He held the book close to his face, squinting to make out the words in the fading candlelight. He was down to his last stub, despite his attempts to conserve the supply. Soon he would be unable to continue his studies as he had been instructed. He wasn’t sure what he would do then. He had continued his studies when his food had run out, ignoring the empty feeling. He had continued his studies when his water had run out, ignoring the dry feeling in his mouth. It had been easy to ignore while he had the books to focus on. But now without light, he knew he’d have to make a choice. He had been instructed to stay in the small room and study until he was called for, but soon he would be unable to study. Even as he weighed the options, the tiny flame flickered out, and he was left in the dark. He fumbled for the box of matches, knowing they were long spent. He had lit the last few candles off its predecessor’s last flickers, waiting as long as he dared to pass the tiny flame. He felt nothing, and placed the box back carefully onto the table, feeling his way in the dark.

  He sat in the quiet dark for a time, wondering what he should do. He was dimly aware that someone should have been to see him, it had been quite a long time to have been left alone in the small windowless room. He tried reading the books from memory for a while, but that quickly lost its appeal. It was all information and knowledge he had already pored over many times, each book read and reread until the pages grew damaged and worn by his fingers. There was no noise he could hear, beyond a steady dripping from somewhere outside the door. He focused on it for a while, but that too swiftly lost its appeal. He prayed for a time for guidance, and that helped somewhat. He always felt warm inside when he prayed, but there was no answer forthcoming, just the steady drip in the dark. He paced the length of the small room, he had done it enough times to walk blindly in the dark and not touch a thing. Two and a half steps deep, one and a half steps wide. The room was bare stone, not brick and mortar but carved directly into the stone of a cave or mountain, the walls and floor slightly damp to the touch. The moisture had not helped his candles or the books, some of the older tomes had sprouted mushrooms on their shelves. He had diligently looked them up in a book of edible plants, but found no matching entry, so he had erred on the side of caution and ignored the want to eat them right off the pages.

  He sat for another while, and eventually came to a decision. He had to leave, there was no point in sitting in the dark and expiring, despite his instructions to stay until relieved. He had not been relieved so he shouldn’t have to stay. He felt slightly ashamed at that thought, it was the closest he had come to outright breaking a rule or ignoring an order. He searched for what clothes he had been left with, just an old robe and a long loincloth. He walked to the door, long ignored, and knocked on the wood, each knock sending a thundering echo through the outside corridor.

  “Hello?” he called, his head pressed against the barred window at the top of the door. There was nothing to see outside, just the ever present dark, and no answer came from the dark, nor any noise of anything living. “It’s Brother Fuath, I’ve run out of candles?” he called, hoping for a response. He sat and listened for a time in case anyone that could respond was away, but there was no welcome sound of feet or opening of a distant door. “Okay, I have to come out, I’m sorry if that’s not allowed…” he called, again waiting for a response that never came. He pushed the door, and put his weight behind it as it met resistance. No doubt the door had swollen in the damp. He pushed with the strength he had left, until he heard something crack and the door swung open. He panicked, and nearly retreated back into the room, listening for the sound of angry approach. Eventually the echoes faded, and he stood just before the now open door. “Umm, sorry but the door was stuck…” he called out again, but there was still no answer. He waited in the dark, but there was nothing and no one. It was now beyond doubt he was alone here.

  He thought for a time, hesitant now that the door and path lay open before him. He groped in the dark, checking that his water barrel was still empty, and that no crumbs remained on the larder shelf. He sighed softly, his decision made. He made to head out the door, but paused. He turned and returned to his desk, feeling for his favourite book, the most important one. It was always near the top of the stack, he liked rereading it more than any of the others. He felt the familiar icon under his fingers, the veil of The Mourning One in raised metal on the leather bindings. The book of his faith, the book of his god. There was something else, something he had never used but knew the purpose of. He felt for the canvas wrappings under the desk, he had left it there to be out of the way. His fingers found the bundle and pulled it out, and he unwrapped it on the ground. It felt like it had absorbed enough moisture he wouldn’t place it on the desk, and he hoped the metal within would be in good condition still. He was in luck, the 2 objects had been bound in belted leather coverings under the canvas, sealed against the damp. He slung the larger around his waist and let it hang, an unfamiliar weight on one side unbalancing him briefly, and gently felt for the opening of the smaller. He gently slid a finger inside, and was satisfied with what was within, the badge of his faith, the symbol of a member of his order. He felt more confident now, the 2 objects either side of his waist and the book tucked into an inner pocket of his robe, near his chest. He patted the smaller object at his waist in the dark, it was a comforting thing.

