow still dainty fingers.

  “Don’t toy with me like that you beast of a beautiful woman!” He sounded genuinely irate for a second, then smiled broadly as he opened a new drinking flask and took a long pull. “We both know I’m much too small to make it work between us, so I shall just bear the torment of that knowledge and thank you for not adding salt to the wound.”

  Mlasha laughed, even threw her head back for emphasis. “That’s great! Oh Dwerm, you always can make me laugh.”

  “So glad my pain is amusing to you my dear, and don’t call me that.” the frog had another drink.

  “You’ve already downed one flask, or is it two?” Mlasha pointed out. “Now you’re starting another one?”

  “My dear let’s not go down this road.” the drinking wizard warned. “It is the path of heartache for you and irritation for me.”

  “I just don’t want you to be sick Dwerm. I’ve seen what too much booze can do to a big, heavy giant; I can imagine what it might do to you if you don’t slow down a little.”

  “I’m touched by your concern, truly. However there’s no need to worry.” Pidwermin assured his friend.

  “How can you say that?” the giantess wanted to know.

  “I am a magical frog; I can drink as much as I like without the same consequences as a man or elf or giant.” the frog lied.

  “I don’t know Dwerm. I think you’re trying to dupe me with that line.” Mlasha narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think just because I’m pretty I’m also dumb.”

  “You are far from dumb Mlasha.” the frog clarified. “Now stop calling me that and I mean it.”

  “What? Dwerm? I’ve always called you Dwerm, Dwerm. My little Dwermie Wermie purple froggy.” She poked at the frog’s belly once, then began to tickle him mercilessly.

  Pidwermin exploded into laughter, mixed with cursing. Try as he might he was absolutely powerless to stop the hulking female from tickling him or doing whatever else she saw fit. His only recourse would have been to hop to safety, which he didn’t much want to do if he could stand the tickling and stay put.

  “Stop! Damn you giantess enough.” The frog exploded into more laughter that sounded on the verge of crying.

  Restraint was not an asset Mlasha possessed in tremendous reserve. She could watch her step on a crowded street, most of the time and refrain from crushing a merchant who insulted her intelligence and tried to cheat her, again most of the time, and could even avoid killing a full squad of drunken soldiers after one of them made a lewd suggestion to her, aside from that one incident in Lushkin. Beyond these and a few other obvious courtesies she had a tendency to get carried away, whether smashing goblins or tickling purple, talking frogs. The giant beauty continued with no apparent intent to even slow her eight-fingered, two-thumbed assault, much less cease and desist.

  Pidwermin composed himself enough, just enough, to place an index finger on Mlasha’s forearm. “G’t’tharth’d” he spoke in a voice much deeper than his normal tone.

  Instantly the lady giant’s fingers and thumbs froze in place. She let out a shriek and simultaneously stood up and stepped back. Her arms were free, and she could bend and wiggle her wrists at will, but her fingers remained perfectly still and stuck in a tickling posture.

  “Give them back frog!” Her voice the stuff of nightmares, a twist rolled onto her face and a great vein bulged over her right eye. As it turns out, female ettin are in fact quite ugly and frightening when they become enraged, and they often skip angry altogether to arrive promptly at rage.

  “I will not!” The frog’s voice was even and commanding, a contrast to the terror he felt inside at that moment. “In fact another harsh word young lady and I’ll hold your feet and legs as well! Perhaps your arms and, why not all of you except those immense glorious tits which I shall leave to wiggle and jiggle as they will the night away!”

  Mlasha’s face turned deep red like a giant new potato and twisted even further. She looked almost like a gargoyle, Pidwermin noted.

  The purple frog made a fist with his left hand and slap-cupped it with his right palm, having to drop his drink in the process. The thought of wasted booze ran all over him like a wave of biting ants. Seeing the ettin’s feet fixed like stone in place already and noting her rocking back and forth in a near panic, he squatted firmly, his butt nearly touching the earth from which he drew this particular magic.

  Instantly the rocking giant went stiff and still. Her back arched and one arm flung overhead in a fall that wouldn’t have been finished because her feet were already stuck like the base of a statue. Frozen in time and space like a monument dedicated to falling angry giants, she made no sound and drew no breath.

  Pidwermin picked up his flask and was delighted to find very little had spilled. He celebrated the discovery with another long pull before hopping up and onto Mlasha’s belly, which was almost parallel to the ground below. With a long, skinny finger curled into and under his thumb he slowly reached out, and then released that finger into a flip that made a snapping sound against one giant breast. The breast responded with a jiggle, emphasized by a wave that travelled across the exposed upper half like a ripple on a perfectly still pond.

  “How lovely.” he noted.

  After another second he rubbed his thumb across his two longest fingers. Mlasha’s face relaxed from its stonelike paralysis into the soft, living visage of a woman once more. The terrifying twist receded into an eerily calm expression.

  “Now then.” Said the frog to the ettin. We are even?”

