DAMASCUS

        He found himself in that frigid water so suddenly. How had it happened? How was he here? Recalling the details leading to his current situation was hardly at the top of his list of concerns. No, up there at the top were such details as how freezing cold he was, how the shock of the plunge had stripped his lungs of their air and most certainly there was the issue of finding the correct way to surface. Fortunately for him, he was a seasoned sailor; a man with the sense to calm his panic, resist all flailing and simply take a moment in the still depth to allow the water to gently right him.

        And there, when the freezing calm around him seemed to slow time, he was looking up-or down who could tell-but his mind told him it must be up, for how else could he see the bottom of her boots? Standing there on the water’s surface as though it were but glass,  a woman serenely stared at the horizon. Her form and long willowy gown were so pale they glowed in the surrounding ink of night. Her long silver hair shone equally brightly as her eerie silver eyes.

        He stared up, forgetting his situation with the water. The sailor was simply captivated by the stranger. At last, one of her long pointed ears twitched and a brow furrowed in slight intrigue. Without moving her head, her eyes snapped down to meet his. They were wild and unpredictably mad. He couldn’t help but gasp, freezing water choked the life from him when he did so. And then the panic began. Soon though, she had knelt down and gripped him by the back of the neck with one hand and raised him easily from the water’s grasp. A strange touch, hers, one so strong as to lift a man into the air, yet light as silk. A ghost’s clutch.  

        He sputtered and coughed as he wheezed in icy air. His eyes lolled about wearily as he took in her silver hair; the sinewy strands of a spider’s web. And her silver eyes, the shattered remnants of a cold dead moon. And oh, her height! As she held him at eye level to hers and his feet swung childishly above the water’s surface, he looked like a pitifully wet and freezing rat in her grasp.

        “You’re her,” he choked and shivered, “The Silver Witch.” He managed to say the word “witch” without nearly the contempt and emphasis he’d meant to. Or had he? Her only answer was a slight and devilish twitch in the corner of her mouth. The long gleaming fang residing beneath a large soft lip confirmed his statement. He allowed his body the unconsciousness he’d been fighting off then. Why fight after all, for hardly a soul had ever survived a glimpse of the Silver Witch. So this is how it ends, he thought, how strange.

                *                *                *                

        Melody set her quill on her desk when she heard a slight rustling in the next room. It seemed her shipwrecked patient was awakening. She gathered her candle and softly approached the door. It was well into the night and she didn’t wish to wake her brothers. When she pushed her way into the room, her patient was sitting up and already had the wits to be staring at her with cautious confusion. She did her best to be slow and reassuring.

        “My name is Melody,” She smiled, “My brothers found you on our shore.” His eyes flickered once to her feet then back to hers, taking in every detail from her softly wavy brown hair to the cracked and peeling old leather slippers she wore. Her gown was simple and screamed of fishwife. What put him most at ease were her warm brown eyes. He rested back upon a mound of pillows, imagining that perhaps the sharp silver eyes he’d dreamt meant nothing. “Regain yourself slowly,” She continued, “I’ll have broth and pudding in here for you soon enough.”

        She turned and he was left to piece his memories together. The storm, the swelling sea, the rain like knives on his cheeks were sensations he could still feel. He remembered lightning and fire, the chaos as one moment tipped their favor from survival to imminent death with but a crack of the sky which burst their ship askew. He recalled a fleeting sight, a segment of a great serpent writhing in the swells of water just before the ship’s explosive destruction. He recalled the splintering wood, the roars and screams, the blazing fire, cracking lightening. But what of his survival? No wind and no rain and no great beast were present in that slightest of moments when the Silver Witch suspended him above it all. No chaos was there, only a mischievous smirk and the welcome of death. He shook his head and chuckled. None of that could have been real. There were no giant sea beasts, there were no more witches, and there certainly was no surviving a shipwreck in the middle of the sea. What? Had this Silver Witch; the antagonist in every children’s story for the past six centuries decided to ever so gently carry her shipwrecked warrior all the way to shore for no reason other than the generosity of her heart?