  “Okay, I’m really leaving now, I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to…” he called out before he stepped through the open doorway, just in case. He listened until the echoes had faded, and the silence returned, broken only by the endless dripping. He took a deep breath and stepped out, feeling slightly ashamed of himself.

  He felt his way in the dark, the corridor unfamiliar to him. He could feel empty sconces, no torch or stumps left within. He had to turn back once, the corridor blocked off by a wall of fallen stone and dirt. He would try dig through if there was no other way, but he did not relish the idea. He found the source of the drip as he passed his room once more, holding out his hand to catch a drop and tasting it to confirm it was water. He stood under it for a time, letting it fill his mouth as best he could and swallowing. It was better than nothing, but after 2 mouthfuls he moved on. It took far too much time. He followed the corridor, one hand on the symbol at his waist in its pouch and the other on the wall, his fingers bouncing off rough stone as he took small careful steps. He felt no other doors, nor felt no passage of air suggesting doors or windows he passed, so he pressed on. Eventually he came to some stairs, like the walls hewn directly into the stone, rough and uneven. He climbed on all fours, feeling for each step as he ascended. At the top was a door at last, which required a good deal of effort to lift open. As the door flung back, he staggered back as light flooded his vision, nearly falling down the steps as he covered his face for a time, spots dancing in his vision. He slowly blinked and opened his eyes, adjusting to the light. He stood in a small cave, the door in the ground behind him flat against the back wall. The entrance to the cave itself was almost grown over, long strands of some plant reaching across the entrance and blocking a good deal of light. He was grateful for that, if the light had been harsher his vision might have been damaged. He uttered a small prayer he slid himself through the plants, doing his best not to rip or damage the strands. He looked out at the area. He was up high on a ridge, looking down on a forest. He saw nothing at first, but as he gazed around he saw a few plumes of smoke in the distance, maybe a day’s walk away. He adjusted his belts and stepped off, looking for a safe way to descend the ridge and head for the smoke.

  Richard sat on the stoop of his guard room, sipping lukewarm coffee from a battered metal cup while listening to the cooing of the many pigeons behind him. It was an easy assignment here, if a lonely one. The small village had suffered a grand total of 2 monster attacks in the last 4 years, starving things staggering out of the woods nearby looking for easy prey before being subdued by a farmers pitchfork or a woodcutters axe. But they paid taxes to the merchants guild, so off he had been dispatched, a single worn shield and chipped sword to protect the good people and feed the postal pigeons. He scoffed at the thought, and at his old memories of joining for glory and wealth. He had served with the guard corps for 5 years now, 2 of them spent here. He didn’t dislike the village but it was so quiet and dull, each day exactly like the last, not like the city. The most excitement he’d had in the past while had been a particularly sly fox getting into the chickens. He’d been quite disappointed when a snare trap had snagged the thing, the sad wet carcass a let-down after several night watches and other traps had failed.

  He watched with feigned disinterest as the Cutterson boy ran towards him, as he always did. Richard put on a mask of detached calm around the boy but secretly enjoyed his daily visits. The boy looked up to him (for some reason) and he was at least someone to talk to, or at least listen to. The boy had an endless stream of questions but rarely waited for an answer, instead launching directly into his own theories or a new train of thought, leaping from topic to topic. “Monster! Richard, MONSTER!” the boy called out as he approached, and Richard lazily waved his cup in response. It wasn’t the first time he had played this game, the last time he had lead Richard to a large dog with a bored expression and a wilted crown of stained butchers paper tied to its head with some string, swearing it was a mighty king troll. He had gently petted the stinking hound, declared it slain and the boy had grinned for the rest of the day. He paused as the boy grew closer, and he saw something unfamiliar in the boy’s face. He was pale, with tears streaming down his face. He shouted again, “MONSTER!” his voice cracking with fear now. Richard stood up, his cup forgotten, and darted inside to grab the sword and shield, cursing himself for not maintaining them better. He ran in the direction the boy was pointing, already pulling the sword out. Chipped or not, it would have to do.

  “Get inside the guard hut, lock the door and don’t come out until we come to get you!” Richard shouted. He didn’t wait to make sure the boy did as he was told, his training had always emphasized swift response. The village wasn’t large at all, 20 buildings in total, but it seemed it was at the very far end from his small hut. He sprinted through the single lane that made up the village and turned the corner where some gathered men stood with pitchforks and axes, whatever tools they had at hand, peering around the corner of the last home in the row. Without a word he joined them, and peered around the corner, his eyes widening at the thing coming down the path from the woods.

