The man kneels down to touch the earth and read its story.

When he first arrived this evening all the huts and buildings on the mountain side were burning. The thatching and the native grass he expected to burn, but the stone and, in some cases, the mortar itself burned unnaturally. Even the village beyond the escarpment was destroyed with fire and with what magic the stranger could not discern.

He pushes his palm into the dirt and intones a rhythm. Not a mage himself, he no less conjures a spell in his mind and casts it into the ground and through the mountainside itself. From his spot he searched through the village and into the ground beyond he finds the telltale signs of foul magic. Magic that should never have been learned nor taught. This magic, as he learned through rigorous study, nearly destroyed the world ages ago. A magic that corrupts and works through that corruption to vanquish the souls of those unwittingly given to its menacing purpose.

This magic, as he was taught to find it, was supposed to have ended during Nevinger’s time. Those decades of tribulation, war, and famine wracking the small kingdoms and destroying the centuries of civilization that man bled to build. Fear of this magic kept those who knew in check. But as time passes the histories become legend. Forgotten lore is lost to destruction, conquest, and neglect. Only the vigilant mind keeps the knowledge and passes it from father to son, mother to daughter.

Only the wary look for the faintest signs of a second sundering.

He did not believe that another sundering would come in his lifetime. Like all those who took the Oath of the Sentry he was so young to believe that the myths were only stories to scare nobility into keeping the peace. Maybe a restless prince here or a warmongering duke there started a war to acquire more land. Usually the Sentries would ply the motivations and guide everyone to a more lucrative (and less bloody) resolution.

Usually.

This Sentry has committed his share of bloodletting, remembering the pleas of one craftsman to spare his life so that he may do better by his peers. There was no mercy for the prey as this Sentry was not swayed. What sins he may have visited upon others paled from what he found with his augury on the mountain slope. He allows a shudder after he ceases his spell and begins his search through the rubble.

The large building in the center of the field was used for meals and, as he guesses, larger groups for more important meetings. One of the oak doors that could stop a blizzard outside was splintered, charred, and blasted from its hinges into the hall within. The other door, which remains nearly whole, rests on a robed figure whose head was reduced to a bloody splotch. The rest of the room is littered with broken bodies and marred faces. On some the faces are contorted into the most excruciating expressions, disturbing if one was not accustomed to the ravages of war.

The Sentry continues searching through the main hall. He finds more of the same within the storehouse, the kitchen, and the antechamber: people that met a gruesome end in one position or another. His survey of the main hall complete, he continues outside to the huts east past what he supposes was a meadow. Ash crunches beneath his soles as he walks toward the huts. He expects to find more bodies among the burning stones. He sifts through crumbling remains of cots, tables, and firepits. He finds the usual evidence that people lived in the huts: clothes, food scraps, and now-feeble magical weapons. However he does not find more bodies. It were as if the main hall was the only place where people gathered.

This Sentry looks at the village beyond the escarpment and thinks better not to disturb the smoldering village. He retraces his steps, chanting a spell to cover his own tracks, back to his horse and his companion who waits for his report.

“So?” she asks as she strokes her mount’s mane.

“The village suffered the most,” he replies. “The students were evacuated earlier in the evening, but the servants and a few of the assistants remained to finish gathering essentials. Whatever came through slaughtered them all.”

“The village suffered the most. It seems only a few fled on foot,” he says. “The students here left earlier, but the servants and a few of Master Veris’s assistants remained. Whatever attacked viciously destroyed them.”

“It would be a boon if we had Master Veris’s help.”

“We can still get his help,” he says. “There are no signs of his demise. Even here at the hall the fighting was greatest, but I do not see the Master’s craft. Yes, there were a few runes in the walls but I do not sense the magnitude Master Veris could bear upon their aggressors. This resistance is far weaker for a mage of his stature.”

“Is this another of your ‘estimates’, Brahddon? If it is then I will have none of the sort.”