        No. Some wretched harlot had slipped something into his ale. No one walks on water, not even a mythical witch. His every muscle ached as he shifted on the pillows, attempting to favor his left hip which hurt slightly less than his right. If there was a bone in his body which didn’t feel deeply bruised, he couldn’t name it. His head complained with every movement, a severe ailment of the dehydration he suffered.

        Melody shyly shuffled back into the room, gingerly balancing a tray with his food, water and a candle atop it. With a parched mouth seemingly lined with sand, he attempted to address her. “My name is Paul,” he croaked and she sadly shook her head as she gazed at him.

“No it isn’t,” she said simply, “we all know that black hair of yours even on our side of the sea…you’re Admiral Grey.”

        Grey hadn’t thought his mouth could get drier, but it did. His heart began to roar and his forehead prickled with beads of sweat. As he watched her now, he was guarded and unsure. Melody smiled faintly and tipped her delicate head to one side. “Don’t worry, we take no interest in foreign politics. The bounty is worthless to us. But news of the barge spreads fast, so anyone with a lick o sense will gather where you’ve gotten to.” She gave another of those slight and empty smiles as she paused before adding, “we encourage you to be on your way though, so as not to bring trouble to our door. So eat up.”

        Grey sighed as she left him be. So there had been a wreck at sea after all. His exhausted mind couldn’t give him any answers at that moment so he simply ate before drifting into slumber once again.

        When Grey next awoke, the faint sun of morning was shining in welcoming panels of warmth. It felt more natural a time to open his eyes and he groaned his way up off the bed and toward a humble desk at the wall. A simply written note read “help yourself”. She can write, he thought with an approving nod. He helped himself to more pudding, the wash basin, the flask of weak medicine; some sort of herb most fisherfolk believed would cure minor ailments. The straight razor, however, he refused with a slight laugh. What? And disappoint the ladies by denying them this roguish stubble? Then he sighed. Who was he kidding? No one was swooning over this guy. The title perhaps, the entire fleet in his hands, the fact that he was the youngest of his like at only thirty-six, elevated through the ranks by his countless brave and noble sacrifices with which he had protected his home country of Kaldek. But him, personally? Shaggy black hair peered at him from behind the mirror’s edge; skin normally smooth and golden was now blistered and torn. His swollen and peeling lips hurt as badly to look at as they did to wield. Under that salt burned, sun bleached coating was the kind and honorable man he knew of himself. He just couldn’t quite see it now as he thought of how he’d run, abandoning those who looked to his guidance. He’d left the captains of his ships to wonder why their leader suddenly turned tail and threw them into uncertain darkness. He saw cowardice and he saw betrayal. He did not see an Admiral.

        Looking about the room he stood in, one would only say it belonged to the poor and the broken. It was obviously Melody’s own bed he’d been treated, bandaged and encouraged to rest in. He felt so sad for the cold night he’d forced her to curl into a chair or corner somewhere on his account. The only embellishment about the place was the same one every other household in the world held: a painting of Felice.

        He smiled under her wry gaze. Her long raven hair played coyly about her silken armor, which most said she had wrested from the Gods themselves. She had the long, graceful ears of her elven people and the strong stature of the warrior of all people. The double bearded axe she held in this painting with such cool mastery was probably as large as Grey himself. She was a figure everyone knew of, yet she was so shrouded in the mystery that a thousand years of stories can create. She’d been a great savior, freeing the mortal folk from bored and unfair Gods which toyed with man for amusement. That much was agreed upon. She wore silken armor to mock her opponents as she never received an incoming blow: another agreed upon fact. And hundreds of years ago, in the darkest and foulest of times, she’d been slain by the Silver Witch who then arose as the single most dreaded entity in history. This was true to all people of all nations, just as the sky was blue and fish could swim.

        The myths, however, were of mysterious tales floating about her over the centuries. One could look into the twinkling grey eyes of her many painting and almost believe what they said about her many weapons lying scattered throughout the world, awaiting one so pure and noble as to wield them. One could almost believe Grey’s favorite myth: that she’d gifted upon society a single offspring. His romantic mind imagined his rare raven hair and grey eyes and extraordinary life was the result of the trailing end of her lineage.

