Smells of dust and stale mold drifted off the stones of the ancient keep; harsh and lonely stimuli for late-night walkers in the unlit darkness. The shuffling footfalls of a lone man echoed loudly through the narrow passageways in anti-climactic trumpet to his passage. Tall, thin slits in the outer walls of the old castle let in the frigid outside air, and with the tiny trickles of light from the distant stars were the only elements of the outside world that sifted to the senses of the walker. The moon was but a crescent in the sky, casting a tiny sliver of light upon the realm so small and close to the horizon that it was all but unnoticeable.

Kalin carried a lamp before him as he walked, its light shining under each successive doorway and window slit to mark his passage through the halls. Few others in the keep stirred, though the crackling of fires behind the large oak doors of the family's chambers, the occasional resounding snore, and the soft moans of late-night lovers reminded the passer-by of the abundance of life and humanity that surrounded him, despite the cold and stony illusion that he was alone in the darkness.

He preferred the quiet; the introspective echo of a world at rest, and the surrounding blanket of dark that left all forms of life feeling hidden and more open to their true unbridled natures. That which lay concealed by the darkness was brought to light and truth by the light of Kalin's lamp; and he preferred to look upon the wold this way - honest and surprised, and unexpecting of observers.

Kalin drew his robes around his shoulders as the chill breeze from outside gusted through the window-slits of the keep outside the castle's library. The store of books was small, but extremely old, as the lineage of the duke went back near a thousand years in the history of Arda. Most of the library had been collected by the castle's previous masters, though some volumes had been transcribed by priests and scribes kept by the ancient dukes. Many outlined historic deeds and lineages of the family, and were hence of little interest to Kalin, but others delved into subjects of history, and war, and the passing of kings. It was these that intrigued him.

And so Kalin made his nightly foray, down the quiet halls and up the long and winding stairs, into the cobwebbed library that held the thick and dusty volumes belonging to the duke. He would hang his lamp upon the wall above the desk, locate a tome of particular interest to his delving mind, and spend long hours of the night browsing through its pages, patiently scanning its words to reveal what secrets that it held. He thrived in the darkness, for it provided better contrast to read by in the bright light of his lamp, and better quiet by which to concentrate. Only the wind and the distant sounds of the crickets reached him in his reverie, and when the song of the morning thrush perched upon the cherry tree in the yard rang in his ears, he sighed, knowing his hours of seclusion were approaching an end.

Still, as all good readers will strive to do, he remained with his books until the sun shone brightly through the window, and the sounds of children laughing and romping about the hallways grew loud enough to cause distraction. Also, he was hungry.

Kalin walked absent-mindedly down the halls, the cold of the night gone from the stone and the air filled with an overwhelming mirth of sound. He sighed, yawning, and wished for a quick meal and some additional time to study before the heat and activity of the day drove him to seek a long rest in his bed. As Kalin approached his chambers he looked up to find a young page standing in front of the door. The boy was no more than ten or twelve years old, and wore the crest of the duke's family upon his chest. His shoes and trousers were dirty, as if he had spent the early hours of the morning performing chores in the yard, and he met the mage's eyes with an eager stare that, while edged with curiosity, communicated that he had other places he needed to be. Still, the boy took in the approaching wizard wide-eyed, and was filled with nervousness stemming from a sense of mysetery that surrounded the strangely-garbed man who commanded so much respect from the page's lords.

Kalin greeted the youth with a warm and genuine smile, his eyes twinkling in a fond and friendly manner that was meant to put the boy at ease. He came to a stop before the door, books in one arm and lamp in the other, and waited for the boy to relate whatever message he had been sent to convey.

"Sir," began the boy, eyes darting towards his feet in uncertainty at addressing the strange wizard. "The duke requests your presence downstairs. It is an urgent matter, he said, and I'm to bring you at once."

The mage raised an inquisitive eyebrow, his thoughts seeming to swirl vigorously under the slow-moving expressions upon his face. "Oh?" he said, pausing for several long moments to think. His eyes regarded the shifting youth, such that it was difficult to tell whether he was summing up the mettle of the boy who stood before him, or the message that had been spoken. After several short moments, he smiled, and slowly reached for the door before him. "Very well, lad. Just a moment."

Kalin opened the door to the chambers he'd been assigned as the duke's guest, and gently placed his books and lamp on a small desk. The room was appropriate enough for a guest in the halls of a small country duchy; not too humble, nor too extravagant, with simple furniture and a private washroom. Kalin emerged from the room to find the page standing as taut as a coiled spring; ready to burst in his eagerness to be on his way. Kalin reflected inwardly that his slow meanderings must be frustrating to the poor boy, and hence made as much haste as he could to follow to relieve the youth of some of his impatience.

Kalin's relationship with the duke was neither a particularly close nor lengthy one, rather their association was one of mutual interest and respect. He had met the duke on several occasions, and had once before stayed at the keep, years ago. He found the duke to be a good man, hard-working and of good humor, who put his people and his family first of all things. By Kalin's impression the duke was uncommonly open-hearted, always eager to answer Kalin's questions or provide him with whatever provisions he might need, regardless of the inconvenience. In turn the man seemed curious enough about magic, as well as of the goings-on of the outside world and of Kalin's travels in distant lands. Kalin was pleased enough to oblige him with tales and news from other parts of the realm, and he found their conversations enlightening.

But, Kalin thought, the duke's request for his presence, presumably for counsel, was out of place. He wondered at the need for a mage, particularly of Kalin's talents, where a seasoned soldier or wise healer might not provide more suitable advice. The duke's realm was small and quiet, populated by a few villages, and not presently threatened by any force of which Kalin was aware. The request was therefore strange, and unexpected, and Kalin's curiosity was piqued and his thoughts whirling in contemplation of possible reasons for the summons.

It was but a few minutes' walk to the main hall, and as Kalin followed the page down the final passageway on the castle's ground floor he was perplexed to find the enormous doors before them strangely closed and guarded. The guard recognized Kalin, and seemed to be expecting him, for he moved to open one of the doors so that the mage could enter. The page stopped outside and took his leave at a brisk run, clearly knowing he was expected elsewhere.

At the far end of a long wooden table, built to hold a hundred men for feasts or the arrival of guests of rank, the duke and three others were speaking quietly. As Kalin approached he paid little heed to their words, reasoning that they would explain all they wanted him to know, and instead allowed his eyes to drift to the object upon the table before them. The object was strangely shaped, oblong and about a foot in diameter, and draped by a thick black cloth. The eyes of the men around the table deliberately avoided it, and each man seemed to be placing as much distance between himself and the cloth-draped mystery as they could.

