The Het Land Journals of the Tinker from Hardfist down.
By
Virgil England
Copyright 1999
Three Nights at the Sparrow Inn.
The First Night
He walked in rain lashed darkness. Water cascaded around him in the midst of buffeting gusts of wind. Rolls of thunder, and stabs of lightning left his ears ringing, and his eyes with visions of white fire tearing into the darkness.
The brief flashes illuminated a steep track down the pitch of black basalt, the two meter wide trail was stair stepped into the stone surface.
A canopy of tenaciously rooted trees leaned out from the steep buttress of the mountain, their wildly flailing limbs spreading a thin carpet of flowers onto the path. The fragrance laden torrent hurled down the hewn way, and at the first turning launched into black space. The lightning in the night illuminated red and white blossoms suspended in air. The waters turned to mist as they plunged over the precipice.
Far below the winds hammered against the large slate roof tiles covering the heads of a small villages population. Blasting winds, and pouring rain, tore at the buildings stacked one on top of the other along the steep side of the mountain.
The inhabitants stuck to their hearths. A single storm lantern swung on both ends of the trail that entered and exited the narrow building packed route. The lamps were lashed to prevent their rawhide covers from acting as sails, and spiriting the signals off into the netherworld, leaving any travelers beaconless. On this night any unfortunate sojourner would have to be within a few paces to see the illumination of the oil flame. Each passing drop of rain soaked up the yellow glow, and carried it away piece by piece into the darkness.
Above them clouds were anchored by fury to the mountains flanks, where flames leaped to blast rocky spires to oblivion, where no light of lantern was to be seen, was such a traveler.
The water left the trail in a calf deep torrent where it crested slightly to clear and eon old rock fall of huge proportions. It looked like a bundle of stone spears driven into the ground, their crumbling shafts still leaning against the mountain’s side. Three hunched forms waited on the lowest of these. Aged crumbling stone had left a sizeable platform several meters above the trail. The trio sat shoulder to shoulder, heads lowered, watching the path below.
A figure had for a few moments, cleared the grasp of the water, and was only a few steps away from the observers, when the sky lit up. It immediately stopped, head cocked back and took in the three on the shelf. He stood there in the downpour, face obscured under the brim of a misshapen felt hat. A bag was slung by its strap over a dark brown oil cloth slicker that drug the ground.
The night stuttered with thunder and was lit by blasts of fire. One of the creatures on the ledge leaped to the path. The other two followed immediately. Ranging themselves
in front of the unmoving traveler they crouched shoulder to shoulder. Their ivoried beaks worked frantically, sounding like a gravel tuning fork. Crystal green eyes flashed like faceted stones in the intermittent flashes, as the three worked themselves into a frenzied state. Their bristle tufted countenances seemed to focus at the same time. The central figure stepped forward, and with a liquid motion of fur covered arm and black talons flipped the dripping hat onto the ground, revealing the face that had been concealed by the sodden rim.
His eyes were orbs of pulsating emerald, glowing in deep sockets, surrounded by bony ridges covered with tufts of coarse hair. The beak protruded in place of canines and frontal incisors, secondary tusks appeared to either side behind the darkly stained snout. The three stared intently, then the center one again extended its arm, this time slowly. It carefully touched the glyph tattooed on the exposed right cheek of the still unmoving figure.
Rain pounded down on the four standing in the trail. The faint ringing of harness bells could be heard on the wind. The three turned as one, looking up the trail in the darkness. They pivoted back, each extending a tri-clawed forehand to tap the lone traveler on the snout before bounding as one up the stone face into the night. The figure went to where the hat had been caught by a thorn bush, picked it up and replaced it firmly, snugging the chinstraps bone slide.
Moments later a small ponie’s ghostly form came into view, its harness supporting a tassel of white horse hair between ears that were cocked fore and aft. It was the lead animal of a tradesman’s caravan. The bells suspended from the hackamore tinkled as the wiry animal carefully picked its way down the path. Others appeared as the first went out of sight, each following the one ahead by only a few feet in the darkness. The hatted creature turned its gaze down the trail, following the caravan’s progress over the rain slick stone. Finally, shrugging the shoulder bag to a more comfortable position the diminutive figure followed after the first few heavily laden animals in the line, its rolling gait like a sailor’s on dry land.