  A single tear rolled from her left eye and onto her cheek. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” She half sobbed.

  “I know dear.” Pidwermin said in a soft voice. “You’re a kind lady and you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. You just forget your own power at times. Now, promise not to crush me if I release you?”

  “I promise.” She sniffed. “We’re even.”

  She then exploded into laughter, an odd sight for sure as only her face and boobs were animated, while the rest of her maintained the falling giant pose. “I can’t believe you left my tits unfrozen!” She could barely get the words out through her laughter as several more tears flowed.

  Pidwermin hopped backwards from the giant’s flat, firm belly and landed near his conveyance. Immediately Mlasha straightened up to a full stand, the inertia from her previous flailing long gone. She stretched her fingers, closed and reopened her hands and shook each leg out as if to be sure everything worked again. She used her cloak to wipe away the tears from the laughter, finishing just in time to catch a full-sized wineskin the frog had jettisoned her way.

  “It’s M’ua Shardin red, from the Abbelene hill country of course.” Her purple benefactor assured her. “You needn’t worry over saving any for me. That skin is for you.’

  Eyes wide like a child at a candy cart she pulled the plug from the neck. “M’ua Shardin it’s been forever!” She whispered excitedly the way all girls do from time to time, but of course she did so very loudly. She took a giant-sized pull, enough to get a good-sized man drunk, and then another.

  The purple frog now held a short, simple wand of sycamore. The instrument was laden with silvery sparkling runes and symbols. The glow of the runes intensified as the frog waved the wand in a small circle. A log of significant size groaned and cracked as it crashed up from a nearby brush pile and careened towards the fire, only to stop and lower itself gently into the middle of said fire. Pidwermin put the wand away.

  “There.” Satisfied that would keep the fire burning for most of the night and generally pleased with the current circumstances, the frog settled into his seat for a night of drinking and, at least while his guest remained awake, some lively conversation.

  “Oh my.” the frog suddenly realized the giantess was positioning her pack so she could either sit atop it or lean against it. This would not do at all.

  “So sorry Mlasha.” the giantess heard the frog say as she was adjusting her pack so she could sit on the ground and lean against it.

  “In the excitement of our little duel I simply forgot.” the frog continued. “Come now, leave that old pack where it is.”

  She turned to ask the frog what he meant and was shocked to see a very comfortable-looking, giantess-sized, cushioned chair with a high back and armrests. The seat stood between her and the frog.

  “There you are dear.” Pidwermin gestured to the chair. “I picked that up for you recently in Salemedes; they’ve a family of Yunni furniture makers that – well as you see here – do excellent work.”

  The giantess laughed again. “That’s great Dw…” She caught herself and adjusted course. “Pidwermin that is great, thank you!”

  She plopped down into the chair and sank into the cushions. “Uh-oh. Might not last long in this thing.”

  “Sit up straight then.” the frog scolded. “We must talk awhile before you also go to sleep on me.”

  The giantess sat up slightly, not wanting to leave the cushion altogether. “This will make me soft I’m afraid.”

  “Doubtful.” the frog encouraged. “Use it in moderation, you’ll be fine.”

  The giantess giggled, loudly. The fire rumbled and popped.

  “I’ve seen so little of you since the Festival of Fortune.” The frog said to the giantess. “Tell me what adventures you’ve had since then.”

  “You know.” Mlasha shrugged. “Ranger stuff, mostly.”

  “I see. Working with Hōz’b’nahzioh?” the frog was now being nosey.

  “Not much actually.” Mlasha had another drink. “The duke sent us to Eden’s Pass between the Azrea Mountains and the Granite Curtain with another group of rangers to investigate a problem with a mountain giant. By the time we arrived the thing had left the area; the other four rangers stayed and we returned back to the northern duchy and our duties here.”

  “I see.” the frog saw. “Glad you didn’t meet up with the mountain giant.”

  “Me too if I’m honest.” the giantess agreed. “There weren’t enough of us. Everybody is spread so thin right now.”

  “Yes there is trouble all over at present; Kovak and I were just discussing that last evening.” the frog had another drink.

  Mlasha nodded. For a moment she seemed elsewhere.

  “What else did you and the blue fellow get into?” the purple frog tried to lure his friend back to the present.

  “That’s about it really. When we got back to Triestjen I volunteered for the wyvern hunt and Seikium sent me to meet the two of you here.” Mlasha explained, taking another drink thereafter.

  “Pity Hōz’b’nahzioh the cheerful didn’t join you.” the frog was openly sarcastic.

  “You don’t like Hōz do you?” the giantess asked. “Is it because he’s a blue elf?”

  “I don’t dislike the fellow. I find him bland and stuffy and generally uninteresting, to say nothing of his overtly grumpy demeanor. I’m surprised you don’t know me better than to ask that last question. Really?”

  “I’m sorry. Seems many people distrust the blue elves.” Mlasha explained.