        A myth that was perhaps almost accepted as truth more and more over the centuries was that the Silver Witch could not defeat Felice. After all, the world’s hero had been too quick, too strong and too clever for even the Gods. And so instead the witch had locked Felice away with a spell in marble. The story said that one of the thousands of statues in her image littering the continents actually housed Felice within. And one day, when the world needed her most, she would emerge from her beautiful tomb and slay all great evils. A troubling myth behind those darkly secretive paintings was that she had spoken the language of the beasts, commanding leagues of insects, goblins, wolves, bears and even orcs to her will. But this myth just couldn’t be true. Not the pure and shining savior who’d only accomplished the deeds of her life through her sheer divine determination to protect man.

        Admiral Grey helped himself to the light shirt, trousers and dusty boots these poor people had scrounged up for him. A fine heavy riding cloak fit him well and under it he found the pouch of coins he had set sail with, still attached to his belt. They hadn’t disturbed his coins at all. How honest. He placed a gold coin on the desk and left the room. They would eat all winter with that.

        He found the three siblings sitting on the shore’s rocks amid the spraying sea, laying a net flat for mending. A tall lanky man in naught but torn trousers stood and squinted in the sun at Grey’s approach. He maneuvered the cud of tobacco occupying his mouth to a secure spot in his cheek so he could speak. “Good to see you’re doing well,” he said deeply, with barely enough annunciation to understand, “’names Harry, this here’s my kid brother Franky.” He gestured to a man almost identical to him, same shaggy blond hair and all, save for Franky preferred his tobacco in his left cheek rather than the right, as Harry did. “And ‘course, you’ve met Melody I’m sure.”

        “Thank you all for your generosity,” Grey offered his hand and both men shook it firmly. Harry then stepped back and paused with hands on hip and thought in eye. Finally, with a grunt and a nod in approval of whatever inner dialogue had happened there, he began to head up the burm of the shore toward his stables and motioned for Grey to follow.

        An old workhorse stood expectantly in a stall of old and hapless wood at the crest of the hill, adjacent to the home shared by the siblings. She was a strong, slow and obedient mare. Melody stroked the mare’s nose when the four of them entered the barn and tentatively offered some conversations to the Admiral while her brothers saddled and loaded a small and temperamental horse in the next stall.

        “We don’t know what troubled skies caused you to desert your people, but we remember how your deeds have improved our ports. I must urge you to bear in mind that not many will feel as we do and will gladly sell you out. Keep that hood up.” She then gave him an awkward and terrible sword hardly suitable for practice. He all but wept longingly for his perfect custom rapier which now lay at the bottom of the sea.

        Harry was done readying the light and irritable horse and handed Grey it’s reigns. “’answers to Dexil,” he paused and shrugged a shoulder, “When he answers. Now mount up inside there. When I open this gate you kick up ‘n you ride hard, y‘hear?” He pointed inland, southwest against the golden morning sun. “Fair winds to you, Admiral.”

        “Following seas,” Grey answered as Harry swung the gate open and gave a loud crack of a “Hyah!” and that horse sprang out into the rolling pasture with the thundering hooves and fiery determination of a finely bred sprinting machine. Grey wondered where in the world those fisherfolk could have possibly acquired a horse of this nature as the ground sped beneath him and the thrill of the animal’s speed took his soul. Perhaps more importantly, he wondered if maybe he should have mentioned that he wasn’t that great a rider.

                *                *                *                

        Claire groaned and complained at an intrusion on her sleep, but didn’t bother to open her eyes. She knew it was the tall, red haired, green eyed man called Breng in her doorway, leaning there impatiently. She could hear his enormous mass just…existing.

        “You were right,” his husky voice came from the dark.

        “I know,” Claire snorted and cracked a heavy lid open. “Ready the horses if your ass is up, huh?”

        He rolled his eyes and complied, allowing the door to bang shut behind him. The noise caused Darixis to stir next to her. He snaked a warm arm around her abdomen and she almost floated back to sleep in that comfortable embrace, but forced discipline upon herself.

        “C’mon,” she trilled and fiddled with his long pointed ears amid his mess of ornery brown hair, “the trail is warm.”

