THE ELK’S HEAD SHOT UP as its ears pivoted around trying to locate the source of the snapping twig. Longshot cursed inwardly. The underbrush was thick and full of leaves and twigs from a storm that rolled through the north two days ago. The underbrush along with the surprise splash from leaves holding dearly on to the water they cupped within themselves but couldn’t muster the strength to contain made tracking anything in this forest ten times harder. If the underbrush wasn’t as thick, the mud would make tracking the elk’s footsteps a cakewalk. If the leaves didn’t drop their precious water, Longshot wouldn’t have had to shed his cloak for fear of the cool, autumn air blowing a chill into his bones. Nothing’s ever perfect, Longshot thought as he took the bow that clung to him by the bowstring and nocked an arrow.

He was—by his best guess—two-hundred feet away from the elk. The wind had changed directions and was now blowing to the east, carrying away his scent so the elk wouldn’t catch it and flee. The only problem was he now had to correct for the wind, which was almost impossible because it came in sporadic bursts, loud and fast one moment, then breezing by calm as a summer’s evening the next. He’d have to time his shot at the right moment—between the heavy wind and the calm.

Longshot drew the bowstring back slowly. The familiar sound of the wood creaking as the string pulled the ends of the bow down calmed him. It was like the familiar sounds of a lover’s words on his neck. It swirled around him and kissed his ears gently, only stopping when the bowstring was as taut as it could be before the bow snapped under the pressure. The sudden silence turned into an anticipated hush. He waited for the right time to let loose; the perfect moment when everything around him clicked.

The wind blew hard as the elk grazed the underbrush. Then it died down to a full stop.

The elk jerked its head up once more. Pivoting its ears at an unknown sound.

Longshot didn’t hear what the elk heard, for everything had clicked.

He let go of the string and the bow cried out, setting the arrow on its path. The arrow flew true and hit the elk’s broadside, straight through the lungs. The elk let out a cry of pain as the arrow cut through its flesh and tore through its body, then it lodged itself in the base of a tree behind the beast. It staggered slightly and tried to run, but lost its footing and fell onto the wet earth.

That’s when he heard the noise the elk had.

A shrill cry tore into the quiet of the forest. Longshot grabbed his ears at the sudden noise, temporarily deafened. He looked around the trees to find the source of the sound when a pair of giant wings swooped down from the sky and grabbed the fallen elk in talons bigger than any bird talons Longshot had seen before. The wings beat hard, blowing Longshot onto his back as it made its way back to the sky.

Longshot got to his feet and looked up at the clearing where the wings appeared and saw a huge, dark figure fly off to the west above the forest, then disappear behind the crowns of the ancient trees. Longshot made his way to where the elk had fallen to see if what he saw was just some wild imagining. But true to what he had seen, the elk was nowhere in sight. Only a dark patch of red earth remained.

Longshot placed his bow back across himself and slowly made his way out of the forest and towards the barony. The Mammoth isn’t going to like this, he thought.

* * *

“His Grace will see you know,” said the Baron’s steward.

Longshot let out a soft sigh and stood up from his chair. Baron Grayfellow isn’t someone you want to keep waiting. Especially not during the Week of Feasts. The tall oak doors groaned as Longshot pushed on them, revealing a high vaulted, well lit room adorned with red and silver tapestries with the Baron’s crest—a raptor extending its wings—painted a vibrant yellow upon them. If there’s a time for irony, Longshot thought, it’s now.

At the end of the room, sitting at a long dark wood table sat the Baron and his four wives. The mammoth-of-a-man was tearing into the food on his plate while the women at his sides took small, meager bites. Like they were afraid they’d offend the Baron by eating their food.

Longshot approached the table, careful to keep his distance—mostly out of respect, partly to keep the bits of food flung from the Baron’s maw from staining his clothes—and bowed deeply.

“I grow tired of this shit the merchants bring in,” The Baron said, meat and wine still dribbling from his mouth. “How’s a man ‘sposed to stay satisfied eating pheasant three days in a row?”