The duke, his brow dark and troubled, scratched the stubble on his chin in thought as Kalin approached. He looked up from the conversation and a practiced smile crossed his face, one welcoming to his guest but burdened underneath by deeper troubles. He placed his hand on Kalin's shoulder, and gestured for him to sit among his peers. The other men present in the room appeared varyingly uneasy, and Kalin took a moment to study each of them. To Kalin's left was the duke's son, Kurt, a lad of seventeen years. The youth was a shadow of his father, even sharing the manner in which he scratched his chin, but it was clear from the unease upon his face that he was more uncomfortable than any of the others at the topic of the discussion. On the duke's right was the head of the duchy's small military force, Armsmaster Gambon, his face stern and resolved. Kalin detected the least amount of unease on this man's hardened face, but also a degree of eagerness, and desire for action. The final voice present was the duke's old scholar, one known simply as Quagen. He was too old to stand for so long, and so found himself seated, and hence the closest to the object on the table. He listened to the others' words passively, seeming at times to stray out of the realm of conscious thought, but then snapping back to the conversation in periodic intervals of focus. Kalin knew that the old man didn't miss a word, but also that Quagen was the most set apart from events, and was too entwined by a characteristic jovial aloofness to allow himself to be so troubled.

"Thank you, Kalin, for coming," said the duke. "I know you are a guest here, and I should not be troubling you with matters such as these."

"I am pleased to be of service," replied Kalin, with a gesture of his hand that the trouble was not a bother at all. "I am grateful for your hospitality, and am glad to help with anything, if I am needed."

The duke smiled, appreciatively. "I will not say I am not glad of it. There has been trouble on our northern borders, and I was hoping you would share your knowledge with us, and perhaps shed some light on a mystery that has set itself before us."

"I will do my best," said Kalin.

The duke turned to Master Gambon, who, as the conversation drew on, appeared more and more displeased at the necessity of Kalin's counsel. But he deferred to his duke, if with a reluctant expression. Gambon cleared his throat, and addressed Kalin. "Two shipments of grain from our northern village, Anan Dae, were due to arrive a week ago. The wagons never came, and when word was sent the villagers claimed they had left on time, two days apart. I ordered a search, and last night my trackers returned with word of the fate of the wagoners."

"Six men accompanied each shipment. Five were found dead several days' ride from the road. The others made their way back to the village, but claimed to have no memory of what had passed since the time they left."

Kalin's eyes narrowed slightly, wondering, but he remained attentive of the armsmaster. The man reached to the object on the table, and removed the black cloth. Immediately, the stench of rotting flesh wafted to Kalin's nose, and his face twitched in brief displeasure at the strong smell of rot and decay. "This was what we found of the five dead wagoners," continued Gambon. "There was no sign of their bodies, and the trail of the stolen wagons ends where the heads were found. Each was.... identical."

Kalin reached into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out a pair of spectacles. He unfolded them slowly, and leaned closer to the severed head as he slid their wiry frames over his ears. The other men leaned reflexively away from the gore upon seeing Kalin approach the head so closely, but in his concentration Kalin took no notice of their reactions. Instead he studied the remains, and noted that the muscle and connective tissue of the neck dangled in twiny threads from what remained of the head, leaving little ability to identify one part from another. The spinal cord itself had not been cut by any blade, or object he could recognize, and instead was shattered into pieces, with fragments embedded in the dangling flesh. Kalin used his finger to part the displaced, rotting flesh within the neck, and dug beneath a mat of feasting maggots to reveal the base of the man's skull, which was also fragmented.

Setting the head down, Kalin turned it to examine the man's face. The skin and muscles were contorted in mutilation after death, but it was still evident that the man had been a homely fellow, with brown hair, and a short, coarse beard. A cut by a blade had split the man's right cheek, from the corner of his eye downward to a level even with the end of his nose. The cut was half an inch deep, and resembled the shape of a tear. Kalin took hold of the man's face and lifted the eyelids with his thumbs. Beneath were empty sockets, filled with maggots.

Placing the head respectfully and carefully down on the table, an uneasiness entered Kalin's expression as he looked up at his companions. The mood was sombre, but the duke's son was kind enough to offer Kalin a clean black cloth, similar to the one that had draped over the head, and Kalin nodded his thanks and wiped his hands. All waited in silence for him to speak. Kalin gathered his thoughts, wiping his hands methodically and considering his words and conclusions, a small sense of worry remaining in his eyes.

"This man's head was severed by a force," Kalin began, "that originated either from the base or inside of his neck, and that propelled outward to shatter his spine and skull. The cut on his face was made while he was still alive, and his eyes were likely removed at this time as well."

"How do you know this?" asked the duke's son, his face contorted in an expression of disgust.

Kalin looked at him measuringly, and considered his answer. Finally, he shrugged. "I admit, it is conjecture. There is little reason to remove the eyes from a dead body, and many reasons to remove them from a live one." This statement seemed to have more meaning than Kalin let on, but no one asked him to elaborate on these possibilities.

"So he was tortured," said the duke, staring meaningfully at the head.

"It is certain," said Kalin. "Though to what extent, it is difficult to say."

"But it was magic that killed him?" asked the armsmater, frustratingly, his tone revealing that he was looking for a culprit to blame the deaths upon. "Some form of magic that severed his head?"

Again Kalin shrugged. "It is likely, but I cannot say for certain."

"Likely?" coughed Gambon. "No weapon could do that! Likely he says. Suggest something else, if it wasn't magic!" The duke looked harshly at the armsmaster for the roughness of his comment, but the man's curtness did not seem to phase Kalin.

"Some weapons of fire can have a similar effect," Kalin continued, "though I would expect a burnt residue upon the skin. Many beasts also have strange adaptations of teeth and claws that can tear at the flesh in unique ways. A strong magical residue may be detected for a lengthy time after magic has been performed, though I sense none here. But this fellow has been dead for some time, I think, so that may mean nothing."

"Can you tell us any more?" asked the duke.

Kalin thought to himself for several moments, seeming to consider every fact that had been presented. "Not without more information. For example, in what manner were the heads arranged?"

Each man in the room turned to Gambon, but the man seemed to stutter piquedly at the question. "Arranged? I don't know. I would have to ask the trackers who found them, but that's assuming they paid attention. Who would think to consider such a morbid thing?"

Kalin nodded. "And, where are the men who claim to have lost their memories? I should like to talk to them as well."

"Under guard, in the village," answered the duke. He stared introspectively at the head of the dead man on the table, and again habitually rubbed the stubble on his chin as he considered. Finally, he replaced the black cloth over the remains, stifling the stench, and sighed. "Kalin, I know I have asked much of you already. But, I feel it would be in the best interest of my people to ask you for even more. Would you be willing to accompany a host of men to Anan Dae to investigate this matter? It seems we may be delving into a situation for which we are ill-prepared. Otherwise I would send my good advisor, Quagen, but as you see he is getting on in years, and much less knowledgeable than you about these things we seem to be facing."