  It was tall and thin, standing at best guess 7 feet, though it appeared to be somewhat bent over and partly covered in a tattered robe that hid some of its frame. From what was visible it was rail thin, its torso gaunt like a starved corpse, the outline resembling a skeleton with a thin covering of skin clinging to the bones, the hips and ribs separated by a thin column. Its limbs were too long for its frame and gangly, the arms hanging down almost to the ground, 4 long curved claws almost scraping the ground. The feet were like an owls, 3 jutting claws in the front and a longer 4th at the rear of the foot, each step of its thin long legs coming high to clear them off the ground, giving it an almost clumsy gait. As he watched it turned its head in his direction, and he saw the shape of the head as the old ragged robe covering it fell away. Its head was unnaturally round at the rear and sides, a polished ball of dark red, while the face was flat and a dull white. The face too resembled an owl, 2 large staring eyes looked directly at him from a flat white featureless face as he stepped back into cover, pure white with no visible pupils. There was the suggestion of a mouth, a thin line three quarters down the face where the lower half was slightly set in, the things jaw no doubt. He cursed himself for wishing for excitement, he should have known that was inviting trouble.

  He gestured for the men to fall back, and they did slowly, holding their weapons between themselves and the thing approaching around the corner. They were mostly older men, this was his duty. He hoped they didn’t notice his hand trembling. He drew the sword and readied his shield, and stepped out, focusing on remembering his training to stamp down his fear. Project strength and threaten in a loud voice, try scare off the thing without risk. He stepped out, and flinched a little as the thing’s head snapped around to look at him directly. It froze in the path, maybe 12 paces away now. It looked clumsy as it walked but the long thin legs carried it with some speed. He took a deep breath and shouted, trying to keep the tremble from his voice.

  “Stay back fiend, there is nothing for you here but death! Flee back to the woods that spawned you!” he had practiced the line in his younger years, when he was a fresh recruit and filled with dreams of facing down nightmares. He knew them well enough to repeat them without thought. There was a brief moment of silence, and he readied for an attack as the thing raised one arm, but he paused as it waved one long clawed hand at him.

  “Excuse me, would you be able to spare some water please? Maybe a meal?” said Brother Fuath.

  Richard stared for a while, sword and shield ready, and slowly lowered them in confusion.

  “Come again?”

  The entire village was crowded into, or around, the local pub. It had never been so packed full, and the crush was not helped by most not wishing to be too close to the new arrival. Fuath sat at the head of a table, happily eating a hastily prepared meal and downing mugs of water. Richard watched him with his sword across the lap, the only one sitting within range of the thing as it happily ate, humming a small tune to itself between mouthfuls. It ate slowly and deliberately, the head splitting across the thin line into two sections. It had no teeth he saw, just 2 curved sections that fit each other. It was uncomfortable to watch, the thing that had introduced itself as Brother Fuath mashed food between the two halves and swallowed the crushed mass with an upturn of the head, much like an owl. At first he thought it had no tongue, but he saw it in between mouthfuls, a long thin rod that emerged from the back of the throat and receded back out of sight. Its fingers, and he saw they were fingers now despite them ending in vicious looking points, held the utensils delicately, bending more than his own fingers to wrap around the handles. He saw it down chicken bones and vegetables with equal effort and apparent pleasure. The villagers were seemingly deferring to him entirely, no one else had raised a complaint when he had lead the thing in proper after a short conversation. Whatever it was, it was like no monster he had ever read of or been trained for, they weren’t normally this apologetic and meek.

  Fuath was an odd thing for sure, though he seemed to show no discomfort with his surroundings or the onlookers he spoke with a politeness and subservience Richard had only seen in servants in the city and some of the older freed slave-soldiers. He barely did anything without checking for approval first, entering the building, sitting at the table, even taking the knife and fork and eating, all had been preceded with questions asking for permission. Once he had permission he proceeded happily enough, and had been calmly sitting and eating for 15 minutes, only occasionally glancing around at the onlookers who watched in silence. When the plate was clear he clasped his hands over it, and muttered something Richard couldn’t hear before looking up and speaking to the room as a whole.

  “I cannot thank you all enough for your generosity, I feared I would expire without food or drink.”

  There was no reply, just a general muttering that may have had a few quiet confused “You’re welcome”s in it. His voice was odd coming from his frame as he sounded perfectly human, bar a slight hollow echo to his voice. He sounded like a young man, with just a hint of an accent from the north of the continent. Richard (and the crowd behind him) flinched as Fuath reached into the ragged cloak he wore, but relaxed when he pulled out only a small book, the bronze veil of the cover giving it away as bible of the Mourning Temple. Fuath flicked open the book and thumbed through the pages, quickly arriving at the passage he sought.