Any normal man would be perfectly happy eating that pheasant. The folk living in your slums surely would. Longshot pushed this thought out of his mind. He’d spent enough time in the company of Baron Grayfellow that he knew what the Baron wanted to hear, and something like that would send him into a frenzy.

“I know not, Your Grace.”

“He can’t!” the Baron bellowed. “Man’s ‘sposed to fill his belly full of griffon or hippogriff! Hell, I’d take a damn donkey over this lame excuse of a bird!”

The baron grabbed his plate—still full of cooked pheasant—and threw it at the wall. The plate made a sharp cracking sound as it hit the dark stone, shattering it to fragments as the cooked pheasant bounced off the stone with a wet slap and landed on the ground. The four women started, giving out tiny gasps of fear from the Baron’s outburst. Longshot stood perfectly still. Almost as if he’d been expecting this.

“Where’s the elk I told you to bring me?” The Baron took a long swig from his goblet and slammed it back down onto the table. “Well?!”

Recently, the Baron had been sending Longshot out into the forest behind the barony more and more to hunt the game that lurked inside. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence given the time of year. The Week of Feasts was Longshot’s busiest time of year. Oftentimes, the beasts were simple: an elk, a fox, or maybe a bear. But lately the Baron’s palette yearned for more exotic beasts: wargs, griffons, even basilisks. More and more, the exotic beasts made the Baron’s maw salivate. More and more, Longshot returned to the barony with new, exciting scars.

“Your Grace, there seems to be a problem.”

“What kind of problem, Boy?” the baron asked darkly.

Longshot bristled. He hated being called “Boy” when he was only ten years younger than the Baron himself. It was the Baron’s way of reminding him who he works for. Who he belongs to.

“I was hunting an elk as Your Grace commanded. My arrow struck true and I was about to collect the beast when a huge bird appeared and took the game for itself.”

The Baron looked at Longshot, anger burning behind his pudgy eyes. Longshot had never returned without the Baron’s next meal, and the Baron wasn’t used to Longshot returning empty handed. Then, the anger seemed to roll off of him as he waved his hand in a grand gesture.

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard from my men that a certain creature lurks deep in the that forest. They tell me it’s a giant, winged beast with a wingspan longer than a mile. This beast appeared in the forest two span ago and has been disrupting trade lines from here to Karth, halting all import of clay and textiles. It had even plucked out an entire Crailian platoon—sixty-four men in total—headed to the front.”

The Baron’s eyes gleamed an all too familiar gleam. Longshot knew what was coming next.

“In light of your recent failure, I want you to go back out into the forest and hunt the thing down and bring me it’s head as well as some meat carved from its carcass. Am I clear?”

This man is insane! Griffons and basilisks are not to be hunted lightly, but at least Longshot knew how to hunt them, knew their weaknesses. Hunting this bird would be like trying to convince an echo-head to never take the foul drug again. Impossible.

The Baron smiled a friendly smile, but Longshot saw the malicious grin hidden behind what the Baron had plastered on his face. It’s a challenge. He wants to test my resolve, see if I fail again.

Longshot bowed again, low and respectful. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The Baron’s smile faltered slightly, but only for a brief moment. “Off you go then, Boy,” He said. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He turned and left The Mammoth’s presence. As he started to close the doors to the Baron’s dining hall, he heard the sound of the man shouting at his wives, then a sharp crack and a shrill cry just before he closed the mighty oak doors behind him.

* * *

Yemik’s brow furrowed as he concentrated on the two vials sitting on the complex apparatus on his workbench—one containing a pale yellow liquid, the other a deep purple liquid. He dipped a metal spoon into the yellow liquid and stirred the contents. The liquid spun in its vial and produced a small hissing sound. Yemik pulled the spoon back and saw that the metal had rusted slightly. He then closed his eyes, muttered a few words, and turned a nob on the apparatus. The pale yellow liquid began to boil, slightly at first, then with more intensity as time went. A sickly burning smell began to fill the room as the vapor from the liquid evaporated from the vial, giving the workshop a glossy look, as if someone had smeared oil upon the air. Yemik muttered a few more words of an ancient language in a low tone and the vapor began to shift like someone was fanning the air. The vapor began to fill the vial of purple liquid. It made its way into the deep purple substance and the deep purple started to shift to a paler purple, then lavender.