Kalin stood slowly to face the duke, and met his eyes with an ardent confidence. "I will go to Anan Dae, and see of what help my knowledge can be. This hint of magic has me worried, for the forces that can cause such damage are few, and dark, and dangerous."

---------------------

That afternoon Kalin found himself sitting upon an old sorrel mare from the duke's stables amidst the musterings of forty soldiers in the stableyard. The air was filled with dust and shouts of orders, and he and the sleepy mare seemed to constitute the only stillness in the hubbub of the hour. A bag of books and necessities was strapped securely to the back of the mare's saddle, along with a bedroll and provisions provided by the duke. Kalin's staff rested in a leather loop beside his stirrup and leant upon his shoulder, casting an increasingly long shadow upon the ground as the afternoon waned away. Eventually, when most of the soldiers had mounted their horses, the duke approached his son, who sat astride a fine bay gelding next to Kalin's mare.

"Remember," the duke said softly, "Your duty is first to the people, and their safety. But should the foe you face prove too much for you and your companions, do not throw your life away, for you are their leader, and in that you can be more valuable to them than you will ever know." His son nodded, and they clasped hands. "Good hunting," said the duke, and they parted.

The duke's son took the lead out the front gates, with Gambon following behind and commanding the host of forty men. Kalin urged his mare forward, at first only succeeding in waking her up, and then having to remind her in which direction she needed to be headed. Once she was trotting out the gate amongst a herd of other horses she seemed content enough, and he relaxed his legs and let her continue at their pace.

It was a two day ride down the dusty trade road to Anan Dae.

Cresting the last russet saddle of the hill-country, the Huntress paused, wiping a forearm across her brow to smack parched lips, and rest lungs that pumped like bellows. Overhead the pines breathed and murmured their darkling secrets, and Marillie touched her hand to their pale boles, as if she hoped to divine the chill that had fallen upon her spirit. A queer disturbance had gripped her now for several hours: a feeling akin to the old superstition of someone walking over ones' grave. But keener. Undeniable. A genuine heart-felt sense of foreboding. Of brooding evil.
Far below, most of a days journey, the few lights of the Lanaius Stronghold, Home of the Duke and his Kin, winked beneath the last buttery sliver of the moon. That's strange she remarked to herself, keen eyes honing in on the familiar building, whose silhouette was disturbed. The Library is still alight. Thus dismissing her thoughts she scanned the dark line in the darkness of the woods: the road to Anan Dae, which Marillie had leased for the trapping of game and furs.
She bent her will towards the four clones of her Root-Golem, Corulain, which lay in wait to snare prize game along the route of the road. Leaving them thus she had snared the elusive white-buck of Lanais-country; numerous bears; and even the phenomenally wily timber-wolves of the Dunchies sprawling woods. As her sight passed one by one between Corulains' clones, she shared their senations and sight -lending them her manna so that they could endure at that distance from her.
So it was she was drenched in the blood.
What force of Fate or Doom had engineered the remote chance -in order for the atrocities the Corulain-clone witnessed to pass through the bond to Marillie- the Huntress could scarcely imagine. Only she howled, as the black-magic tainted blood spilled down into the soil where her root-golem was smothering and burning. When her voice broke, she vomited, and when she could gag no more bile she collapsed to the earth, writhing as one who is being flailed alive. Slowly, as the black-magic seared ad scorched the clone of her root-golem, a part of Marillies' soul also burned alive. Until at length the root-golem died, and Marillies' sight went black and she knew no more.

A dark time passed, as her bleeding soul licked its' wounds; burying itself in the good earth of her subconscious -as a root-golem is healed of its' afflictions. She buried it deep and dark, and watered it in a flood of tears, as the visage of the mortal suffering of the five men lived and relived itself in her minds eye. She wept for the men, and she wept for their families, and she wept for herself, whose soul was forever tainted and burned by the reckless hatred that had come to pass upon the road to Anan Dae.
As an abandoned cat is wont to travel vast distances to its' last known place of safety, Marillie honed in on the Dukes Castle, where the guards -who knew her name and were familiar with her frequent forays into the wilds in search of rare and precious ingredients for Quagens alchemy- summoned the Old Master in good-natured concern for one whom they had deemed to be hale, and free, and wild as the hawk -but who now limped, in a sense, as a thing mutilated and broken. Her eyes dark and haunted.
"A foul thing it is indeed to see the Huntress thusly." The Door-Warden made another warding sign for her benefit, looking to Quagen with empathetic pain knitting his brows together.
"It is, it is..." Quagen croaked, tending to Marillie with hands that seemed to know their work, moving as steadily and methodically as bees tending to a garden. "Do not lose heart yet good Warden, the Huntress is made of sterner stuff than steel; I can see a shadow of what has hurt her so, but she will outgrow it soon enough. Do not fear. I only fear for the ones who did this to her, but let her live."
The Door Wardens' eyes widened, and he made a last warding sign and excused himself.
Quagen saw to Marillies' comfort, such as he was able, and moved to the chest upon his mantle-piece; digging what few coins he would accept from the Duke, and such as he had not already given away. He opened the door and rang a bell. A page dashed eagerly to the sound. "Ah, Burtel, my dear boy! My! He exclaimed with a hint of pride and delight in his voice. "Your generation grows so quickly! What on earth are your good mothers feeding you?" The old adviser and magician roughed the pages hair with a wink. "Now, be a gem, and have a cart made ready for my departure immediately to Anan Dae. A fast one, mind, my boy, with a full guard I should add. This is the coin you'll need for the deposits. So there you are, off with you, as fast as can be managed." Quagen wrote the few important letters, such as would need to be left; and he wrote them with care, and with a kind of sadness, mixed with content, and a great part of duty. He mused over his old foe while he did this, wondering how he had missed the signs, and if he could catch the younger wizard in time to prevent old mistakes being made over again. He found himself staring, long and calmly at the Huntress as he did so, and felt a small kindling of hope.

A dark and brooding frost-fog hung low over the black, twisted tree-roots that Aneirin scrambled over, slipping and sliding through the grey half-light that dappled through the trees. Searching for a place to rest for the night, he dug around under the bushes and roots that hugged the mossy ground, hoping to find some modicum of protection underneath their wiry branches. A single star winked at his struggles through the branches, before disappearing again into the mist.