  “I do know what you mean; there is a sense of distrust towards the blue elves. Strange they should garner more suspicion than the other subraces,” the frog paused, then continued. “They’re all a bit snooty and detached and have that unfathomable elven sense of humor. That said I don’t distrust ‘Hōz’ as you call him or any other elf as such. We just can’t find anything to talk about.”

  “Now that I find impossible Pidwermin,” the giantess laughed. “You having nothing to talk about?”

  “There, you see. Even with the sarcasm my proper name on your lips has a lovely ring to it,” the frog pointed out.

  “I was being serious,” said Mlasha.

  “As am I.” The frog had a drink.

  “Oh! I mean the two of you should have loads to talk about. Magic for one thing. Ancient history for another. Even stories!” Mlasha had a drink.

  “I’ve tried to talk magic and history, even philosophy with the blue lad. Can’t get more than one or two lines out of him if that. All too often he gives no more than a grunt and a scowl.” The frog made an exaggerated mean face, “It’s as if he’s being tight-lipped, afraid of spilling his elven secrets to a non-Alkar mage.” The frog waved his hand.

  “Oh he’s not like that. He has plenty of respect for good wizards who aren’t elven. Like you for one.” The giantess pointed at the frog for emphasis.

  “How flattering.” The frog didn’t sound particularly flattered.

  “I saw the big, blue fellow in the market at Argentum,” Pidwermin recalled. “Acted as though he didn’t see my when I know he did.”

  “When did this happen?” Mlasha challenged. “I can’t see him being that way.”

  “Oh but he was that way child,” the frog said with index finger pointed straight up. “Let’s see, that was Thaloré 18t h , just over a tenday ago.”

  “Wait, what?” Mlasha made a funny face. “That can’t be right.”

  “I’m not sure why you say that,” the frog returned. “I was in Argentum on the 18 th to liaise with a dwarven officer on the Al Dandi vanishings.”

  “Okay.” Mlasha shrugged. “Then you must have seen another blue elf. Hōz and I were in Darbis on the 18 th of last month.”

  “You must be mistaken,” the purple wizard said nonchalantly. “It was definitely Hōz I saw.”

  “Well I’d like to know how you spotted him in Argentum when he was with me in Darbis!” the giantess exclaimed after another drink.

  “I have no answer for that my dear but aside from recognizing his face clearly I was close enough to even see the spiral tattoo over his right hand,” Pidwermin explained. “He wore his broadsword and a classic gladius, and I could even smell the paloderm.”

  “That’s weird all right,” Mlasha conceded. “Couldn’t have been Hōz still; we were in Darbis.”

  The frog frowned. He looked almost accusingly at the drinking flask, then shook his head. I will check my journal tomorrow to settle this matter.

  “You know Hōz knows some of the stories about Ianchilius, the wizard who lived at the top of the world,” Mlasha announced, lowering her voice for dramatic effect when adding the wizard’s place of residence.

  “I should hope so. He’s only one of the most famous wizards in our history,” Pidwermin spoke as if he had a personal stake in the wizard’s reputation.

  “Well, sure I know that. I mean he’s the only one I’ve heard tell the stories the way you tell them; when he’s in the right mood, that is.” Mlasha smiled as she recollected.

  “I didn’t realize he was an elf of multiple moods, thought it was just the one – sullen and grouchy,” Pidwermin jabbed.

  “Aren’t those two different moods?” Mlasha challenged.

  “No,” the frog lied, not wanting to accept the correction.

  “Well Hōz is more than just grouchy, or sullen as you say.” Mlasha rolled her head slowly to stretch her neck muscles. “He can be happy, or sad, or curious…”

  “I’ll take you at your word I suppose. As I said I’ve only ever seen him pouting, only ever heard him grumble.” The frog stood his ground.

  “He’s been through a lot I guess. He’s really old.” The giantess defended her friend.

  “So am I, and I’m not all pissy and sour over it,” The frog refused to give ground on the issue.

  “Maybe you’ll see a different side of him if he joins us in the forest,” the giantess offered, a tone of hopefulness in her words.

  “Perhaps killing wyverns is a long, lost joy of his. I’ll have an open mind to the possibility,” said the frog aloud while in his mind he thought but I won’t hold my breath in hope.

  “Either way,” Mlasha shifted the conversation slightly. “He’s still a great storyteller.”

  “How so?” the frog asked, with the slightest touch of jealousy present in his voice.

  “Well the other day we were around the fire, half a dozen of us at the outpost on Mezbah’s Hill, and he told this wonderful story about Ianchilius placing the feather under the mattress of the daughter of, let’s see, a High Lord of one of the houses of Ziliador.” Mlasha struggled to remember the detail of which house the daughter belonged to.

  “The third house of Ziliador,” the frog enthusiastically came to the lady’s aid.

  “That’s the one!” Mlasha exclaimed. “You know the story, then?”