“This is based on my experience with wayward mages. I know you read my report of Forgous. That was a fight that I nearly lost. And yet he was not as learned nor as accomplished as Master Veris. The distruction here is brutal against the assistants; the response to the attack is unfocused and lacking in subtlety. The Master had a large measure of both. He is alive. We must have his counsel if we are to defeat this threat.”

“You say that as if this one incident is not the first. Where have this enemy also attacked? If you could tell me this I might also give a small amount of counsel.” She rubs the back of her mount’s ears. “Even Polonius here would be moved to action if he knew more.”

Brahddon sweeps himself up into his saddle upon his own steed, Milor. “I have heard of other villages destroyed through shield and blade. Armed conflict is one matter, but those were nearly senseless as this one. Meadowmount is the first where a prominent mage is concerned.” He scratches his neck and looks over at his flaxen haired companion. “Jinna, what is truly on your mind? Out with it. I know you have actual counsel or else you would not be plying the orator’s trade on me. So, what is the knot that tangles your mind?”

Jinna sits up in her saddle. “I know the scroll you read back in the Shallsea library. It is Maedra’s Prophecy. Brahddon, why are you reading a forbidden scroll? There is nothing but false beliefs and lies within those words. I doubt that it says something about Meadowmount or Master Veris. I do not think he is mentioned by name in that old ratty paper. So, why read that and then come out here so far from others who we could just as ask for consultation? What was so important here that you would expose yourself to this enemy?”

He sighs. Brahddon wants to bury his head in the snow. He cannot lie to her. To betray her trust is to destroy the one bond he now depends on in this increasingly distrustful world. He must have her sword arm to guard his few weaknesses and the fears that he may be late in warning all.

He looks up and levels his eyes with hers. “I think this is the time of the second sundering.”

Jinna’s mouth drops at the words. She dismounts and walks around her mount to stand next to Brahddon on his. She pulls out her sword and brings the blade up to his neck. He does not flinch but his defiance does not sway her. “Recant your words! Recant them now!” she demands.

“The same vows you made to protect these lands are the same that compel me to speak of a second sundering.” He struggles to keep his breathing even. “I have been studying more than Maedra’s prophecies even before we arrived in Shallsea. There are theories and esoterical runes that speak of how the sundering came about. The reports of other attacks mirror those of Meadowmount. Even some of the destruction surrounding Nevinger those many centuries ago are foretold in the events of our time. Chalor the Wicked hinted at the same magics. I have testimonies from the Deloor Plains in the west to the frosted Southlands. They are all aligning with not only Maedra’s Prophecy but with Nevinger’s decent into madness. The signs are manifesting and we are only at the beginning.”

Jinna purses her lips. “You cannot be sure. Have you consulted with other scholars? Have you asked for clairvoyances?” He looks down into her eyes as she searches his for a more sane answer.

“The few scholars that dare collaborate with me are not one with their bookkeepers. Or with our library in Velsuin.”

Jinna furrows her brow. A moment passes where Brahddon catches a gasp in his breathing. She slowly withdraws her blade and sheaths it. She walks back to her mount while saying, “You need evidence. Prophecy means nothing if you cannot sway the Wardens.”

He raises his hand to her. “Jinna, I need you to watch over me. I am not as well trained in blade combat as you are, though I am not without training. But the more important duty is that you report what I see, report what I find, without my interference. You will be their eyes when mine ar blurred by fear and duty. Do not be corrupted by my words or lest your own counsel be too far swayed.”

She nods. “I shall act as observer and watch over you. The latter job is much easier if you do not separate yourself from my sight as you are want to do.”

He smiles. “I may still be wrong. Prophecies can be misinterpreted and lead us towards ruin. But your skeptical view might sway others to fight against this new enemy.” He gives the Sentry’s salute; she returns in kind.

Both ride down the lonely path through the ravines of the Krinsfolk Mountains. Brahddon ruminates on their conversation. The pair have traveled as ambassadors, traders, messengers, spies, and on more than one occasion as assassins. He depends on Jinna’s blade for protection; she depends on him for purpose and duty. In a long moment of weakness he wonders if her duty will move her to kill him.