A cutting wind began to pick up, casting black leaves into the air around him and forming a miniature storm of whispered half-formed words, the cold knifing through his cloak as he crouched low, foraging once more through the dense undergrowth. “It seems like we are out of luck tonight,” he muttered to himself and whatever small animal may be listening to his thoughts. Straightening, he pulled the cloak tighter around himself, shivering slightly. There was something menacing about this wind, bringing as it did a cooler chill to the previously warm evening, something speaking of evil acts in far-off lands. “A premonition?” He almost wondered aloud, “or whispers of something past?” He shook himself with a wry smile, and began walking on, stumbling once again over the branches, “or have I just been too long without company, that I invent words for the wind to whisper in my ear, that I may have company.” This last was said with his own voice, out loud for the world to hear.

A few more moments passed in silence, with Aneirin accompanied only by the harsh flickering of the winds, when suddenly a raw cawing pierced the air. Aneirin halted, and looked up slowly. It took an instant for his eyes to pick out what creature had made the sound, but he soon saw a sleek raven; black on black, perched calmly atop a low branch. Its feathers were unruffled by the winds and as Aneirin stepped forwards, it twisted its head to look down at him, beady eyes peering closely at his large figure. His mother had always told him to beware the ravens -the trickster birds who would omen nought but strife for whoever they had the fortune of seeing. It foretold the coming of bloodshed or some great battle, and still had some remnants of that meaning in his mind. His father, however, had told him secretly of the tales of the world where the raven was the harbinger of knowledge. He remembered the stories of the raven as the bearer of news, and the bringer of secrets, and this was the image that stuck with him the most, far more than his mother’s doom-laden tidings of destruction.

“Good evening,” he said, his words whipped up and away by the wind, “what news do you have for me tonight, Bran?” The bird tipped its head again, and cawed raucously. The wind picked up suddenly, whipping Aneirin’s cloak around his ankles, but the bird still sat its post, feathers not moving an inch. A shiver ran down Aneirin’s spine, as he could swear that he heard the wind murmuring words into his ears with the seductive tone of a new lover. “Aneirin Ture, priest of our Lord,” he heard, the voice crackling gently, though not harshly, as he lost himself in the stare of the bird, “there is still much for you to learn.” Its eyes yawned like black pits, and that was all he could see, “come, there is a need.” He saw truth fizzing there, with the harsh flame of illumination, “come to Anan Dae. Seek out the one called Kalin. Aid him, and through those deeds will come knowledge.” One brief flash, and the bird called shrilly, once more, before bursting into flight, a single feather falling free of its tail, and drifting down towards the ground, seemingly free of the eddies and storms of the cold wind. Calmly, Aneirin reached out and plucked the feather from mid-air, mind in a trance, and body suddenly free of its earthly constraints. Tucking the feather into his coat, he turned back, and began to walk, following the invisible path to Anan Dae.

***************************************

A few days passed, but soon Aneirin felt himself under the auspicious gaze of the gleaming moon, following a dusty track to a small village. The few men that stood about eyed him suspiciously; a mysterious man from the wild, and one began to approach him, but was warned off by some invisible sense of purpose that he could feel emanating from Aneirin. Still under the spell of the raven, he trudged forward, boots muddy and cloak-hem dusty from the trek here, and pushed open the door of a small inn that marked the wayside of the main entrance to the village - a haven for travellers in from the road, and teamsters ending their journeys. Weaving through the patrons, Aneirin soon discovered the host of the inn, and stated directly, “where is...” his mind staggered, trying to recall the almost dream-message of the raven and the winds, “where is Kalin?” The innkeep opened his mouth and muttered, “My apologies, traveller, but there is no Kalin here. Now, if you may...” and with that, he brushed past Aneirin and off to some other patrons that needed his attention.

Aneirin frowned. He was certain that this was the place. Something told him that it was. Why was he not here? Aneirin scanned the crowds, and then realised suddenly, it was simply that he had not arrived yet. Exiting the inn again, amidst a group of concerned stares, he stood outside the inn, awaiting the inevitable arrival of this Kalin, whoever he turned out to be.

“Excuse me...” a voice from behind him. Turning, Aneirin layed eyes upon a member of what he could only assume to be a town watch-force, who said, “Would you please allow us to ask a few questions?” Only then did he notice a number of other men behind the first, “I apologise for the shortness, but we find ourselves in a strange situation at the moment, which leads to unwanted necessities.” Aneirin looked over the strangely polite captain, mind racing, and wondering where this would lead.

Kalin slumped into a hard, wooden chair at one of the Inn's unoccupied tables, his legs and back sore to burning from the past days' ride. He had dirt in his teeth, nose, ears, eyes, hair, and even worse, in his books. The sweet, disheveled ferret of a horse he'd ridden for the past two days had been just as tired as he, and was currently being brushed down in the Inn's stable by a young lad who looked like he knew more about horses than Kalin ever had. Kalin's companions, the duke's men, had ridden to the far end of town to be housed in a small barracks set aside for the purpose, that they would not trouble the townsfolk en masse. Kalin imagined that a sizeable group of them would be arriving at the Inn shortly, however, likely preferring the hospitality of the Inn's common room to the fare at the barracks.

"Your order, sir?" came the voice of the Innkeeper, a man of roughly 60 years, friendly and bearded. Kalin smiled tiredly at the man, and sat up in his chair. "Whatever's good, and hot. And a mug of water with that, please." The man nodded, and headed off to the kitchen.

Kalin sighed, and stared nonfixedly at the far side of the room. As he had many times over the past few days, he allowed his mind to linger upon the events that had passed, and the puzzle that lay before him. His thoughts searched the library of information stored within his mind for possible answers, and in two days of quiet introspection he had gradually filed away various possibilities or helpful facts as he had recalled them. He knew, however, that what he needed was more information, and that there simply weren't enough pieces to form a coherent picture.

A plate of steaming venison stew was placed before Kalin, with a generous chunk of bread and a chilled mug of water. His mouth watered, and suddenly the pangs of his stomach overruled the ramblings of his mind as he was reminded of how hungry he was. Kalin passed the innkeeper several coins to pay for the meal, and took an eager mouthful of stew. "Do you have any rooms available for the night?" he asked, before he took his first bite.

"Aye sir," replied the innkeeper, who was wiping his hands on a towel that hung from his belt. "We've several. Will you be wanting one?"

"Please," said Kalin, digging into his pocket for additional coin, and passing it to the innkeeper.

"The third room on the left is open," said the innkeeper. "I'll send up fresh linens and some hot water. Let me know if you'll be needing anything else."

"Thank you," said Kalin, as the man walked away.

He dug into his stew heartily, burning his tongue on the hot meat and letting the slow-cooked vegetables melt away in his mouth. In between bites, as he was wetting his throat with a swallow of water, Kalin's eyes were drawn from his table to a sleek, lithe form that passed not inches from his table, and headed away to the other side of the room. The raven-haired girl had beautiful brown skin, with long, shining legs, a limber body, and hips that swayed to a music Kalin thought only he could hear. She sat down at a table with a group of merchants, sparing Kalin's stare a brief amused acknowledgment, and turned her head away to enjoy her meal. Upon her back, just above the dip of the wide-necked blouse upon her shoulder, Kalin spied a small tattoo of a crescent moon.