  “And Saint Jereseb went out into the world, declaring he would only eat food given freely and water shared without reservation, to prove to the demon there was more good in the world than it could ever destroy, and he lived for fourscore more years, the demon slain by the good he found within the hearts of strangers” Fuath read, a pleasant singsong quality to his voice as he read the brief passage. “Truly the spirit of the good that slew that demon lives on in all of you.”

  It was odd, Richard observed, the face was an unmoving mask but he knew the thing…”Fuath”, he corrected himself internally, was smiling happily. The people seemed to be feeling the same, there were some more mutterings now, without the hostile edge the previous silence had.

  “You’re made of wood” the Cutterson boy remarked out loud, poking Fuath in the leg and making him and everyone else start. No one had seen him approach, he had a talent for escaping his mother’s eyes to pursue whatever fancy caught his mind.

  “Am I?” asked Fuath, bending down to examine the spot on his leg the boy had poked. Folded might be a better description, Richard thought to himself. The legs and waist stayed perfectly still and Fuath’s torso bent only at the small column, his upper body rotating down to swing his head over his leg. He had a neck, Richard saw as he folded, another small column hidden under the curve of his head.

  “But some part of you’s stone” said the boy, poking Fuath’s feet. Fuath raised one leg into the air, the claws flexing over nothing and making the crowd shrink back slightly. There were no real feet, Richard saw. The thin leg had a small round joint at the end from which emerged the 4 claws, made of the same dull white stone as the face mask. Fuath moved his claws about to examine them, they could rotate freely it seemed as long as they didn’t block another. “So I am” said Fuath to the boy, still examining himself. His body was a mix of the dark red wood, polished and smoothed to a near shine, and that dull white stone. There were plates of the stone across his chest and parts of his legs, sitting on the dark red wood. It gave the vague impression of a partially skinned body, which Richard tried not to dwell on. At least he knew what he was dealing with now.

  “So you’re one of the Madefolk then?” he said proudly, flexing his knowledge and authority before the village.

  “Umm, I’m not sure. What is a Madefolk?” replied Fuath, which deflated Richard somewhat.

  “Well, it’s one of those men the Ascension College puts together isn’t it? They put them together from stone and wood and metal, and pump Words into them until they come to life…” his confidence withered under the unblinking stare of Fuath. There were pupils in the eyes, he could see now. 2 small pinpricks of dark looked out from the white orbs, but even a small shine would hide them and near make the eyes glow.

  Fuath looked down at his arms as the Cutterson boy climbed into his lap and checked the plate for scraps. “Stone and wood I am, I suppose I must be a Madefolk then, though I haven’t heard the name before.”

  “Moving on”, thought Richard. There was too much for him to deal with there.

  “So what brings you to the village Fuath?” he asked, keeping his tone casual as he kept his hand on the sword.

  “Oh, well, I was studying in my room, but I ran out of candles and food. There was no one else around, so I just started walking towards some smoke I saw.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Where is your room?” asked Richard. Some small spirit he thought long buried inside him had emerged, the mystery had kindled the spark of adventure in his heart.

  “Well I came out on a ridge up high, but I climbed some stairs first, so I would guess it’s under the mountain?” Fuath pointed back in the direction he had come from, through the wall of the building.

  “Was there anyone else there?”

  “There was some time ago, there were 5 other brothers also studying there. I haven’t seen them in some time though.”

  “Brothers? You have some brothers?” Some faces in the crowd looked concerned by that.

  “Oh no, monastic brothers, we were attending the monastery there.”

  “What monastery?” Richard looked around, but got only shrugs. Seemed he wasn’t the only one who had no knowledge of a monastery nearby.

  Fuath shrugged before answering, an impressive movement with his frame. “I just knew it as the monastery. We were of different faiths, it was a place for us all to have quiet and peace to study.”

  Richard paused, giving a pondering look. “Fuath, are you a priest?”

  He clasped the holy book in both hands, and again Richard got a feeling he was smiling. “Well not yet, but I’ve completed my studies and have been blessed with the Words of The Mourning One, all I need is to be properly ordained at a temple!” He had a youthful excitement to him, open and earnest. There was some chatter at that.

  “Could you…demonstrate?” Richard asked cautiously, locking eyes with someone in the crowd. Jarrim had injured his arm a few months ago, and kept pushing off the trip to the city for proper temple healing. He was still unable to lift it past his shoulder. Jarrim looked back questioningly, which turned to a face of realization and fear. He tried to squirm his way out of the crowd but found himself pushed to the front, no doubt everyone else was as fed up as Richard of Jarrim constantly complaining about his arm while refusing to get it healed.