“Must we take this road? It makes the cart bounce and sway to and fro. I must declare I am sick of the motion.”

Oulette keeps her eyes ahead on the forest lined road. “You could sit up here with Marglo if you like. The view is much better.”

“Oh, you would like that, ‘your highness.’ If it is not the motion of the cart then it will be the foul odor of the horses’ asses that will do me in! You have planned for my demise.” Listra brings the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am doomed to suffer indignity and sickness to the end of my days.”

“You are worse than Siona,” Marglo says. He tugs at the reigns to slow the horses down as the wagon crests a hill. “Just enjoy the clear day. This forest gives us shade from the midday sun. And the warmth from time to time is inviting. I would take this moment to look around and see the beauty that surrounds us.”

“That is a wonderful sentiment, Marglo,” Oulette says.

“Thank you.” He smiles at the corners of his mouth.

“This cart makes me sick, the horses make me sick, and you two make me sick!” Listra shouts out at them. “Please can we stop so that I may let loose the remains of my lunch?”

Marglo pulls on the reigns and halts the horses. He hops off and attends to them. Oulette turns to watch Listra strain to pull herself over the wagon. She does not find purchase, so she slips to the ground, muddying the hem on her skirt. With much breathing and heaving of air, Listra finally disgorges behind the wagon. Oulette could do nothing but laugh at her friend’s misfortune.

“Oh, you find that funny? Remember, you are my student.”

“There are times when a student may laugh at her mentor’s faulty footing. Besides, I remember you laughing when I finally caused a candle to flicker.”

A slim smile forms on Listra’s face. She looks up at Oulette. “You caught the edge of your robe on fire. Much giggling on my part as you wailed and looked for a bucket of water.”

“I forgot to prepare for the spell. And it was magical fire!”

“Only the spark! The flame is natural and any amount of mud could have put it out!” Listra takes her turn at giggling.

Oulette looks down at her legs. Said fire destroyed much of her robe and the skirt underneath. She would be wearing patched-up clothes from Nessie if the stable boy had not been near close his size and offered his spare breeches. She was willing to return them in the morning but he refused, only asking for a small kiss on the cheek. She did so and he was beaming as they left the village.

It is the fifth day into their trip and the sun was just past its apex. Oulette looks on as Listra stretches her arms and legs. From the ground Listra says, “You should walk around. It will be good for your back that you do not stay hunched over like a gargoyle.” Listra sniffs the air. “Do you smell that?”

Oulette takes in a nose full. “All I smell is the forest: leaves, mud, and probably a wolf’s excrement.”

“No, not those smells. I smell...food.”

Oulette clicks at Listra. “You just ate!”

Listra motions her hand to the road behind them. “And promptly returned it to the ground back there. It is the smell, though. Can you tell me you cannot smell it?”

“Maybe if I were hungry, then I would.” Oulette does not like Listra’s changing mood. This could be another delay in an already long wagon trip. If Oulette could learn how to ride a horse properly then she could have gotten to Innsbruck by herself. She just wants to report to her duke and bear the shame. Instead each night they spend in a barn or an inn lets her wallow in her failure and imagine the eventual stares that will be visited upon her.

“It smells like pig. Roasted pig. With apple and syrup.”

Marglo calls out to the girls. “Stop talking! I don’t want to think about food right now.”

Listra sniffs. “And I smell beer!”

“Oh, come off now! You can’t smell beer unless it is right under your nose.”

“No, Oulette. I can smell the beer, too.” Marglo begins sniffing the air. “It is very pungent. Much hops and barley, too.”

“Both of you stop this!”

“I am hungry,” Listra pleats.

Oulette makes a face. “I want to get on with this trip. I’m already dreading what I have to tell my duke. I do not want to explain why my trip was waylaid by your growling stomachs.”

“Psh!” Marglo says. “One more stop will not hurt us. Besides, you said this road is a shortcut through to Innsbruck.”

“It is if we are moving!”

Her spirits renewed, Listra climbs back into the wagon. “Maybe whoever has the beer will share some with us. I have always wondered about the legendary lagers your people make, Oulette.”