Kalin then realized he was staring, and schooled himself. He turned back to his dinner, eating methodically, but spared the inquisitively beautiful girl an occasional glance. She ignored him completely, and so Kalin found himself irresistibly intrigued, and admiring the parts of her he could see from her back: the line of her neck, the sheen of her hair, and the curve of her waist. He was so enthralled that his soup was cold by the time he finished eating, and he didn't notice when a rather commanding presence appeared at the side of his table, its shadow blocking the light from the lanterns on the walls.

"Master Kalin?" asked a hoarse and resonant voice, rather loudly.

"Hmm?" said Kalin, half-attentively. He looked up to find a rather large, uniformed soldier standing beside his table, looking down at him. "Oh," he said. "....Oh! Yes. That is, just Kalin." Kalin stood, awkwardly, feeling odd and caught off-balance by the unexpected visit. He straightened his robes, wiping bread crumbs from their folds, and finally looked the man in the eye. "Did you need something?"

The man's left eyebrow raised slightly, in dubious approximation of the fumbling wizard, and Kalin mentally scolded himself for behaving so clumsily. "I am lieutenant Taylor, sir," the soldier finally said. "Lord Kurt has asked me to fetch you. It seems the wagoners who've been detained are rather anxious to return to their families, and he hoped you'd have the time to begin interviewing them this evening so that those who are free of suspicion might be released."

"Ah," said Kalin, crestfallen. "Yes. I suppose I could do that." He sighed, giving up any thought of an early turn-in, or of his fingers playfully caressing the soft, dark skin of the slender pair of hips that was sitting just across the room. Habitually, he checked his pocket for his spectacles, and purse, and other small trinkets, and looked at the lieutenant, whose name he found he'd already forgotten. "Right then. Um, shall we?"

The lieutenant nodded, and led the way out the door.

Four hours later Kalin stumbled back through the doorway of the Inn, no closer to solving the puzzle than he had been when he arrived and very much exhausted. He'd spoken with three of the detainees, the others having been kind enough to agree to wait until the morning, and had learned nothing. Well, nothing was not entirely true, one farmer had been particularly knowledgeable about the growing of corn, and one of the wagoners about cards and about the shadier areas of the duke's city, where such games and interesting characters could be found. Kalin had spoken with each at length, gaining a measure of their character and impressions of any magical imprint or spells left upon them. He had gleaned little, and it seemed as though their memories had indeed simply been taken, with nothing else missing, leaving them as themselves and returning them to the growing of corn and the driving of wagons. He'd advised the young lord to release them, and had promised to finish the rest of the interviews on the morrow.

The common room was now bustling with a lively crowd of townsfolk and soldiers, and music and laughter filled the warm and glowing hall. Kalin winced at the affront of light and sound upon his senses, and though it was still early in the night by anyone's measure made his way wearily to the stairs to locate his bed. He ascended into the welcome darkness of the second floor, where the sounds from below were muffled and the air was cool and quiet. But before his eyes could adjust to the light, he bumped into someone he had not expected to encounter.... quite literally.

"Sorry, sorry...." Kalin said, helping the person he'd collided with steady themselves. He found his hands resting upon a rather attractive pair of shoulders, upon which sat the head of a familiar raven-haired woman. His hands were reluctant to let go. He found himself staring at her blankly, intoxicated; his mouth hanging open.

The woman smiled, seeming to look at him appraisingly and approvingly. "Weren't you in the common room earlier?" she asked, looking not at all uncomfortable at the fact that his hands remained upon her shoulders.

"Erm... I suppose so," he stuttered.

"I thought so. I wouldn't forget a handsome face." She smiled, and stepped a little closer. There seemed to be a connection between them; an intimacy of the moment that both of them shared, and Kalin, recognizing the woman's intentions, applied a gentle pressure on her back as he leaned in to kiss her, lustfully. She responded with more aggression than he hadn't anticipated, but he drank her in, a pleasant feeling in his loins starting to stir.

"Which room is yours?" she asked, several minutes later.

"Um, third on the left, I think."

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Kalin awoke the following morning to the sounds of loud rustlings downstairs, and the bright rays of the mid-morning sun shining piercingly through his window. He found that he was still quite exhausted, but smiled contentedly as he stretched his arms and legs. The ministrations of the supple young woman with whom he had spent the night had lessened the soreness of his muscles greatly.

......Well, most of his muscles.

The woman had vanished, likely gone at dawn's light with whatever merchants she'd been traveling with. Kalin brushed off the encounter for what it was; a passing of spirits in the night, a momentary gravity that grew strong with proximity, and weak with distance. He rose methodically, and set to washing himself before donning a fresh pair of robes from his saddlebags.

Whistling a contented tune, Kalin emerged from his room and headed down the stairs into the common room. His good mood was instantly darkened by the presence of several figures in the doorway, their manners sombre and irritable, and providing a dark reminder of the reason for his presence in the village. Shifting uneasily, Kalin felt somewhat guilty for his tarrying, but took care to approach the awaiting soldiers with a confident presence that reflected the depth of his inner wisdom, and power.

It was completely ruined by a loud, long growl from his stomach. Kalin ignored the sound, consciously subduing a wince, and maintained his demeanor. "Well, gentlemen, shall we continue? I should like to finish this task before midday, and then speak with Lord Kurt."

"Sir," the lieutenant interrupted, his manner only a little impressed by Kalin's efforts. "A man came to the village last night, seeking you. Lord Kurt has asked my officers to speak with all travelers who pass through the town, in search of information, and we intercepted him before he could find you."

"Oh," said Kalin, bending his head to the side in a thoughtful manner, and scratching his hair. "Who was he?"

"A man named Aneirin Ture. You had turned in by the time we finished our conversation, so we suggested he speak with you in the morning."

"Ah," said Kalin, wondering at the importance of this. He searched the tome within his mind for reference to the man, but could fine none. "What did he look like?"

The lieutenant shrugged. "Average build. Brown hair. A cleric of some sort, I believe."

Kalin considered this. He knew many clerics, but none he could recall met the lieutenant's description. "Bring him to me after I speak with the remaining wagoners, if you would."

"Yes, sir."

They left the Inn, and Kalin led the way to the small house where the remaining wagoners were being held. They were eagerly awaiting his visit, having already bathed and eaten, and were eager to get the process over with that they might resume their jobs. Kalin did not let their hurry affect him, and asked his questions slowly, speaking with each about their lives, and expertise, and about what they remembered, felt, and dreamed after the events that had befallen them. The interviews gleaned no more information than the ones of the night before, and Kalin advised that the men be released.