        Claire was a slender and pretty girl who wore her long honey hair in a neat braid. Her clear blue eyes couldn’t hide their cunning and her face seemed that of a stern old maid more often than not. She was restless, impatient and headstrong. Worse, she was usually always right. Just as on this day, when any bounty hunter worth his weight was sitting at the Royal Port, awaiting their target’s arrival, she had seen the skies the day before and knew that the barge everyone was hunting would either be off course or beneath the waves. The first thirteen years of her life were spent aboard a quick and stealthy raider’s ship and she knew the current and the winds and the stars as a smith knew his alloys and files and bellows. She knew the barge their prey had been reported aboard would be sent from its expected boarding at Royal Port and would most likely end its journey closer to this small fishing village she and her friends now rested in; the village of Hend.

        “Well then,” Claire said later as the party of three mounted their horses in the early dark of morning, “details?”

        “Storm,” Breng said shortly in that way he had of saying as little as possible, “Royal Port expected sight of the ‘Weighfarer’ by early eve, but nothing. Rescue left hours ago. Might be word by now, but who knows.”

        “Wonderful,” Darixis sighed, “let us roam the shores then, all random and shit.”

        “I like your enthusiasm!” Claire exclaimed happily and urged her mount forward.

                        *                *                *                

        The sea to their right was carrying on its waves a million diamonds shimmering in the sunrise. Three horses and three riders trotted steadily in silence. Claire could only think how putrid the salty air was at shore, where it mixed with the decay of washed up weeds and pieces of fish and sad empty shells. Aboard ship, the sea air had been pure; a sharp, exhilarating wind in her blonde curls urging her to the horizon, then the next, just to see what lie there. Her curiosity was insatiable. Her feet never tread in the same place twice and her eyes never dwelled on what was immediately unfolding, as she was much more interested in what might lie just beyond her vision. Beneath that delicate white skin of hers burned a ferocious and agonizing need to spring into the unknown and experience the frighteningly open air of freedom. These desires bubbled up into her eyes and as calm as she may have attempted to appear, the tempest beneath always gave way.

        If not for Admiral Grey, no,  he was only a Captain back then, she would still be there; atop the glittering ocean hills and setting the sails for Gods know where. But the good Captain had intercepted her father’s ship. Her young, dirty haired father who had smirked like a child caught in the pantry when the Captain came to raid. His smirk had said it all: Well we’ve finally been caught, sorry it didn’t take longer, my dear. She hadn’t understood any of it at the time. She had quailed and screamed and fought as she was taken from him. The crimes of her father and his crew had left the Captain with no choice on their fate, but he pitied the sobbing girl and arranged good stay with an upstanding family in the capital city of Carenil in her home country, Kaldek. Five years in that sweet family’s care had Claire taking to the fine clothing of the city and to the writing and the charms and the pretty ball music. She might almost have become the passable image of a lady, if not for that mischievous pirate’s blood in her veins.

        “House” Breng’s matter of fact observation broke the hours of silence. The house was a small speck on a hill in the horizon, but Breng had always been a great scout. If it weren’t for his enormous size he might have made a decent life as an ambusher in a forest somewhere. Upon reaching the small fisherman cottage, the trio heard voices near its stable and slowly approached.

        “Ho!” Claire called in her friendliest voice. Two identical shaggy mops of hair poked out from behind the barn wall and one decently groomed young lady popped up after them. Her eyes went wide when she noticed Claire and company and she rushed forward, “Oh, please my lady, take your rest and we’ll tend to the horses.”

        One of the men with her sensed danger and stepped warily between the riders and the girl. Claire simply laughed and waved a finely gloved hand, “We’ve much ground to cover, dear. We’re only stopping as a matter of curiosity.”

        The shaggy blond mop tilted quizzically and Claire continued, “I’m looking for a man, would have rowed ashore quite recently.” The three fishermen looked at each other, shrugged, then looked back up at Claire, who rolled her eyes, “I also wonder: where did poor sorts such as yourselves even acquire such an impressive cutting horse?” Her eyes flickered to the graceful yet ferocious tracks of a sprinting horse at their feet.