“It is only beer!”

“To everyone who lives here, yes,” Marglo chimes in. He climbs up to the driver’s perch and snaps the reigns. “But we are not from here. So the beer is legendary to us. I agree with Listra. We must taste this special brew you are trying to keep from us.”

“You two are keeping yourselves from this legendary beer that does not exist! I just want to get to Innsbruck! Besides, we have beer at the keep! You can have your fill when we get there.”

“But this is closer,” Listra says lustfully. “And it has been so long since my last drop of good beer.”

“That was last night!” Oulette yells shrilly. She looks to Marglo who holds a mischievous grin on his face. Oulette shakes her head, pulls herself up on the driver’s perch, and slouches with crossed arms. “Fine. Let’s find this woodsman’s still. Maybe he’ll give us all a taste if we give him a few coins.”

An hour later they did not find a woodsman but a travelling troupe of performers.

The troupe circled their wagons off the main road and are enjoying their late midday meal. The pig is spitted over a well-managed fire. The juice drips from the forehead and falls onto the coals, making popping and fissing noises. The performers are sitting in a circle, talking about their craft and imbibing from large mugs of beer when the three travelers approach. An exchange of pleasantries and introductions, then Marglo, Listra, and Oulette are invited to partake in the feast. Listra helps herself quickly and begins talking earnestly with the other performers. Marglo hitches the horses and the wagon to a nearby tree and takes a seat between Listra and Oulette on a log pulled for them. As appreciation, Marglo passes around candies that he picked up at Glowstone. The few children in the troupe snatch them up and happily munch on them. The adults are pleased at this as they share more of their beer.

Stories are passed around and tales of legend and glories gone alighted on everyone’s ears. For Oulette, though, she would glaze her sight and only stare off in the distance past each teller. All she wants is to go home, to sit by the hearth in the kitchen and stroke Domingo. Her life would be simpler if all she was to do is sweep the floors of the keep and keep the meeting hall clear of rats. To be asked to do magic where she barely had skill at all was maddening. She studied many of Master Veris’s scrolls and stood attention at his lessons, but the magic was never under her control. Only recently was she able to cast a spell and that even escapes her; many times she tried to make a chair or a branch or a fruit explode. And it was only the previous night that Oulette managed to cast a spell, only to end up burning her clothes.

She senses a shift in the talking. No longer were the words mirthful but serious. Oulette raises her head a tad and waded her eyes over the people gathered around the fire. Beyond Listra and Marglo to her left was Krignard; he leads the troupe and is their round bellied foreman. Oulette forgets the names of the next two people but remembers they are married and hailed from far off lands to the west. The couple’s fair haired daughter sat between two teen boys who seem both smitten and protective of her. One boy was regaling her with his hunting prowess while the other tried to show off his new found strength. From her seat on the log Oulette could hear the struggling undertow within the boys’ stories.

To her right and on another log sat two women and one bony man. She could not remember his name but thinks it rhymes with a flower. The bony man says, “I am thankful for this feast, this brew, the company, and the skin on my back.”

A cheer went around the circle. The bony man takes a deep pull on his mug, smack his mouth, then says, “I am glad to be out of Dessu. That town is cursed and no one there seems off by that.”

Silence drop on all conversations around the fire. No one makes eye contact with each other. The awkward mood causes a knot in Oulette’s stomach. She feels compelled to say, “What makes that town cursed?”

The bony man swigs. He looks into his mug. “The town is surrounded by forest. The people there make their living on the animals that live there. Sure there is some farming and tradecraft but the forest provides for them.”

“Clorin, it is getting late. Maybe you should find your bed for the road is long and bumpy,” Krignard says.

Clorin, the bony man, points his crooked finger at the troupe leader. “You were there. Don’t deny that the forest was not right. No forest we have seen before was so silent that you could hear your own heart over your breath. Even the wind didn’t make a sound through the trees.”