Midday was approaching when Kalin emerged from the house, and he walked purposefully to the other end of town, where he was given passage into the village's small stronghold beside the river. He was shown into a quiet room with a table, upon which was laid a generous lunch, and told that he had visitors who would see him shortly. Kalin settled down to eat, and think, until they arrived.

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With scarcely a tap of his goad the teams-man bid the carriage to motion into the deeping darks of the night, his voice lending unity and direction to the matched horses as much as the tack, and the sparingly used goad. Willingly the horses leant against their yokes leaving a spectral trail of breathed steam in their wake, the dwinmmerlaik lights of the dim lanterns winking and swaying with the motion of the well oiled suspenders. Thusly, with little more than a rumour of well-shod hooves on the packed-clay road Quagens carriage made good speed along the road to Anan Dae. Through the genuine glass-paned window he looked out upon the scythe-bright sliver of the moon with brows knitted together, trying to delve into the shadowed halls of his memory; trying to separate that which he wished to recall, and how he longed to recall it -from what had truly happened, and what part they had all played in the days of his youth. With a frown he turned to the young huntress, then the world seemed to explode.
As the carriage approached -out of the darkness the root-golem lithely swirled and slithered to intercept it. Somewhere in form between a land-based octopus and an extremely whiskery and bearded otter-thing, the clone of Marillies' root-golem, Corulain, reached up a tendril and let the forward motion of the carriage slingshot her up, and high onto the side of the vehicle. Transferring her bulk through the hairs-breadth gap between the door Corulain shook herself, and launched at her Mistress. In an instant they were joined, and bonded.
Quagen barely had time to exclaim in surprise before the seemingly frail Huntress launched herself at him with a snarl -her previously downy-leather clad form now horned and armoured as if with plates of stone. Thorny lashes like liquid-stone tentacles tore the door from the carriage, firing like a harpoon into the nearest pine. The carriage groaned for a time, with a scream of horses, and tore into pieces. The teamsman nailed to the ground by another horned lash, the horses being systematically garotted with lashes tipped with razor-like knives. In the midst of the maelstrom of the baleful lashes the grim silhouette of the Huntress reared up, dark and terrible.
Once the terrible instant had passed, Quagen stared down at the two harpoon-like lashes of the Huntresses armour, which pierced him beneath each shoulder. He coughed weakly, with a gout of blood, and winced and quailed before the onslaught of the Huntress' breath-sense, as she dragged out of him the fullness of his memory, forcing him to recall in bitter clarity all that he had sought to bury deep beneath years of denial and self-justification. He found no quarter in those feral eyes; but neither did he see evil, nor the desire for revenge. He weakly sobbed at the last, and if he had possessed enough breath he might have spent it on an apology, or a prayer for his doomed soul. But a lash had twined about his neck, and with an unflinching twist of the grim tentacle, Quagen knew no more.
Out of the dark the two other living clones returned to their mistress, their chittering a harsh grating sound, as of stones ground against each other in a mighty hand. Marillie petted them idly, staring with unseeing eyes at the carnage of her blind fury. In her mind Marillie perceived the clouded and corrupted recollections of the old mage -her wrath had shorn aside all attachment or bonds of friendship to Quagen. She looked at his corpse with no more emotion that as if it was a fallen branch, perceiving the sense of hope that the old one had held in regard for a younger wizard, she strained to clarify the mixed images of the breath-sense to achieve a name: Kalin. Marillie scowled, wondering what real use the old man had for a younger wizard: Quagen had been questing to go to Kalin... She had an idea of what had come to pass, and what was beginning anew; and she had perceived certain spells and words which meant nothing to her, and had no power in her hands; but she had no need for them. Marillie would take care of things her way. Reflecting the wrath of their Mistress, the golem-clones growled in their stoney voices, and in a flash the Huntress had vanished.

Such was the extent of her wrath, and manna renewed -Marillie paused where upon the saddle of a low hill where she could see the lights of Anan Dae winking upon the horizon. Already the clones of Corulain, the Corulainnath, had renewed their full count, and they bristled and snarled at her ankles, nipping at each other in their agitation and excitement. Marillie delved her will into the ground beneath her, where of old an ancient cedar had grown, and into the ancient root-stock, which had withstood the ravages of time, an animating Will was passed. Before the huntress, a lean and perilous shadow before the sliver if the moon, the earth shifted as if tormented, and a queer eldritch noise emanated from beneath the soil. Then a great paw tore free of the earth, and with a moan, and a great heave, a vast jowled muzzle of ancient timbers turned to life. The Hound-wood-golem wrenched itself;f clear of the dirt and shook itself, standing at the shoulders as tall as Marillie herself, and it dropped down its great head to share breath with its' Mistress, and passing into its body and being, the Huntress breath quickened the great Hound terribly, and she lithely sat astride the great shoulders, and with a cry as of many horns, the Hound sprang away and Marillie heard nothing but the shrill wind in her ears, and thought of nothing but the dark resolve in her heart. So it was almost in an instant the might Hound bounded into the circles of the village, and with a mighty leap, even onto the high roof of the Great Hall of Ana Dae. And there, looming upon the high gable, the Great Hound, with the Huntress astride, looked down, and the Corulainnath passed down into the shadows, searching, sneaking, sniffing.
Thusly Marillie singled out the wagoners, one by one, until she had dealt with them to the last. A grim shadow, the Hound moved, and the last wagoner -a hunter born and raised- flinched, and looked up at the rooves of the Great Hall, where he thought he had seen a nightmare silhouette. In his ears his heart drummed, as he looked about himself; but he did not see the harpoon-lashes until they pinned him to the side of a barn, and a trim, but terrible shape reared before him.
"Look at me!" She demanded, yanking the mans' fringe, to wrench his face up from where he gaped at the twin harpoon-lashes protruding from his chest. "Take a deep breath." Shaking her head in rage and disgust she left the coward pinned to the wall, just like the others. Stopping to paint the rune for Blood-Traiter above him in his own blood.

Kalin worked beneath the dim light of the waning moon, his glasses set upon his nose as he examined the last of the murdered wagoners. The man's body had been pinned to the outer wall of Anan Dae's great hall, his blood freshly pooling beneath him in a thick pool of vermillion, so fresh and wet that it reflected the slim silver crescent of the moon. The dead man’s eyes were open in terror and white in death. His skin was pale; the killer had left him to bleed, remorseless, and it had likely been at least twenty minutes before the fellow had exanguinated and died.