Then to a violent red.

Yemik cursed and quickly turned back the nob he’d turned before and the pale yellow liquid slowly stopped boiling as the vapor cleared out of the room by way of air ducts on the ceiling. He picked up the vial containing the violent red substance—now returning to its original deep purple hue—and tipped it from side to side. No change.

The two liquids were too different from each other. The purple liquid behaved like honey slowly descending a slope. But if exposed to the right elements, it would flow like the water in the river that ran through the barony. The pale liquid, however, was acidic in nature. Not so much as to burn the skin from the bone, but enough to slowly char the skin black, given a generous dose of the substance and enough time. Yemik considered mixing the two, then pushed the thought out of his mind with enough force to send a man flying for miles. Acidic foam would erupt from the liquids like a volcano and spread for miles in each direction. Yemik shook his head to clear it. I’m losing it. Why would I ever consider doing that? He looked at the vials sitting mere inches from each other and moved them farther apart. Just to be safe.

The small bell hanging above the storefront’s door rung out brightly. “Yemik? You here?”

“Yes, yes. One moment please.” Yemik stoppered both vials and set them in their respective resting places, then washed his hands in the water basin inside his workshop. Clean your hands before and after handling. And for the love of God, never eat while working. Master Vholm’s words rang in his head for the umpteenth time, and he couldn’t stop a smile from curling his lips.

Yemik walked out of his workshop and into the shop, drying his hands on a white linen cloth. The shop was little more than two of the same sized rooms stuck together with some questionable craftsmanship. The ceiling hung low and from it a simple chandelier adorned with ever-burning candles swayed slightly from the draft created by the opening door. But to say the candles were burning is incorrect. They gave off a constant glow of pleasant orange light that produced no smoke and never melted the wax of the candle. Never have true flame anywhere near your tonics, Vholm’s voice said once again. On both of the sidewalls, racks of various vials and bottles filled with liquids of all colors—reds, yellows, lavenders, and even a few glittering silverish-blues—sat content in their resting places. And behind the counter were some of the rarest items any alchemist could hope for: alkahest, dragon’s tongue, drake’s blood, griffon feathers, aqua fortis, and even a few bottles containing a doppler’s brain. Yemik was quite proud of his vast collection of alchemical ingredients as well as what he brewed with them. This shop was his own little haven. His own barony.

“Ah, Master L. Come to peruse my stock? Or perhaps you’ve come to lose your money again in a game of cards?” The lizard man smiled a toothy smile.

“Firstly, stop calling me ‘Master L.’ Makes me feel old. Secondly, no. You cheat at cards more than The Mammoth cheats on his wives.”

“It’s good to see you too, Longshot.” Yemik ran a—now clean—across his forehead. The texture of his scaled skin rubbed against the flesh of his palm in a familiar way. He moved his hand slightly to the left and felt the base of the horn that curled out and ended pointing in the direction he was looking—one horn on each side of his head. He almost looked like a dark grey, scale-bound ram, only more intelligent and less headstrong. “What can I help you with?”

“Just checking in on my order. How’s it coming?”

“Ah, of course!” Yemik bent down behind the front desk and retrieved a small parcel wrapped in tanned leather tied together with twine and placed it on the counter. “Took me a while to decipher the formulae, but I managed without too much trouble. These oils should do you well.”

Longshot reached to the parcel and unwrapped it. Sitting bundled together were three vials of oil each a different color: one silver, one green, and one a fiery red.

“How much do I owe you?”

Yemik thought for a second, juggling numbers in his head. “Oh, eight full marks should suffice.”