  Jarrim stood at the front of the crowd now, next to Fuath while muttering about treachery and what bastards everyone was. “His arm needs healing, if you can manage” said Richard, still holding his sword. It would be a good test for Fuath. Risky, but he believed he was close enough to pull Jarrim away if he had to. Fuath looked up at the weathered man, and gently raised one hand, pausing with it in the air, palm open. “Where is the pain?” he asked, the sharp fingers almost beckoning. Jarrim grumbled for a bit, then pointed to just below the shoulder. “Here, got a whack off a fallin’ tree and ain’t been right since” he said quietly. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Fuath nodded, reached up and gently wrapped his long fingers around the arm. He held the small book up to his chest, and made a sound. It was difficult to describe, it seemed to Richard to contain birdsong and gently running water, animal roars at once deafeningly loud and distantly quiet, he felt like he could hear trees and flowers grow. He had heard the sound before, in training. The Word of Life. Fuath spoke the truth.

  It didn’t take long for the beautiful sound to stop, and Fuath withdrew his hand. Jarrim stared suspiciously at his arm, but slowly raised it, and his expression turned to wonder as he lifted it straight up, then shook it and moved it back and forth. “Well how about that, feels better than ever” he said with a quiet awe. There was a different sort of silence now that Richard could pick out from the earlier, hostile quiet. “Simple folk in the presence of a priest”, he thought.

  The days passed, and Richard marvelled at how fast people could get used to things. He watched idly as Fuath sat on a stump, reading from his small book to a gathered assembly of all ages. He spent most of the day there, reading quietly if alone, conversing with anyone that stopped and reading out loud on request, occasionally healing the various wounds and ache life in the country would pile up. He seemed to have a good eye for what stories the children would enjoy, he’d always turn to the stories of saints defeating demons or monsters for a younger audience. One of the village women had sewn him a new robe, long enough to cover him from head to ankle, which he had accepted gratefully. Richard was thankful for that, it was a lot easier to accept him with most of his body covered. With the hood up he looked like a man in a mask until you saw the feet and hands. Fuath had been granted use of a spare room in the pub (hastily cleared of old cleaning supplies and scrubbed clean) and ate his meals in the shared space, but he rarely spent time alone.

  Richard had taken some men and travelled into the mountains one day, following Fuath’s directions. They had climbed up a ridge following a barely existent sloping path, and found the cave Fuath had mentioned. However the entrance was sealed, some great movement collapsing the entrance and lining it with a wall of rocks and dirt. Fuath had seemed sad at that, he wistfully spoke of the many books he had left down in his room. Richard had left to return to town, while Fuath and the men had taken a tour around the mountain. They returned the next day, having found no alternative entrance and no sign of a monastery. Fuath had seemed troubled by that.

  Richard had come across him one night while on patrol, bent over and making gagging noises. He had motioned for Richard and stayed away, and begged him to leave, but Richard had ran to him and tried to aid him as he could. He had slapped Fuath on the back, a move he regretted. His back as solid and pointy, it was like slapping a gnarled trunk. Richard had been in a panic, about to run for some help (though he didn’t know from where) when Fuath had coughed up a small solid oval, falling to the ground with a dull thud. His blank unmoving face had radiated shame as he wrapped it in some stained wax paper and carried it to the pubs compost pile. “You shouldn’t have seen that, but I feel bad using the privy.” Richard had felt his face burn red, turned about face and marched away with muttered apologies.

  He had been walking through the village 2 weeks or so after Fuath’s arrival when he saw him staring out at the edge of the village, gazing down the road that travelled on to the woods. He briefly turned at Richard’s approach, but turned silently back. Richard stood beside him for a time, looking in the same direction. The only thing to see was the path heading off into the woods, and a far distant black pillar. After a time Fuath spoke.

  “What is that in the distance? That black spot?”

  “That’s Xrantha,” Richard said, he had stared at it himself many a time. “Capital of the central lands. They say you can see it from almost anywhere.”

  Fuath had nodded, and continued watching. After another time, he had quietly said “I think I need to go there.”

  “Well you did say you hadn’t been ordained yet no? Main temple of The Mourning One’s there, absent any brothers or seniors might be your best bet.”

  They stood in silence, and Fuath radiated a quiet sadness. “I had hoped some of the others would be here, or would come find me.” He said quietly.

  Richard had no words to respond, so he simply patted the stiff arm of Fuath and stood with him until he had turned away and walked back to the village, holding his holy book in both hands.