  Pidwermin laughed. “Of course I know it, child. The feather caused the mattress to be hard and uncomfortable and gave the princess racing thoughts and anxieties all through the night. A prince from a rival house, whose high lord and lady sought peace with the third house, promised the girl’s father he could quell the girl’s anxieties and bless her with a night of peaceful sleep, if he were allowed to visit her one night after she had retired to bed.”

  “That’s it! When I heard Hōz tell that part I thought, uh oh! Surely the father isn’t going to fall for that.” The giantess giggled. “Because, how else was this prince going to give her a good night’s rest and take the worry off of her mind? Do you know what I mean?” and she laughed some more.

  “I do know what you mean.” The frog sounded wholly unimpressed. “So you thought Ianchilius came down from the tower at the top of the world to get some pervert-rascal of a prince laid?”

  Mlasha exploded into laughter so hard more tears came. She had to cup her mouth with one hand for fear of waking Kovak. After a minute of honest, thunderous hawing she gathered herself to answer the frog, who waited indignantly without a word for her response.

  “Yes.” Her voice cracked and a huge tear burst from the corner of each eye as she squeezed her jaw and stomach muscles hard to prevent another laughing attack. “That’s exactly what I thought.” The last part of that sentence came out as a shrill whine.

  “Well I suppose you were rather put out by the way the tale ended, with the prince making good on his promise and standing guard over the princess, fully clothed mind you and not laying a hand on her, as her father had petitioned when granting him entry to her chamber after dark,” the frog ended his statement with a ‘hmpf!’.

  “At first I was a little disappointed sure.” Mlasha shrugged. “I got over it. It was a good story, how Ianchilius secretly told the prince about the feather so he could remove it, and then he and the princess were married and the two houses forged an alliance to last for centuries.”

  “Well. I see the moral of the story wasn’t lost on you after all,” the frog laughed, his ire over the giantess initially misconstruing the narrative had been purely jest.

  “Quite a feat Ianchilius pulled off there.” The frog sounded far away for a moment. “The world needs more wizards like him today. Unafraid of sticking his nose where it might not belong in order to serve a higher good, rather than hiding in isolation from the rest of the world and amassing power and wealth to neither spend nor put to use.”

  “Hear, hear.” Mlasha drank to that point.

  The pair gave the fire another chance to speak its part. They said not a word for a moment while the cracking and hissing of the flames shared its opinionless take on wizards and alliances and all the rest.

  “What did you find out about the Al Dandi villagers?” Mlasha wondered.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “We couldn’t tell much from the abandoned village. Minimal signs of a struggle, no blood, no disturbed ground where a real dust-up had occurred. Over sixty men, women, and children just gone, and from the look of things they were in the middle of a meal.” The frog shook his head.

  “That’s crazy.” Mlasha complained. “What could have happened?”

  “I had no idea, until one of the dwarves announced he believed it to be the work of trolls,” the frog admitted. “I cast a divination spell and saw it for myself; twelve cave trolls came up through a hole in the base of the mountains. The monsters were on a mission, as if this had been planned, for they went straight to that village – didn’t even glance towards Argentum.”

  “That’s horrible!” Mlasha blurted out. “Why aren’t we mobilizing to go find those trolls?”

  “It would be no easy task, dear. Their lair is deep below the surface where they would have every advantage.” the frog lamented.

  “Oh I can’t believe the duke and the marquess are gonna just let this stand!” The giantess was flustered, though the frog noted not yet particularly angry.

  “The dwarves at Argentum sent a messenger to a larger enclave within one of the mountains on the Jagged Jaw.” Pidwermin informed the lady giant. “It is likely they will assemble a force to move against these trolls. We shall just have to wait and see.”

  “I bet it’s because they’re Al Dandi,” the giantess grumbled. “If they were serfs or other laborers or tax paying landowners the duke and the marquess would do something about it.”

  “You may well be right there.” The frog shrugged. “I hate to say it, but you may be right.”

  The fire had grown substantially from the large log the frog had placed within it. It now roared and chased away the slightest chill. Mlasha scooted her chair back a bit.

  Pidwermin had another formidable swig of booze, bourbon to be precise. He didn’t really care for fine wine, preferred giving that away and drinking the dark liquor instead.

  Mlasha scanned the sky to the east. She squinted a moment as if trying to spot something among the stars. “With such little moonlight I thought I might see it tonight.”

  “I presume you mean the Herald?” the frog inquired.

  “Yes,” Mlasha replied. “It’s time for its return.”

  “Ah the Herald, servant of Kepplan the messenger-god; bringer of prophecy for the next year and reconciler of events from the past year.” Pidwermin lived for this sort of conversation. “By its heading, which follows the path of the sun, it shows the seers and oracles what may come. With its tail of light behind, it points into the past bringing clarity and understanding of the last year’s lessons; some even believe the Herald reaches into the past to give prophets who missed the signs another chance, and to allow mistakes to be mended.”