One of the auburn haired women, Petra as Oulette recalls, looks to Krignard. “Can this be a trick of the ears? Maybe you did not notice some of the animals. Maybe your carts were noisy as we rode through”

Krignard sighs. “We were stopped and still before approaching the town because the horses were spooked. When we noticed the silence a foreboding pall overcame us. We entered but did not tarry long. Only enough to water our horses and make light trading with the folk.”

“And it did not stop there!” Clovin says. “In the middle of the night the crickets would stop chirping and the leaves would stop rustling in the wind. As if the darkness became sinister with intent.”

“Intent for what?” Listra asks as she sits on the edge of the log.

The bony man closes his eyes and breathes out, “Death.”

At that moment Marglo pokes Listra in the ribs. She screeches and accidentally spills her beer into her lap. She slaps back at Marglo as everyone laughs at the sight.

“Clorin, that never gets old,” Krignard says.

Clorin swigs, then says, “It would not have worked if that husky man over there wasn’t also one of us.”

Oulette looks to Marglo. “You were in a troupe? When?”

He smiles. “I was a wee boy when I left a very sad home. I was sure I could make my way through the world except I had very little to my name. When I was at my wit’s end I tried to steal food from a elderly peddler. She caught me and took me to the troupe’s foreman. She demanded my hand for the food I stole. The foreman offered me the option of hard labor for two days instead. I took his option and grew up travelling from town to town while taking care for the horses.”

“The way you sat and talked gave you away to us,” Clorin says. “Here, a toast. To all the great story tellers and actors and grooms. May the road always be soft, the towns be rich, and the audiences be happy.”

Everyone raises their mugs. The fire crackles while Krignard carves chunks from the pig and passes the succulent meat around. As Oulette partakes in the feast she notices the laughter and the snapping of the fire. More importantly, though, she notices no other sound. The horses occasionally clap their hooves on the soft dirt and one of the dogs yips for meat. And yet Oulette listens and finds no other noise. She listens for the trees but there is no wind to move them.

She steps away from the feast and walks out from beyond the wagon circle. Despite the sun shining high in the sky a chill keeps to Oulette’s skin. She looks around at the trees, the leaves in the branches, and the ground beyond the wagons. A chill drapes over her skin and crawls down her back.

Listra walks up to Oulette and asks, “Must I teach you manners as well? It is rude to dismiss yourself from your host without a word. At least tell us what compelled you to walk away.”

“This.”

Listra looks around. “Yes. This is a forest.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Really?”

“Please.”

“Fine,” Listra says. A breath and she closes her eyes.

“Now, what do you hear?”

“The crackling fire from under the pig. Clorin telling another of his stories, sounding much more interesting than his others. The horses clomping their feet.”

“Anything else?”

“No. That’s it. Can we go back now?”

Oulette turns to face Listra. “Did Master Veris not teach us that all of our senses are important to our craft? That even the most mundane smell, touch, and even taste can tell us much about the world? What you just said told me there is something wrong.”

“Oulette, the woods are not silent. We’re just too close to the noisy people that are having fun and their fill of the juiciest pig I have ever tasted.”

Oulette eyes the overgrowth. She contemplates the path between the trees. The growl in her stomach rumbles in synch with the boom of raucous laughter from behind. The call of revelry and pleasure called to Oulette and she nearly turns towards the festivities. And yet she stares onwards at the forest. Just beyond the trampled road lies the mystery of a still forest in the spring warmth of the sun. A forest that beckons Oulette to walk amongst the gnarled bark and storied trunks. A forest that is brimming with common wonder and a life now quelled.

She walks towards the trees. Listra says, “Where are you going?”

“Into the forest,” Oulette calls back once she crossed the trampled path.

“Why?”

Oulette turns and says, “Why not?” Then she crests a hill and her form is soon obscured amongst the trees.

Consternation fills Listra’s mind. She grunts at the situation, then plunges headlong into the woods. “I want to find gold in these woods, you hear?” she yells out to Oulette.

The pair crash through the woods over a variety of underbush and among the leafy trees. The springtime air is cooling with the waning sun. The shadows grow longer and grow larger with each passing moment. Their traipsing through the growth is loud in the silence.