        “Bride price.” The lead man jutted his head toward the girl, then spit the juice from whatever leaf he was sucking on at the dirt and calmly squinted back up at Claire. It didn’t matter how much or how little these people would talk, Claire already had a clear picture where those tracks would lead.

        “Stolen in the night?” she asked.

        “Aye,” he nodded.

        Claire couldn’t help but snort. Oh, what hardships must befall our honorable hero Admiral Grey that he would mirror the deeds of those pirates he’d made a living of persecuting. Or perhaps it hadn’t been him at all and her search was for naught. She shrugged and dug a silver from her pouch and flicked it to the man, “for the horse.” He caught it and nodded his thanks and Claire’s eyes rested on the girl as she turned her horse southwesterly. Pity was in those cold blue eyes as she imagined a life chained to the shore and bought with a horse.

                        *                *                *                

        Harry watched the three strangers ride after the Admiral, lost in thought. An unorthodox bounty hunter that woman had been, giving a silver in return for absolutely no valuable information.

        “I think it’s about time you hitched yourself to that Ritten boy,” he finally muttered to Melody.

        Her chin quivered and her eyes stung but she only said, “aye, it is” and headed to their house shaking with silent sobs. She knew what it meant. The years that she’d refused Jay Ritten’s engagement proposals, her brothers had stood by her decision. But now, with the sky growing dark and the faint pressure of a distant thunder in their lives, she knew she must go. For when the storm took their house, it must not take their line. The blood of their name would only survive through her.

                        *                *                *                

        Grey’s growling stomach made those first few raindrops at nightfall somehow that much worse. He was reminded of the pudding he’d had for breakfast, made with the drippings of whatever meat had been braised at the fire the night before. It was an honored treat for a family who mostly thrived on fish to share with him. Truthfully, though, it was something he never ate back home in Carenil. Pudding was a poor man’s meal. He sighed and thought of the salt packed box in the pack the fishermen had offered him and the succulent fish therein. He couldn’t open it in the rain, but no obvious shelter was in sight.

        He now found himself in a pleasant forest, the kind of forest with healthy foliage, fat rabbits ignoring his intrusion and large branches overhead asway with the soft incoming storm’s breeze. Everything about this forest was perhaps too pleasant. Where were the wolves? The snares set by bandits? The hungry sand pit that would swallow his horse whole? Admiral Grey was no expert on what life was like on land, but all the stories he’d ever heard had told him that forests were the evil and frightening homes to witches and bears and bands of murderous thieves.

        Dexil seemed content at a fast trot. Loads of stamina, this one. “Ho,” Grey suddenly tugged the reign gently. Dexil burped an annoyed breath and complied. It was as though the forest knew it was time for its travelers to rest, for there was a great cavern in a hillside, tall and wide and comfortable. It felt strangely convenient and curious and it seemed he should probably just keep trotting, but Grey dismounted anyway and tied a bag of oats Harry had given him around Dexil’s snout. The stars would show soon, assuming they weren’t completely covered in the storm. He held his mouth to one side as he thought; about the pain and soreness all throughout his body, about the horse’s health, the stillness of this forest bustling only with the normal happy forest bustle. Ah, he finally thought, and laid his pack down, what’s the worst that could happen? 

        As he ate, he couldn’t help but wonder at certain details of the cavern; it’s pristine ceiling which had never seen a fire’s smoke. How no crude writings decorated the stones and no hidden strips of cloth had snagged into the walls. There were no signs that it had ever been used for rest. Instead, it had all the signs of an ambush point. So he did not start a fire, he simply ate a bit of bread and fish and listened to the raindrops speaking softly in the brush.

        Within hours, Dexil’s ears perked and Grey opened his eyes from the light sleep he’d allowed himself. There it was; the rustling of hooves among the fallen leaves, distant, and more than one. He had already strapped his pack and in a moment was ready to ride again, but he paused. He knew this approaching party was obviously not an ambush, for the people familiar with sneaking up to weary travelers in this cavern would not be on horseback so close within hearing. So as he paused, he wondered if the travelers would even notice him. They probably would also be scanning for shelter in the steady rain. Just to be safe, it was probably best he did continue on, in case this chance meeting didn’t fare so friendly. He had one foot in a stirrup when a woman’s voice startled him from the mouth of the cave. Dexil threw his head in annoyance and Grey felt his heart leap.