Longshot opened his purse and took out eight gold circles of weighty metal and placed them upon the counter.

“Thanks, Yemik.”

“Anytime.” Yemik collected the coins in one hand and with his other produced a small key that hung from his neck which he used to open a drawer behind the counter and begun placing the coins neatly inside. “So, word around town is the Baron’s craving something new,” Yemik said as he looked up at Longshot, “What does The Mammoth hunger for this time?”

“Word sure travels fast here.” Longshot said, placing the oils deftly into the satchel that clung to his back. “I only left his presence an hour ago.”

“The Oran boy was in here a few minutes ago. You know, Mika Oran? Evelyn and Dran Oran’s boy?... The one who strung himself up by his loins in the tree near Gelvin’s when he lost a bet on the horse race a few years back?”

Longshot’s confused look broke into a wide smile, “Right, I remember. That was an interesting race.”

“Indeed it was,” Yemik said, smirking as well. “Well, turns out Mika join The Mammoth’s guards and is working only inches away from The Mammoth himself.”

Longshot’s smile faded from his face. “Poor lad. Always thought he was going to go off and join the Academy up in Crailic. Always loved books, didn’t he? I remember giving him a few when he wasn’t growing peach fuzz.”

“Well, life never works out how we plan it. Doubly so for Mika Oran. Anyways, he was in here looking for a potion to help him grow a full beard and told me The Mammoth had another job for you,” Yemik said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Do tell.”

Longshot sighed. “He wants me to hunt the giant bird that appeared in the forest two span ago.”

Yemik stopped counting the money in the drawer and looked up, horrified. “The roc? Surely this is a joke!”

“I don’t joke about my job, Yemik.”

Yemik looked down at the drawer. Rows of gold colored full marks and silver colored half marks, and even a few copper fourth marks, sat neatly organized and in their ranks, ready to be transferred at a moment’s notice.

“You heard about the Crailian platoon, haven’t you? A full platoon of sixty-four men picked clean by the beast. How does that man expect you to slay it? No offense intended, but you’re just one man! The thing will kill you quick as a heartbeat!”

“I don’t know, Yemik. That’s why I don’t intend to do this job alone. I have a few circles where I’m owed favors.” Longshot fitted the clasps of his satchel back together and placed it on his back where it clung snugly to his form. “Guess now will be a good time to call upon a few.”

“Wait,” Yemik said. “Before you go…”

Yemik walked back into his workshop and began to look through the rows of potions he was working on. It took him some time before he found what he was looking for—a vial containing a viscous brown substance. He walked back out into the shop and placed the potion in front of Longshot.

“This is Eir. It tastes like a horse’s ass and goes down like tar, but if swallowed your wounds will heal themselves. Painfully, yes, but they’ll heal within seconds. Keep it away from water, for if contact is made it’ll turn blue and watery and it’ll be of no use to you then. It’ll explode if it makes contact with fire, so be mindful of that as well. If exposed to the cold, it’ll turn acidic. And for the love of God, keep dirt from spilling into it. It’ll glow brighter than a thousand suns and leave you blinded.”

Longshot looked at the potion sitting on the counter. If he hadn’t known better he’d think it was a bottle of liquid shit. “Seems to be more danger than it’s worth,” he said.

“Most elixirs are high risk. That’s how you know they work wonders,” Yemik said calmly.

Longshot looked to the potion again. “How much?”

“Considering you’re hunting a harbinger of death and destruction you can have it free of charge. I’ll not talk of payment or of the exchange of favors for it. This is a gift freely given from one man to another. Take it.”

“Yemik this potion is worth at least a hundred full marks and must have taken you months, if not years to create. I have to give you somethi—”

Yemik held up his hand to silence Longshot. He fell silent.

“Kill the beast,” he said and nudged the potion closer to Longshot. “Come back with its head, and join me in a round of cards. You’ve been a true friend to me, and I wish you to remain alive. Besides, you’re my most valued customer. It’d be bad for business if you were plucked from the face of the earth.”