  “It’s incredible isn’t it?” Mlasha said in a reverent tone. “To think this messenger reaches into the past to help people right their errors. I suppose it could have happened many times and we’d never notice, huh?”

  “Very insightful dear.” The frog was as proud as he sounded. “That is one possibility. If our timeline, or journey from past to future, were to be altered through a subtle hint that helped us make a better decision we may never even know such a thing had happened.”

  “The Herald marks the end of your peoples’ ten-month calendar does it not?” The frog enjoyed the nuances of the many cultures in the wide world.

  “That’s right, and this year it marks something else,” the giantess continued to scan the eastern sky.

  “Really?” The frog held a cigarette in one hand and a gadget in the other. As he pressed a small lever on the gadget, a thin steel blade and a sharp piece of flint scraped across one-another like the blades of a pair of scissors. A spark leapt from the flint, which the frog caught on the tip of his cigarette. He puffed vigorously until the whole end of the cigarette glowed orange, then released a small cloud of thick, white smoke.

  The giantess coughed and waved her hands, for she had been caught in the middle of the billowing cloud.

  “Apologies.” the frog offered. “Where are my manners?”

  “Good question,” the giantess pointed out as she coughed some more.

  “Sorry dear. Are you all right?” asked the mildly embarrassed frog.

  “I’ll be fine,” Mlasha laughed.

  “This year the Herald will have with it that other body, called variously the Prince or the Prisoner by different people.” the frog moved the conversation back on track. “Is that what you meant before by the Herald marking something more on this passing?”

  “Sort of.” Mlasha began. “My people call the light moving with the Herald the Yondul; it is the sacrificed priest being led to his ending rite in hopes of turning away the dark tide that follows the Herald every one-thousand years.”

  “Fascinating.” Pidwermin placed his index finger against his chin. This often helped him think more deeply. “In many cultures your Yondul is called the Prince, who must walk with the Herald as penance in hopes of avoiding the lash which is said to follow the two bodies on their path. That has long been a curiosity to the priests of Kepplan – perhaps a bit of lore from the past whose origins and stories did not survive the march of time.”

  “It never works.” Mlasha frowned.

  “Oh I don’t know about that,” the frog argued. “The Archives are a fairly sophisticated system. The habens modeled them after something the elves do you know?”

  “Huh?” the giantess wrinkled her brow.

  “I aid something about lore nor surviving the march of time,” the frog reiterated. “Then you said it never works; I presumed you meant things are never properly saved over long periods of time. Then I said the archives are a sophisticated system – meaning more often than not history and lore does survive many thousands of years.”

  Mlasha shook her head. “No. I didn’t mean that at all.”

  “Oh. Well, what did you mean?” the frog asked.

  “The sacrifice, or penance, whatever you want to call it.” the giantess sounded sad. “It never works, for the darkness always follows the Herald with the Yondul – the Shkamtas of my people call it T’rkast Hssedya, which means “terrible dark” in the common tongue.”

  “Shkamtas are liken to the shaman of the Shai Hai Ula?” the frog checked his understanding with the giantess.

  “Very much like them yes, only bigger!” the giantess laughed, for the wine began to take effect.

  “Indeed.” the frog also laughed. “Tell me more about this T’rkast Hssedya.”

  “It’s a time of tragedy and darkness, when the worst of things happen to the world,” Mlasha recounted. “Natural disasters, the rise of tyrants, plagues, all the most terrible events are said to fall within the terrible darkness ushered in by the Yondul’s failed sacrifice.”

  “Interesting.” the frog mused. “Bad things are always happening, along with good things and other things that don’t much matter either way.”

  “True. Good things can still happen during the T’rkast Hssedya, of course.” the giantess conceded. “The very darkest things, the evil that hurts the most people, those things happen within these dark eras that last four-hundred and three years.”

  “My dear I hate to see you worried about an event in the sky,” the frog said gently. “All cultures have their lore, which likely began as something useful but over time as the original intent fades from memory, many such tales remain only as frightening warnings of what might befall those who stray from the path of their gods.”

  “It’s real Dwer… Dammit! The Terrible Dark is real and the events of history prove it,” Mlasha insisted.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what events?” the frog pressed.

  Mlasha frowned and looked as if she were straining. “This damn moo sha… mooi shta.. Oh damn it! This wine makes it a little hard to remember things but let’s see.”

  She sat up straight, concentrated, then said. “Like the Kin Slayer Wars when the Yiyagwa and Ettin nearly eradicated each other, and the big earthquake that sank the isle of the Wizard Born. Or that awful plague of the bleeding that struck the humans of this land before the Guths arrived centuries ago, and that mad wizard who wanted to kill the giants and elves and orcs and all the other intelligent races.”

  “You chose those events at random?” the frog asked almost suspiciously.