        “A fine eve for a stroll, no?” she said wickedly and emerged from the shadows. Moonlight through the rain illuminated just enough for him to see blue and tumultuous eyes glistening at him.

        “I certainly thought so,” he cleared throat. Behind Dexil, Grey noticed from the corner of his eye an opening in the cavern. It appeared to be a tunnel leading deep into the hills but he didn’t recall its presence hours ago. It seemed as though a very convenient and magical apparition.

        “Be a dear and lower that hood for the lady,” she gestured at him with a peculiar and gracefully beautiful dagger in her hand, “you’re being rude.”

        The horsemen who’d rustled through the leaves showed now, two of them blocking his escape from the cave’s mouth. A tall elf atop a fine horse held the reigns to lead a third horse which had no rider. That one belonged to this clever girl in front of him. Grey did not want a fight with these men, not with the rusted sword he had, not with that elf and their notorious strength and swordsmanship and absolutely not with whatever that massive brute was atop the final horse. So he lowered his hood cautiously and the brute grumbled at the woman, “it seems you were right again.”

        The woman snickered in a way that told Grey that she was always right. The elf chuckled and the brute flicked a silver at him with more grumbling noises. This was the time to move, Grey could feel he must capitalize on the complacency of that moment while the trio sneered in the cocky triumph of locating their bounty. With quickening fear in his legs, he darted down the passage behind Dexil.

        “Mother f-“ the woman gave chase. The elf bound lightly from his horse and sprinted behind her and the brute grumbled and struggled with his size to maneuver just right off the-and he slipped from the stirrup and fell. He sighed and lumbered to his feet. Avoiding the agitated young cutting horse at the tunnels entrance, he finally gave chase as well.

        Grey ran blindly with one hand along the tunnel wall. He recklessly took any random twist and turn, his footing was lit only by faint iridescent lichen which clung to rocks and the cavern walls. He could hear the clinking of the elf’s armored boots close behind, sure and heavy and full speed. The great brute was much further back, clumsy and plowing through obstacles all the rest had either tripped or bound over. Grey could not hear where the girl was, with her padded leather boots. Over his heart and his breathing and his racing mind, where could she be? More twists and more turns, a downhill path he nearly slid to the bottom of. Long moments seemed as hours as he raced into random paths. He was a panicked rabbit sprinting itself into a corner for the determined foxes behind him to overpower.

        Finally, a faint illumination showed promise ahead. Was it the entrance again? He prepared his mind for the escape, to leap upon Dexil and sprint as the young and virile horse loved to sprint. But it was no entrance, it was only a slightly more open tunnel; a crossroads where many tunnels met and the illumination was merely greatly concentrated clumps of the lichen. That was when he felt her dart past him, turn on a graceful toe and stop him with that magnificent dagger at his throat.

        “I’m faster than you are,” she pointed out as though it needed to be pointed out. She wasn’t even breathless. Grey rolled his eyes at her arrogance and surrendered, gasping for breath.

        The elf was behind him now and with a kick he buckled Grey to his knees. He raised his hands up in submission. “And what will you do with all that coin from my bounty, huh?” Grey asked through his panting. The woman laughed, first at his question, then harder as the brute finally hobbled into the chamber with them, clutching his side and wheezing for air.

        “What coin?” came her strange response at last, “we won’t be seeing any of that.”

        Confused, Grey began to dumbly ask questions, but his voice trailed off as something caught his eye. Had that mound of moss moved? He stared closely and indeed, the glowing clump slowly unfurled and great sinewy legs emerged beneath the great mass. Dark orbs blinked open, only visible due to the contrasting glow of the flesh around them. The woman quizzically followed Grey’s gaze and stumbled back when she saw the giant insect-like form rising to its feet. It could only be described as something resembling a terrible cross between a mantis and centipede. As it stood, it chittered excitedly, rousing dozens of its fellows all around them. The light of their bodies caused the shadows of the four to do strange and alien things along the wall as the insects stirred about.