  There seemed to be mixed feelings as news of Fuath leaving had spread. Many were sad to see him go and spoke to him, asking him to stay to no avail. Others had echoed sentiments along the lines of “About time that creepy thing was gone” which had started some fights that Richard had to break up. But arrangements were made, it was clear he would not change his mind. They had prepared some supplies for him, and pored over maps to help him plan a route. A quick whip around had collected a modest sum of travel funds for him which he had fought not to accept, but Fuath was powerless in the face of country women repaying a debt. Finally, after a days delay due to rain, he had been ready to set off. Most of the village had been there to see him off, even those claiming to be glad to see the back of him, presumably for lack of better things to do. He had thanked each and every person in turn, clasping and shaking hands in his long curved fingers. He had given a final wave, and set off, head bowed as he reviewed the map they had gifted him. As he left, a small wagon carrying some strangers had pulled up the path he was headed down at some speed, nearly running him over. A large red haired man in the seat roared an obscenity, but didn’t stop and paid him no more apparent mind.

  The wagon had slowed to a crawl, the lone horse panting around its bit. The wagon carried 5 red haired men wearing filthy trousers and boots, along with wool coats stained with things best left unknown, 2 squeezed together on the front seat while the other 3 sat in the back on a pile of something under a leather sheet. A strong resemblance suggested brothers or at least close cousins. Richard had watched them with suspicious eyes, there was something familiar about them. He watched them as well as he could while heading back to his small guard hut. The man holding the reins shouted and waved at the crowd to make way, stopping in front of the pub. Only the one beside him rose, the other 4 remaining seated while he walked around the wagon.

  He looked around at the crowd watching him silently, and spat on the ground before speaking. “Need food and water for the horse, and some for us. We’re in a hurry, looking to get moving quick as.” There was a general shuffling as the publican stepped forward and began negotiations for price and amounts, while the 4 on the wagon eyed the crowd with open hostility. Most of the crowd began to break away, the rest milling about but putting some distance between themselves and the wagon. A small voice rang out from the back of the wagon, as the Cutterson boy began to raise the leather sheet at the edge and said “What’s under here?” One of the men gave a roaring angry shout and kicked the boy, sending him sailing clear off the wagon while several people cried out. They were interrupted by Richard emerging shouting from his hut, crying out as he ran, sword and shield ready. “Get away from those men! They’re murderers!”

  There was a general panic as most of the villagers fled, the Cutterson mother scooping up her bawling child as the 5 men looking around angrily. The man on the ground grabbed the publican’s shirt as he tried to flee and drew a small blade from somewhere, holding it pointed at the terrified man’s face as he growled “Food and water for 5 and the horse, NOW!” and pushed the publican towards the building. He drew a hatchet from under his coat, as the 3 men in the back dismounted, spreading out in a line before Richard as they each drew their own weapons. A pair of daggers, a weathered sword, a hatchet and a small straight blade, and a weighty wooden club. And Richard stood before them with just his worn shield and chipped sword. He tried to hide his fear and yelled out “Leave now, and we won’t have any trouble!” The 4 before him chuckled at that, while the 5th, still holding the reins, turned to look back with a bored expression. “Do him quick boys, we need to keep moving.”

  Richard held his shield up in a ready stance and tried to keep an eye on the 4 men, but they quickly surrounded him, keeping their distance from him for now but moving constantly as he spun to face each in turn, trying to anticipate the attack. He turned to block the first attack, a hatchet burying itself in the raised shield and piercing through the wood, and heard a small malicious chuckle behind him. He gritted his teeth and prepared for the pain, but none came. He heard a rapid thump coming toward him, and heard the voice behind him saying “What the fuck is that?” before the man with the hatchet turned, letting him see Fuath sprinting back down the lane, his legs moving in rapid strikes that moved him faster than Richard could have ever sprinted. Fuath reached Richard, close enough that his robe ran across Richards face and raised one long leg, the clawed toes clinging together in a ball, a huge running kick meeting something behind Richard with a meaty thump as he heard a man hit the ground with a loud impact.

  The one with the hatchet pulled it free and retreated to the wagon, the 3 standing men now forming a line in front of the one who had been kicked, evidently in the face. He lay on the ground with blood flowing freely down from the ruined remnants of his face, moaning quietly with his hands propped weakly waving above his chest. “What the fuck is that?” the hatchet man repeated, turning his gaze between the man on the ground and Fuath. Fuath stepped forward, and the 3 parted, abandoning the moaning man as they kept their weapons trained on the robed figure. Fuath jumped up onto the back of the wagon, the man on the seat falling out with a yelp as he did so. He lifted the leather sheet aside, and picked up what lay underneath. He stepped down, carrying in his arms the still form of a slight woman in a yellow dress, a bloody fur coat hanging loosely off her. He gently laid the body down, and turned once more, the 4 men now looking panicked and trying to put the wagon between them and Fuath.