  “Actually those came right out of the old Shkamtas stories,” Mlasha corrected her friend. “It’s been four years since I have seen my people – or I guess I should say the tribe that used to be my people – and I don’t remember all the old stories but there was a big list of tragedies and ill events from the T’rkast Hssedya through the ages. I’ve heard it so many times I can at least remember parts of it even through the wine.”

  She giggled like a young girl.

  “Fascinating.” the frog noted. “We have first of all a one-thousand year cycle – the coming of the Yondul with the Herald taking place every one-thousand years of the twelve-month calendar. Do tell me a few more of these events from the dark era if you will.”

  “Oh gosh.” Mlasha giggled then abruptly composed herself. “Ok there were those dragon awakenings, I mean the two really ugly ones when the evil dragons wanted to conquer the realms again. Then there was that desert kingdom Sa-Iz that fell into civil war and became Izrad and Sarda in their eternal warring and hatred of each other. That evil wizard Darkmore who enslaved Ziliador – ever notice how many evil wizards there are in history books? Always trying to take things over.”

  “It’s true and rather embarrassing to those of us who happen to be polite and decent wizards,” the frog agreed. “Now let me ask you something.”

  “Ok, sure.” the giantess agreed, once more scanning the sky.

  “Do your Shkamtas say the cycle lasts precisely four-hundred and three years?” the frog leaned in. “I ask not to be a nuisance, but people often round numbers up and down for easier handling in conversation – do you take my meaning dear?”

  “I think so.” Mlasha was now squinting her eyes towards the east. “Like when the Shkamtas say four-hundred three years and one Groompfket, meaning another sixty days, and I only say four-hundred and three years because I don’t want to fool with the extra part?”

  “Yes!” the frog clapped his hands. “Mlasha you are hands-down the smartest giant I have ever known; that is exactly what it means to round down. There are five Groompfkets in each of your years I believe, and the full cycle of darkness runs four-hundred three full years plus sixty days – is that right?”

  “It sure is, and thank you that was sweet of you to say.” The giantess had fixed her view in on particular area of the sky.

  Pidwermin fell silent a moment. His eyes moved this way and that, as they often did when he thought very intently.

  He nodded, then spoke again.

  “I thought the events you mentioned had an interesting correlation, but I needed your help sorting out a numeric discrepancy before I said anything.”

  “You need my help with a problem in New Merrick?” the giantess made a funny face. “I didn’t even know we worked that far south. What’s going on down there?”

  “What?” the frog half-scowled. “No dear, apologies. I said numeric discrepancy , referring to four-hundred of your ten-month years and how that might line up within the one-thousand year cycle of the Yondul on the Gutherian twelve-month calendar.”

  “Dwerm..,. I mean.” The giantess fumbled briefly. “Dammit. What are you on about now? What in the world does New Merrick have to do with all these numbers and calendars and the Yondul?”

  The frog sighed. “Yes you’re right. My mistake let’s forget all about that for now, shall we?”

  “Ok I guess.” the giantess giggled.

  The frog checked his mental calculations silently, noting that four-hundred and three ten-month years plus one Groompfket – or sixty days – would equal precisely three-hundred-thirty-six years on the twelve-month calendars of Gutheria, Baaltar, and numerous other civilized people.

  Numerologically this amounted to 3 + 3+ 6, or 12. In the art of numerology this represented divine or cosmic order. Twelve could also be reduced by standard numerological practice of adding the digits of the number together; 1+2=3. Three happened to be a number sacred to the god Thrombas – lord of time and cycles, of the harvest, of aging, death, destruction, and the journey beyond this world.

  This outdated myth now had the mage’s attention. Numbers were the foundation of what most people call reality, as any good wizard well knew. There was at least enough here to warrant a closer look at the matter.

  “On a different note,” the frog started over. “I noticed each of the events you mentioned occurred within the timeframe your people call the terrible dark.”

  “I already told you that Dw.... Oh!” Mlasha caught herself again. “I already told you that frog.”

  Noting her use of his amphibian classification Pidwermin quickly sought to mitigate any potential upset. “You did indeed dear and I thank you. As you know, however, I like to be thorough and really think things through, which often involves repeating myself.”

  “I have noticed that, yes.” the giant lady agreed.

  “You see I follow the twelve-month calendar used by the humans of this region. A bit like using their common language, just makes things easier.” the frog spoke quickly for he anticipated another interruption in the near future.

  “As it happens four-hundred-three of your ten month years, plus one additional sixty-day period…”

  “You mean the Groompfket.” the giantess offered.

  “Yes I do.” the frog wasted no time in cutting her off for he needed to state aloud that which had emerged from his mental sorting of the affair. “As I was saying by your people’s reckoning of time the dark era lasts four-hundred and three years plus sixty days. This time converts to exactly three-hundred and thirty-six years on the twelve-month calendar – a significant number in magical terms for it speaks of cycles and death and so forth.”

  “Now what are you talking about?” the giantess tried to interrupt again but the frog had already gained momentum on her.