        “To arms then?” Grey was asking permission to reach for his sword.

        “To arms,” came her breathless reply as she reached beneath her cloak and produced another long and perfectly curved dagger.

        The insects came at the group of people fast and hard and cleverly taking advantage of perfect moments to sweep a leg. They worked together to throw their prey’s balance and gain full mount atop them. They were large and heavy and only the elf’s sharp longsword saved the woman as she at one point was trapped struggling beneath a snapping and clawing attacker, helpless under its crushing weight. The insects worked quickly and efficiently to regain the strategic loss of one of their brethren, dodging and scuttling in frighteningly unnatural ways.

        Grey saw that the brute’s knuckles were adorned with impressively crafted steel which lined his fists and was textured with small spikes in case his ferocious punches weren’t painful enough. He essentially wielded two hammers which pummeled sick oozing messes from their attacker’s relatively unprotected underbellies. Grey lamented his lesser weapon. Although, as terribly balanced and dull as the sword Melody had given him was, he could not deny that the heavy steel was an effective enough deterrent as he clumsily chopped at flailing insect legs around him.

        The swarm was growing as more insects spilled in through adjacent halls. Soon the four of them were only holding a small portion of the wall. But suddenly and peculiarly, the insects stopped their attack as one singular mass and chittered shortly while backing away. Grey rasped in one breath after another as he stared them down, expecting them to regroup and try another approach. But he could feel deep in his bones that there was a massive and terrifying power in the air. One which hadn’t been there a moment ago and which dwarfed the dangers of the insects. Glancing at the others, he could see they had felt it too. It was as though a strong and pressing volcano, raw and unpredictable, was bubbling to life beneath them. From one of the tunnels came a sing song voice, speaking some strange language. Or was it singing? It was so honey smooth and pleasant he couldn’t tell. Next a cloaked figure emerged and the source of the immense power they’d felt was apparent. The figure was a short and slender woman. The party of four could see nothing of her but bright silver eyes which bored through their hearts. A few more silky strange words from her and the insects went to her readily. She held a calm and loving hand to one, which tenderly rubbed its mantis-like front two legs along the cloth of her arm and soon the entire hoard of them slipped away down a tunnel, leaving the four weary warriors and single strange woman in darkness.

        She flickered to life a small and warm orb which hovered about and gave them faint light as she gestured kindly down a tunnel. The four silently followed her lead, pulled toward her by an unexplainable magnetic desire to be in her presence. In silence, they walked and walked, the orb only just illuminating enough that each could see and follow the man in front of him. Grey hung close behind their new mysterious friend, hoping for perhaps some additional protection from the bounty hunters. He noticed down at the bottom of her cloak swayed something with full shaggy silver fur. A tail? He thought back to the lore of beastmen which were entertaining as a child; civilizations of wolf people, eating the hearts of bad little boys and girls. Or what of the half-eagle half-men, who would swoop you up if you dared turn in to bed without finishing your chores, carry you to great heights and feed you to their hatchlings!

        She kept speaking that language in her golden voice every now and then. Finally, the blue eyed woman behind Grey spoke up, “we cannot understand you,” she said matter-of-factly.

        “I am not speaking to you,” came the sing song reply, in perfect command of the people’s tongue.

        “Well,” the woman hesitated, “who then?”

        “Them,” the woman seemed to smile as she said it softly and raised her hand to create thousands more orbs bouncing along the ceiling and the sudden light illuminated a massive wall of creatures. They were dark and dangerous and ugly, hissing at the light and when the woman behind Grey cried out in terror, a few of them snarled with their great fangs and snapped maliciously. This was a colony of beasts with pig like faces, venomous tusks and an intelligence a bit too close to that of man. They scavenged merchant routes, donning armor stolen from their victims which was ill-fitting as these beasts were much broader and taller than the average man. This horde of swine had been there all along, a river of writhing and hungry beasts, staring at the travelers with deadly monstrous eyes and held at bay only by their guide’s sweet commands.

        Grey gulped dryly. Never would he be fool enough to run below ground again. The blue eyed woman seemed to blame him as well. She smacked the back of his head and muttered, “jackass.”