  Richard could feel the rage flow out of Fuath, but his face was as unmoving as ever. He reached under his robe and drew in one hand a small hand scythe, the other holding what looked like a long thin bar of blackened steel on a guarded handle, a long thin poker that he held in front like a rapier. There was a small point on the end, but the edges running down the length were nowhere near sharp enough to cut, that was obvious. Not the time for questions, Richard thought to himself, and stood beside Fuath, his sword and shield drawn.

  The man who had been kicked was the first forward, staggering to his feet like a drunk. He clearly barely knew where he was, every step looked a struggle and he nearly fell over with each step. But he had drawn a hatchet, and was swinging it about in wild arcs with still some strength behind it. His 4 companions watched silently as he staggered towards Fuath, his shattered mouth pushing out a strangled “Ki…..you...” Fuath didn’t take a step as he approached, but drew his arm back, the long limb bending back until the point of the long weapon was level with his face. When the red haired man staggered one step too close, the weapon lashed out twice, faster than Richard could follow properly. He saw a small spray of blood as the blade speared the man through the head, right through the forehead, and another as it speared him straight through the chest, lashing in and out in a blink. The impact of the weapon pushed the man back, and he was dead before he fell.

  The remaining 3, now joined by the driver holding a sword in both hands, looked down at their fallen companion and back up at the pair. They looked fearful, but began slowly circling them silently, feinting attacks to keep Fuath and Richard back. Two of them lunged at Fuath, their weapons swinging from either side. He turned the sword aside with the small hand scythe, catching the attackers hands with the blade and making him drop the weapon with a pained yell while his other arm lashed out twice again, the other man falling dead even as Fuath had to step aside to dodge his last flailing swing, the club sailing off into the air as his hand lost strength at the top of the arc. Richard was not so lucky, as he blocked a flurry of frenzied dagger stabs a hatchet caught him in the side, knocking the breath out of him as he dropped his sword. The attacker threw an arm around his neck and kept hold of the hatchet, spinning him around to keep Richard between himself and Fuath. His 2 remaining companions moved to either side of him, their weapons trained on Fuath. “Drop ‘em, or we open him up like a pig” he barked at Fuath, giving the hatchet a malicious twist to make Richard cry out again.

  Fuath stared for a moment, but gently laid the long weapon down. The hand scythe he tucked away into a leather pouch at his side, ignoring the shouted complaints of the 3 men. He raised his arms in surrender, saying “I will not discard it, but I will not draw it again.” The men exchanged some angry looks, but held position. “We’re loading up the wagon with food, and we’re heading on. We’ll turn this one loose once we’re away. You pick up that weapon, or follow us, and you’ll be scooping his guts out of the dirt, understand?” Fuath stood unmoving for a moment, but stepped away from the weapon, leaving the path to the wagon clear. 1 of the men jumped onto the front seat and held the reins in one hand, his weapon in the other as he twisted to keep Fuath in sight. The other grabbed the leather sheet and threw it into the back of the wagon, climbing up after it and squatting with his weapon ready, nervously glancing between Fuath, the man holding Richard and the pub door. “We best be heading on quick William, there’s other places we can get supplies” he hissed, sweat pouring down his face. “We’re not leaving without something to show you spineless shite” the one holding Richard barked back. His eyes never left Fuath, who stood unmoving.

  Richard gasped for air, the arm around his neck was clamped tight and choking him, along with the hatchet in his side he thought he’d pass out soon. He gritted his teeth through the pain and squirmed until he could get a little room to move, and swung his elbow back into the man’s gut, rolling away from the hatchet as the arm went loose. He felt it slide out wetly and quickly threw his hands onto the wound, landing face first in the dirt with nothing to stop his fall. He rolled onto his back in time to see the man swinging the hatchet down at him, shouting “you little prick!” with a spray of angry spit. Richard tried to roll out of the descending weapon, but saw Fuath’s arm lash out and catch the falling arm at the wrist, stopping it like it had hit a solid wall. Before the attacker could react he swung his other arm down, bringing his elbow down across the forearm. At the same time his knee came up, Fuath balancing on one leg as the elbow and knee came level then continued on. There was a horrible cracking noise and the arm folded, the hatchet falling to the dirt. The man fell back onto his rear, the arm dangling like a sack loosely filled with stones. He screamed in pain and scrambled for the wagon, but Fuath ignored him and bent to Richard, placing both hands across the wound.