  He moved swiftly and directly through her unsolicited question. “We have the thousand-year cycle of the Yondul, which cannot yet be seen but within days will be visible alongside the Herald.” the frog pointed into the eastern sky without looking.

  “Every single event you mentioned as being part of the terrible dark falls within the three-hundred-thirty-six year period following the appearance of the Herald with the Yondul!” the frog exclaimed, his enthusiasm for occult and esoteric matters now getting the better of him.

  Mlasha followed the frog’s finger as he pointed skyward. She squinted again, then her lower jaw dropped. “There it is!”

  Pidwermin had a long drag off his cigarette, being careful this time to blow the smoke away from his friend. “Indeed. Barely visible at this time.”

  “It’s dim right now. but that is definitely the Herald.” Mlasha kept her gaze fixed to the east and continued to squint.

  She added: “So what you’re saying is before I was being foolish and superstitious but now that you’ve worked out some math I’m not crazy and you believe me?”

  The frog hated it when the giantess managed to be so astute. “That’s a bit of a harsh way of putting things, really. And I’m not sure I believe any of this just yet but so far a compelling case is forming.”

  “Here, use this.” the frog held out a brass tube longer than himself.

  Mlasha reached over and took the tube. She looked it over and made a funny face. A cylinder made of brass, the unremarkable object was tapered with one circular end being smaller than the other, which was quite large; both ends had a circular piece of glass set into the tube.

  The frog made a grabbing motion with both his hands, then pulled the hands in a straight line away from each other out to the sides. “Pull it open.”

  Mlasha imitated Pidwermin’s motion with her hands on the brass tube and it extended in her grasp to nearly double in length.

  “Now look through the smaller end.” the frog instructed.

  The giantess did as she was asked. “Wow! The stars are so close!”

  She lowered the scope to look at the sky without it, then peered through it once more. “That’s amazing! It must be great knowing all this magic!”

  She panned with the scope until she located the distant Herald again and held the object in her view. It looked so much closer now; she saw it flickering like a flame, and even spotted the long tail of sparkling lights.

  Slightly behind the Herald and off to one side, she found another luminous object. Smaller than the first, this one shifted from red, to yellow, then green and back to red over and over.

  The frog laughed. “It seems magical all right. However it is little more than gnomish ingenuity. I acquired that telescope as it is called from a merchant in Erminshar years ago. Humans and elves use similar scopes for sailing and military campaigns but this one is far superior.”

  “It’s incredible. I see the Yondul clear as a bell, like I could reach out and touch it!” Mlasha sounded like an excited child.

  “The wizard Darkmore enslaved Ziliador for a time, until he was undone by Kendrion O’Hastr and company; this was around the year 333 in the Age of Tyrants. There’s that highly significant number three, times three becoming nine. Next we have Vinresh the Cleanser, that necromancer who sought to eradicate the humanoid life forms, in 1300, Age of Tyrants; another significant number – in certain contexts thirteen reflects ill fate and bad fortune.” The frog paused only briefly before continuing.

  “In the year 1313 Age of Tyrants the dragons awoke for the first time since the rite of sleep was used to force them into slumber near the end of the Age of Dragons. By 2307 we see the second dragon awakening where the great serpents again wreak havoc and nearly conquer the realms – all this was before the good dragons revealed themselves centuries later. Numerologically 2307 means 2+3+0+7 =12, or 1+2=3; the number of Thrombas once again.”

  By now Mlasha had lowered her scope and sat staring at the frog, her head tilted and a baffled look on her face. “Huh?”

  “In 1980, Age of Empires the isle of the Wizard Born sank. This gives us another 9 through numerological reduction, or 1+9+8+0=18, so 1+8 =9, the number of cycles once again. This is uncanny!” the frog continued without responding to the giantess.

  “Year 104 of the Second Age of Kings saw the kin slayer war among the giants, which of course involved a good deal of trouble for the other races as well. This number reduces to five, often seen as the number of strife.” Pidwermin tapped his chin with his finger.

  “The Crimson Cough plague you mentioned emerged in Sarda, along the river Tarvivus, said by many to be the wrath of Galadine upon the serpent people. The illness spread through the Khelt and into Grandlin, or modern-day Gutheria killing tens of thousands of people; this is usually listed as occurring between 902 to 907, Second Age of Kings and there we have another numerological reference to nine.” The frog looked directly at Mlasha.

  “Every event you spoke of takes place within an alleged period of darkness, using the Yondul’s appearance as the marker. The events span a period of six-thousand, nine-hundred and fifty-one years and still line up perfectly with the terrible dark your priests warn of.” the frog blinked hard, twice.

  “I know that Dw…” Mlasha bit her lip and clenched her fists.

  Pidwermin moved quickly to distract her. “Yes I know you know dear I am just acknowledging that. It seems you have been the teacher tonight.”

  The giantess smiled. This was indeed a high compliment the frog had paid her. “I don’t know about all that, but I’m glad you believe me.”