Oulette senses a change in the air. She stops, Listra stumbling behind.

“What is it?” the raven haired girl asks.

“Do you feel that?”

Listra pauses a moment. “Yes. The air feels thicker here. Like pea soup.”

Oulette looks at her. “Are you about to complain about food again?”

Listra shoots back a pout. “I ate my fill back at the camp.”

“I am sorry. I did not want to be cross with you.”

Listra waves off the comment. “I know. But this air is thick. It makes breathing labored.” She smacks her mouth. “And it tastes funny.”

Oulette also swirls the air in her mouth. “As spoiled molasses.”

“Yes.” Listra spots something dart at the edge of her sight. She turns to look but finds nothing among the trees. “I thought I saw something over there.”

She points to her right and Oulette follows the direction to a stand of trees. Although nearly as tall as other trees in the forest this group of eight have a white bark and are slender, so much that if a person took his hands he could completely ring a trunk. Lichen have taken hold at the base of the trees creating a near perfect circle on the ground.

And there, on top of the lichen and amongst the white trees, is a black mass. As Oulette sees it the mass does not have a form, nor does it move. However what light is left gives the mass a sheen of unnatural color.

Oulette points and says, “There on the ground within those trees.”

Listra squints. “I see it, but what is it?”

Oulette shrugs. “Maybe a plant?”

“What plant looks like that? Plants have stems and leaves and petals and what not. That thing isn’t a plant.”

“Would you call it a deer?”

Listra blinks. “It is still not a plant.” She steps towards the “animal”; the skin on the thing ripples in the dimming light. She steps back; the thing stops moving. “I think we should leave it alone.”

Both girls step back while watching the thing in the strand. It shivers for a moment and, as they took their fourth step away, the thing darts off to their left.

“Did you see that!” Oulette yells. “Definitely not a plant!”

“I think we should run. Now!”

They turn and run towards the circled wagons. They crash through the undergrowth breaking all manner of twig and branches. Oulette pulls up her skirt by the hem and runs as fast as she could only to find Listra three strides ahead. Oulette turns her head to see if the thing is following, but catches her foot on a bush and falls face down into the dirt.

Oulette turns herself over and spots the dark thing swinging from tree to tree. It shoots out a long tentacle and grabs the nearest tree. No, it does not grab, it *pierces* the next tree as a harpoon does a whale. The thing pulls itself over while swinging. She watches it perch itself on a high branch and plunge towards her. Oulette rolls over and hears a thwump from where she was. She looks over and now sees the thing much closer than any person would have wanted.

It has a skin though a person can see through it to the inside. What is inside seems to be a black liquid with an ever changing form. As the thing stirs the blackness within forms to a more solid shape but without edges. And the thing moves towards her as a snake over ground.

Oulette rolls away and finds the thing still crawling for her. She pushes away again until she slumps up against a rock. She pulls out a knife and slashes wildly at the thing. At one time she thinks she cut it, but the creature does not react to the strike.

A searing red flame streaks at it. Listra’s fire burns the thing and the grass around it. Her hair swirls as air is sucked into her spell. Listra halts with a gesture; a whoosh sounds as the air at the strike quickly fills in the vaccuum. Oulette smells the grass essence and the rotten molasses taste wafting through the air.

“Do you think it’s dead?” Oulette asks.

“Come,” Listra says as she offers her hand. “Let’s go.”

Oulette dusts some of the dirt off her skirt and reaches for Listra’s hand.

The thing lashes out with its tentacle and wraps around Oulette’s wrist.

She cries out in horror as the thing pulls itself onto her arm.

Listra pulls out her knife and slashes at the thing.

The thing ignores the blade as it travels up Oulette’s arm.

Oulette bats at the thing only to have her hand swing through many times.

The thing reaches her shoulder and seeps underneath her blouse.

Oulette reaches into her blouse to pull the thing but cannot grab it.

The thing crawls over her breast and finds her center.

A blinding flash of pain pierces Oulette in her chest.

A silent scream, then the embrace of darkness.