  Fuath ignored Richard’s complaints and orders to go after them, channelling the Word of Life as the man with the ruined arm grabbed his hatched with his good arm and flopped onto the back, pulled up by his companion as the driver cracked the reins and took off at speed. Some of the villagers slowly crept out, watching the wagon flee and circling Fuath as he channelled healing into Richard’s wound.

  In the end it took 3 days for Richard to be mended enough to leave the sickbed. Fuath had to explain to several people that wounds were far more difficult to heal than aches and pains, many seemed angry he had let the 3 men get away and that he and Richard had not rode out after them immediately. Richard had sent the pigeons out in all directions, copying the names of the men down along with warnings of their heading and a report of the death of 2. He had panicked when he had flicked through the dusty old tome of active warrants, his blood running cold when he had seen the faces of the men in charcoal drawings along with a brief list of their crimes. In hindsight he thought it would have been better to let them leave quietly and send out a pigeon ahead to warn somewhere better armed. He was ashamed of himself, ashamed at his rashness and ashamed he had needed Fuath’s help. All he had done was take a hatchet to the side, he supposed he would have been better off hiding in the guard hut.

  He walked through the town, and felt like every pair of eyes were judging him. His ears burned, and he mentally berated himself for any dreams and wishes he had once held for adventure. Fuath had remained on, diligently channelling the healing Word as long as he could before resting, the local vet the only other nearby to offer medical advice and stitch up the wound. Richard had examined it in a mirror as he rose and dressed, and thought it much too small to be so threatening, barely a finger length. He cursed himself again for the thought that came first, that he wished it was bigger and somewhere that would make him look more heroic.

  They had been unable to identify the dead woman Fuath had lifted from the back of the wagon, none could recognise her. Fuath had performed some rites over her, some quiet prayers as he cleaned her face as best he could in the back room of the pub. They had wrapped her in a sheet and sent her off to the nearest proper town with one of the older men driving the cart, hopefully someone there would recognise her or at least spread word of her passing to where it needed to go.

  Richard marched to the pub, still walking stiffly on one side, and entered to see Fuath just leaving his room, the backpack he had been gifted once again slung over his back. They had looked at each other silently for a moment before either spoke.

  “Ah Richard, you caught me as I was leaving. You should heal well enough now, as long as you keep the wound clean for a while, at least Mister Simonson says so.” Simonson was a decent vet, Richard could probably trust those words. But he was filled with ugly feelings that he couldn’t quite put into words.

  “So you’re just heading on as planned then?” Richard replied with a touch more venom than he meant or expected. If Fuath noticed he didn’t show anything, no feeling radiated off his blank face and his speech gave nothing.

  “Well, yes? I don’t believe there’s any more I need to do here, unless I am mistaken?” he sounded like when he first arrived, Richard thought. His voice had slowly grown more confident as he had spent time at the village, but now he sounded as servile as when he had first arrived. Richard felt ashamed of himself, and dropped onto a stool. He sat staring at nothing while Fuath stood, saying nothing. Richard thought for a while, then turned his head to look up at Fuath. He had come to a decision.

  “Road’s too dangerous to travel alone. I’m coming with you.”

  Surprise radiated off Fuath, and a small trace of happiness. “Someday I’ll have to figure out how he does that” thought Richard to himself.

  “Well I would most certainly enjoy the company, but do you not need to remain here as guard?”

  “I’ve sent out for a replacement, injury in the line of duty means I have to get assessed if I’m going to get hazard pay anyway. Give me a short bit to gather some things and we’ll leave this afternoon.”

  He had stepped out before Fuath could respond, his ears burning with shame. He had send no letter for a replacement, and the assessment was a fabrication. He was simply burning with shame, he felt every person he saw was calling him a fool and a coward in his mind, a useless hump sent to guard nothing in the middle of nowhere. He needed to leave, immediately, and Fuath was a convenient excuse. He rushed back to the guard hut with his head bowed, ignoring the few voices that greeted him. He threw some food that had been left for him into a sack that he slung over his shoulder, grabbed the sword and shield and left the key for the hut on the hook above the doorframe. He went and stood at the edge of the village, sitting on a rock as he waited for Fuath.

  He didn’t have to wait long, Fuath approached him with a small wave. “Will you not say goodbye to the others? I bid my own farewells yesterday.”

  “No, we need to be off sooner than later” Richard stood as he said that, quick enough to give himself a flare of pain in the side. He couldn’t look in the eye of anyone, he felt he would strike at anyone dared look at him with scorn, or worse, pity. They turned to face the distant black shape on the horizon, and set out together.