  “Equally fascinating, when I calculate the years these events fall upon, each one results in a mystical number that is significant to cycles, or death, strife, themes that align with the idea of a prolonged and terrible darkness.” The frog realized he had allowed his cigarette to burn away.

  He flicked the butt into the fire and presently lit another. He again took care not to smother the giantess with a cloud of smoke.

  “As I sit here and think of other fell events from the history of these realms, I can see the pattern still. In fact both the Age of the Freezing and the Age of Dragons – ages that were not kind to the goodly races by any means – both begin within the dark time following the Yondul,” Pidwermin realized he was now speaking matter-of-factly about the terrible dark as if it were verified truth.

  If the shoe fits, wear it. he thought.

  “True some events of ill fortune fall outside of this period. The plague that killed thousands of the elves for example occurred in the year 651, Age of Tyrants well after the three-hundred thirty-six year period following the Yondul.” the thinking wizard paused briefly, taking a drag from his cigarette, then went on. “Interestingly 6+5+1 once again equals 3, the number of Thrombas yet again. I wonder if there is some sort of sub-cycle in play here.”

  “There you go again,” the giantess pointed out. “Why do you keep taking parts of the numbers out and adding them together like that?”

  “Numerology,” the frog answered. “The mystical and magical study of numbers and their deeper meanings. It’s a profoundly accurate discipline that can teach the astute practitioner much about many things. In this case it reveals a deeper connection between events that are separated by very long periods of time, suggesting perhaps they are all part of a cycle.”

  “I know that already.” Mlasha said incredulously. “I thought you already knew it as well.”

  “Yes I know dear,” the frog had another puff of tobacco.

  “I know that already.” Mlasha said incredulously. “I thought you already knew it as well.”

  The frog raised an eyebrow. The moment felt somehow strange to him. He had another puff of tobacco before answering the giantess.

  “It’s called critical thinking, whereby one examines and re-examines things to be sure all the information is being considered. I try to disprove an idea, because I don’t want to bother with false notions, and if I am unable to show something is false, then I can be confident that I have found the truth.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.” the giantess conceded. “That’s what makes you so smart I guess.”

  The fire gave off another loud pop; then another, followed by a crack. All the while a shrill whine sounded off in the background, just below the constant rumbling and subtle beating noise of the dancing flames.

  “I’m gonna sleep off some of this booze now.” the giantess announced.

  “Sleep well my dear. Tomorrow we hunt wyvern.”

  Kovak listened as Mlasha laid out her bed roll and stretched out for some sleep. He listened to the crackling of the fire and Pidwermin speaking out loud to himself every so often, as he did when he pondered deeply.

  The wolf considered what he had overheard about the cycle of terrible darkness, a time that may be upon the realms even now. This would explain the recent upsurge in monsters and evil creatures he and the frog had discussed the previous night; it also lent credibility to his own misgivings and wariness about the near future.

  It struck the wolf as odd that a one-thousand-year cycle and time of great darkness were not spoken of by the sages and scrollnasters of his homeland. History was taken very seriously by his people. The archives of the ages held detailed chronicles going back thousands of years, and his training as a youth involved a great deal of history.

  He could not recall a single story or timeline that mentioned a cycle involving a centuries-long period of great evil and tragedy. Perhaps he had simply been too young to take such grand themes into consideration, he reasoned.

  Furthermore, a warrior is always cognizant of the current and next immediate threats, not taking into account cycles of time or looking for meaning through historical analysis. Such was the work of talking frogs.

  It was also possible his home region, being very distant from these strange lands he had roamed the past eight years, was not subject to the accursed cycle of darkness. This seemed a most plausible explanation.

  After all, many things in these Three Kingdoms and the northern realms in general, along with The Arm and Khelt, the wild regions south of Ziliador and certainly the Great South with its deserts and rainforests, were so very different from the wolf’s home. N o Herald crossed the sky year after year over Tir Nam Asena, the mountainous region he had called home for nigh two-hundred and fifty years before being whisked into this realm by some kind of magical portal.

  Only one moon hung in the night sky above the wolf’s homeland. Even the sun looked different, a distinct yellow-white in contrast to the orange-tinted sun seated in the heavens over this world.

  How vast must the distance between places be for the very luminaries in the sky to either appear radically different or in fact be different objects of nature? Such reckoning discouraged the wolf immensely.

  Just a few years prior he would have immediately assumed he wouldn’t be staying for any centuries of darkness scheme. Instead he would have anticipated finding the lost path or magical portal back to his home sooner rather than later. Had he silently given up on finding his way home and just failed to admit this to himself?

  Perhaps he and his companions should discuss a plan of action, some outline for how to proceed into this potentially dark future. He had no idea what such a plan would look like, nor how to even approach the matter.

  Now it was time for sleep. Kovak was so, very, very weary. Darkness swallowed him and to sleep he went, relaxing every muscle and resting in the carefree oblivion of unremembered dreams.

  ?