"This one is less progressed than the others," observed Kalin, to no one in particular. The only people nearby were the duke's guards, who surrounded the street, as the public had been confined to their homes by Lord Kurt's order. Kalin's unheard phrase referred to the state of the corpse, which was in the process of assuming an advanced rate of decay. The other wagoners already appeared as though they had been dead for several days, and this one was approaching that state rapidly. The liquid blood beneath the body thickened and dried in mere minutes as Kalin watched, until but a powder remained to be swept away by a midnight breeze. The skin around the dead man’s face became shriveled and rotted, coming loose from the bones and sagging from the points where the harpoons pinned the body to the wall. Kalin averted his eyes, having detected no magic upon any of the victims he could only conclude that the harpoons were the cause of death, and the magic spell that was now fading from the rotting corpses had been set upon them long ago.

The sound of horses arose nearby, approaching the guarded street at a brisk trot. Moments later the duke's son dismounted, and after handing his horse’s reins to a guard strode to Kalin and the decaying corpse. He looked upon the dead body with the uneasy expression of a youth, and Kalin observed that the duke’s son sagely chose to focus his attention on conversation in an attempt to distract his mind from the gore and smell that lay before him. "What does this mean, Kalin? Are the townspeople at risk?"

Kalin half-smiled, thoughtfully, admiring the priorities the youth valued, as taught by his father. At length, he answered. "It means I was wrong," he replied, almost absentmindedly, as his eyes continued to search the corpse and bloody message for the tiniest detail or clue that might lead him to the source of the mystery. "These men were under a spell I could not detect. Their bodies were but puppets, controlled by dark magic, and sent here for a reason. The assassin seems to have known this, or guessed it, and taken matters into their own hands."

The young Lord's eyes narrowed. "Leaving the mark for 'blood traitor' hardly suggests that the killer knew they were corpses. If what you say is true, these men betrayed no one, and the killer tracked them down because they suspected they were allied with the true murderers."

Kalin considered Lord Kurt’s words for a moment. "That possibility seems likely," he said. "Though there are other explanations. For example, these men may have been allied with their killers, and betrayed to their own deaths.”

The duke’s son nodded, humbly, accepting Kalin’s implication that there may be more to the killer’s story than they could discern from the evidence available. “I want this assassin found, Kalin,” he said. “Whether he is protecting the people or exacting revenge, such killings cannot be allowed to go on unchecked. A person with these... violent abilities, cannot dispense such justice on their own.”

“I agree,” said Kalin. “Unfortunately, my lord, I can find no clues here that will help us. The killer has left nothing behind that I can use to find him, and no clues as to his purpose.”

Lord Kurt seemed strangely pensive, as though he knew something more, but was hesitant, or uncertain, to divulge it. Looking around he seemed to seek a place where they could speak unheard, and with a gesture of his hand he motioned to Kalin to follow him to an emptier area of the open street. “Walk with me, Kalin.”

After they had put some distance between themselves and the nearest guards, Lord Kurt leaned in to speak to Kalin in a soft whisper. "I have another piece of news," he said, clearly unsettled by the string of events that was unfolding. The young lord's eyes grew sad and distant for a moment, as he seemed to recall some faded memory. "Master Quagen left my father's house yesterday morning to journey here, seeking us. His carriage was found on the road not far from here, and he dead beside it."

Kalin's brows knit in deep concern, and a shadow crossed his face. With the wagoners and Quagen dead, who else's life might be in danger? Lord Kurt’s, or his father’s? Kalin himself? "It would be best if we were cautious," he said, thinking out loud. "I worry for my Lord's safety. We should return to the barracks, and let others finish here. I advise the remains of the corpses be burned, my Lord. Fire cleanses dark magic, and if any spell remains upon the bodies it is evident that I am unable to detect it.”

By now they had traversed the length of the street, and Kalin’s last words had been spoken as they approached the soldier who held Lord Kurt’s horse. The youth took the reins from the soldier, and nodded that he should do as Kalin said. "See that this is done."

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Smoke from a large bonfire curled upwards into the sky as the five corpses were piled and burned at the northern edge of town. A lone rider sat atop a hill overlooking the village, the shadow of his outline invisible against the clouded sky as the moon dipped low above the mountains in the distance. He watched, cloaked and hooded, as a group of men gathered at the entrance to the duke's small stronghold. The duke's son stepped forward to speak with a tall, robed figure, who carried a stack of books and walked with the demeanor of a scholar. They spoke together for several moments, and then the tall man mounted his horse and headed away to the east.

The illusion slowly disappeared into the distance, magically borne to continue its journey until the spell had run its course. Daivin turned his borrowed mount to the southwest, riding by starlight along farmer's fields and game trails until he reached the main road, miles distant from the city. Here the path was clear and the ground steady, so he let his mount extend into a gentle lope.

It wasn't long before Daivin reached the wreckage of the carriage. There was a small camp at the side of the road, and several of the duke’s soldiers were keeping watch by the light of a campfire. Three figures lay on the ground covered in cloth not far away, and notably downwind, but the stench of the rotting horses reached even Daivin's nose as he approached at a walk.

The men stood, saluting, recognizing Daivin's uniform as that of a captain in the duke's army. Daivin returned their salute and dismounted, allowing his horse to graze. He found himself emulating the duke and his son, exchanging greetings with the soldiers and inquiring as to their welfare, before asking to see the dead and the scene of the demolished carriage.

Daivin enlisted the help of the guards, and the four soldiers spent half an hour searching the wreckage of the carriage before he found what he was looking for. What the assassin had not left behind at the scenes of the other brutal murders, he had left behind here. Daivin clasped a long, single strand of dark brown hair in his left hand, and twined it around his fist as if it were a precious chain of gold. For all its simple smallness, the fine hair reflected starlight as a mirror, its ends falling softly and delicately upon Daivin's callused fingers.

Daivin closed his eyes, concentrating on the object in his hand and allowing his mind to drift, following the faint gravitational pull between the object and its owner. He saw rolling hills, and the endless grasslands, moving swiftly as though the person he was seeking was traveling at a fast pace away from the village. Daivin noted the angle of the moon, and the constellations, and judged that his quarry was headed southwest several hours' ride ahead of him.

He quickly parted with the guards, and remounted his horse, heading south again along the road until he'd achieved an ample distance from the soldiers' camp. He then directed his horse off of the road and across the countryside, in the direction the assassin was fleeing.

The night passed slowly, and painfully for Daivin, who wasn't used to riding. His horse made good time, but still they lost ground on their quarry. The assassin had some incredible ability to move at speed in the wilderness, and Daivin could not hope to match him in his pursuit. The hours wore on, and the sky grew bright in the east, until the first rays of sun appeared over the horizon. Daivin pulled the strand of hair from his pockets and checked the location of his quarry. It seemed he had finally stopped to rest now that dawn had arrived, and was settling himself in a sheltered glade beside a river. Daivin, however, was now at least four hours behind, and despite his exhaustion forced himself to continue riding.