* * *

Dawn was breaking, turning the sky a light blue-orange as Longshot made his way to the gates of the barony, potions in tow as well as his weapons—a sword strapped to his hip and a bow made from wood of the Ancient Oak just outside the barony’s gate. The sword was a simple blade. Short and sharp. Great for killing a man and skinning potatoes—preferably not in that order. The bow, however, was pure white, and if one looked at it long enough, they could see faint etchings in the wood. Elven runes. Powerful enchantments that made the bow vibrate slightly, which, in turn, made it hum faintly. Only by listening long enough could you hear the melodic thrum of the wood. Longshot felt the wood hum against his body. It was as comforting to him as the embrace of a lover. It set his mind at ease, but his reverie was broken by the bray of a donkey pulling a cart in front of him.

“What’re you carrying?” asked a man dressed in chain mail with the colors of the barony and the familiar yellow raptor painted on his cloak. He stood a whole head taller than the farmer waiting to pass through the portcullis and was writing notes on a piece of parchment.

“Barley, sir. Wheat and barley,” the farmer replied.

“Where’re you going, then?”

“The Boar’s Head Inn, down by Emmit’s Fork.”

The guard scratched a few notes onto the parchment. “Boar’s Head needs wheat and barley? What for?”

“Bread, sir. Pie crusts as well. Need wheat and barley to make bread and crusts.”

“Not carrying anything illegal, are we?”

“No, sir,” the farmer said too quickly.

The guard looked up from his notes to the farmer, eyeing him down. “Stay here, right? We’ll have a look through your cargo.”

“Uh… S-Sir,” The farmer stammered. “I-Is that really necessary?”

“No, but it’s best to be thorough, aye?” The guard made a beckoning gesture to one of the other guards by the gate and they both began sifting through the burlap sacks in the cart. They searched for a few minutes before returning with a small leather bundle. The farmer paled as the guard opened the bundle revealing three small bottles of yellowish powder.

“What have we here, then?” The guard said, obviously pleased with his discovery. “Look, Bran, we’ve got ourselves an echo smuggler!”

“N-No! It’s just medicine! My ma lives down near Emmit’s Fork and she’s deathly ill, sir. It’s to help her get better, see? P-Please!”

“You think I’m daft, farmer? I know echo when I see it. Take him to the Baron.”

The other guard stepped up and slapped a pair of shackles unto the man’s wrists.

“Please, sir! Please, I beg you! Let me go! Please!”

“Shut it.” The guard said, and led the screaming man towards the Baron’s keep. The guard that recognized the drug made a curt gesture and three more soldiers came from the tower to take the farmer’s cart and his donkey back deeper into the barony.

“Next!”

Longshot approached the guard and handed him a piece of parchment folded upon itself. “Leaving for a hunt. That writ lets me carry my weapons and tonics outside. From the Baron himself.”

“I can read, smart ass,” the guard said, looking down at the writ, making sure everything was signed and sealed correctly. After a few moments, the guard’s brow furrowed and he gestured for a boy of about eighteen years to come over. The boy was wearing clothes that marked him as an official runner.

“Yes, sir?” the boy asked as he came to a stop next to the guard.

“What’s that word?”

The boy looked down at the writ where the guard was pointing. “Vindicates, sir.”

Longshot smirked as the guard blushed slightly and waved the boy away. “All right, everything’s in order. Here you go.”

Longshot took the writ and folded it back upon itself and placed it in a pocket attached to the satchel that contained the potions he was carrying and started towards the gate. A guard clutching a halberd nodded to Longshot and took a large keyring, thumbed through it until he found the correct key, and opened a small door within the crisscrossing barricade that made up the barony’s portcullis. Before Longshot stepped through, the guard who had stopped him called out.

“Good luck slaying the bird! We’ll be sure to send out a party to find your mangled corpse!”

Longshot turned and saw the guard smiling at him, teeth yellow and rotting.