It was midday before he reached the place he had seen in his scrying, where the assassin hid himself amongst the rocks and trees. Daivin kept cautiously at a distance, for he knew his quarry was close, and dangerous, and did not care to provoke him. Instead he dismounted and waited, patient as a stone by the smooth-flowing river, hoping the assassin would be amenable to talking rather than to fighting.

The Huntress dozed. Stationed all around her, the clones of Corulain prowled and lurked, keeping to the shadows, occasionally twitching and snarling as the unrestful dreams of their Mistress was relayed to them. Their previously whiskery, almost otter-like forms slowly metamorphosing to reflect the darkness that still roiled inside. They now increasingly seemed a writhing mass of restless roots, worm-like and wet, as if excreting a dark sweat -incessantly licking and touching themselves.
Though she trusted the Corulain were guarding, Marillie perceived the approach of a rider. Even through her sleep, the earth-rumour came to her ear, and in her mind a blurred image of the rider formed. blurred... she murmured, one of the loathsome Corulain coming to her hand, which she idly petted, oblivious to the sticking mucus that coated her hand. At times she could perceive almost as well as if seeing with her own eyes those creatures the earth-rumour revealed, but not this one.
As she mused dourly, Marillies hand strayed to the Corulains' head, and what had never happened before came to pass. The Corulain -half mad as it was with the dark magic- struck out with a vine-leaf tipped lash, and cut a wide gash into Marillies face.
Instantly the Huntress reacted, and before even the wily Corulain could react, her long knife had pierced it, and driving the knife into the log of wood upon the fire, Marillie watched as the Corulain flailed and wrenched at itself, trying to tear free of the knife before the flames consumed it. One by one the root-golems tentacle-like limbs blackened and charred. And when this was done, Marillie felt a moment of clarity. As if a small amount of the darkness was lifted. And in that moment, she knew what she must do.
Summoning the extent of her Will, Marillie summoned all of the Corulain to her, and she fought and she struggled, and her wounds were many and grievous, but at length she held the last of the root-golems in the core of the fire, pinning it down with her own hand, as it died, and she screamed.

A dark time took her then, which might have been only instants, or a lifetime. But in her ear again was the rumour of someone moving nearby. She shook er head, perceiving through the earth-rumour that this Being was both seen, and unseen. Ragged as her nerves, and expended as her manna was, Marillie summoned to her what form of Wood-golem she could manage. A gangrel-creature, animated out of the half-rotten timber of a fallen tree near the water. By her Will it prowled out, to sneak upon the Being from behind. With her hideously burned hand Marillie unwittingly reached for her knife -stifling a scream of agony- before she worked it free of the log with her spare hand. Behind a rock she waited, coiled to strike, taking fallen leaves in her hand one by one, and enchanting them into bandages.
With the easy steps of a seasoned warrior -not light enough to be a hunter- the Being eased into sight; and Marillie knew a moments doubt. He did not look evil. That she deemed from the faint only half-captured scent of his breath.
She may have broken free of the Darkness by burning the Corulain one by one, but she was still half-crazed, and on the edge of panic. And then, what had also never come to pass until that day indeed happened. Marillie hesitated, and suddenly she was weeping. Copiously and with an utterly broken heart, for she beheld herself, and she saw that the last shreds of her Liradan Leathers hung off her body -poisoned by the evil taint of the dark magic, and her possessed actions. The gangrel wood-golem -mid leap toward the warriors throat- collapsed back into its inanimate state.
She stood, slowly, and tore the last shred of the leathers from her body, and taking her knife, she lifted it to her face, and hacked and hacked at her hair until it was less than a fingers width long. Slowly she sank to her knees, dropping the knife, and howled.

Daivin's horse spooked, for the beast's senses detected the presence of the approaching predator wood-golem. Daivin turned to calm the animal and saw, too late, the gangrel beast leaping for his throat. No escape was possible, and Daivin could do nothing but hold up his arms in reflexive self-protection and shrink back from the attack of the creature. As he closed his eyes and stilled himself for the painful impact of the beast's teeth and claws a strange, small breeze blew past him, and when the moment his life should have ended had passed, he looked to see the beast crumbling to the ground in bits of rotted timber.

He stood still, then, staring in a mix of shock and wonder at this creature that had nearly ended his life, but was yet so feeble in its components that it seemed impossible for it to have possessed such strength and fury. What magic was this, that had animated the creature? In all his life he had never seen such an accomplishment.

A movement then drew his eyes, and he turned to see a woman, previously hidden, stand from behind the nearby rocks. Her face bore the look of strife and suffering, and her movements were unsteady, as if some torment still afflicted her. As he watched she drew her knife, and for a moment he thought he might intend to do herself harm, but instead she tore at the leathers that covered her body, and then at the hair upon her head. He felt estranged from the scene before him; as this wild, primitive emotion displayed itself before him, something that only a true creature of nature could feel. The woman sank to her knees and howled, by what instinct he could not say. He learned that she was beautiful, no matter her rage and ruined hair, and that her beauty concealed an untamed pain and darkness that he could not hope to comprehend.

Daivin remained still for several minutes, allowing the woman some time and freedom of space. He sensed that, as with a wounded animal, it would be dangerous for him to approach too quickly, but if he allowed her to adjust to his presence, and kept his calm, then she would be less likely to view him as a threat. The question he posed to himself in the meantime was, however, what should he do?

Should he try to capture her, in her weakened state? The duke saw her as a threat; and indeed, she had taken justice into her own hands, and murdered many. But what was her side of the story? What darkness caused such suffering within her? What, if anything, did she know of the evil that walked these lands? And was it safe even to ask, or would she commit murder again at the first opportunity, remorseless, and bound by her own idea of justice?

He dropped the horse's reins, allowing it to graze, and walked toward the woman, who remained still. Shreds of leather and tufts of hair surrounded her in a strangely patterned circle, as if a tree had dropped the leaves from its branches. He squatted an arm's length away, and stared at a fistful of hair that lay upon the ground. Tenderly, he reached forward and lifted them up, allowing them to reflect the light of the sun. With his other hand he withdrew the strand of hair from his pocket, and held it out to compare. Fine and perfect, with the same sheen of light reflecting in the sun's rays. They were the same.

Daivin sighed, allowing the hair in his fist to fall back to the ground, but tucking the strand he'd found in the carriage back in his pocket. He then approached the girl, carefully and softly, with no hint of fear or hesitation in his movements. Slowly he placed his coat around her shoulders, tucking the folds around her on either side. He gently helped her stand, and guided her back to her small camp among the rocks.

There he let her sit, and placed himself across from her. He began to make a fire, and after retrieving his things from his horse's saddlebags cooked them both a hearty meal, humming while he worked.