The sound carried on the wind, a sing-song yodel that carried to the ears of the lead pony. The tired animals listening, they made their way in the night down the hazardous trail, the ancient litanies coaxing and cajoling them to make no missteps as they descended down from the pass.
The first of the pack animals reached the entry into the mountain side village . The short hatted figure grasped the lead animal by its harness and turned into the steep pitched ramp to the only Inn in the village’s stable yard.
(Because THE SPARROW’ S NEST was built on such a steep incline the Inn’s yard was stair stepped down for several levels with narrow cobbled ramps tying everything together. Each level had covered stalls along the perimeter wall where packs could be stacked and lashed out of the weather, while animals were taken in under the floor of the Inn through a squat tunnel located on the third, and lowest, level. The main building was two stories of stacked stone with the inn’s topmost floor being at trail level. For the warm months the mules and horses were kept out on the terraces, but in the colder ones a group of large bodies put off a lot of warmth, and were an integral part of the SPARROW’s heating system. Wood to burn for fuel was always at a premium in the high mountain regions. Heat scavenged from the bodies of the Inn’s guests, or from the burning of their livestock’s dried wastes augmented the coal and wood burned on the hearths. The village shit gatherer was a common sight. Strolling along the trail, basket perched on high, a dip of the knee and a quick flip of the wrist would see either “cow pie” or “road apple” backhanded into the waiting wicker.)
While the drover brought the last of the train past the village lamp his companion was already busy offloading packs and storing them out of the weather. As each was unloaded one of the stable boys would lead the horse off into the warmth of the Inn’s cavernous underside. No one came close to the slouch hatted figure silently heaving the bulky packs into place and tying them down. The slicker was hung with the shoulder bag from a shed beam. Muscles could be seen bunching under a threadbare jacket while bags of millet and rice flew to their places. The creature moved in a near blur of speed, paying no attention to the children staring from behind one of the water troughs.
The small caravans master at last stepped through the narrow entry into the Inn’s yard. A stableman had the gate nearly bolted before he heard the drover say there was still someone coming. The man hesitated before reopening the portal.
“Shantu” the drover said.
The balding yardman quickly threw the gate back on its hinges. Grabbing a lantern, he stepped through into the narrow cobbled trail. Holding the light high he could see a lone horse and figure approaching. Everything on the horse was covered, with only the fore shaft of a broad bladed lance showing as it canted out past dripping ears.
The Inn’s man hurried forward to take the lead of the animal, standing aside and allowing the cowled person to precede him, then following a few steps behind.
Closing the gate for the night he went down the wet ramps, following the horse’s master through the stone tunnel, and into the basement stable. He put the grey footed horse in the stall by the stairs, nearest to the Inn’s kitchen and bath house. The man stood by fidgeting with his hat now knowing what to do next. He knew enough not to touch anything Shantu but didn’t know if there was something else he should do to “render assistance”. Hearing the voice of the drover behind him he turned.
“Good job there Innsman! I think our friend here, and I, can deal with everything now that you’ve got us inside. It would be taken most kindly if you could step into the kitchen and see if the Missus can put us together a bit to eat. It’s been a few days since we’ve had either decent bed or meal. I’ve already got that boy of yours to fire the bath, so by the time the dirt’s removed we’ll be able to sit down to table!”
Hanson nodded his head to the two travelers, obviously thankful for the release from uncertain duties and started up the steps to the kitchen, He turned at the top step. “What about your Reg? Do you need anythin for him? Last time you passed through a few dogs seemed to vanish into thin air! Most don’t mind him taking the strays but he ain’t always selective!”
“He ate earlier up in the pass. We came across a pack of Harriers. They thought pony would fit into their catering plans. REG fit the whole bunch into his!”
By the time the tall and narrow built drover entered the serving room on the top floor, a large bowl of greens and gravy with crusty bread on the side, was laid out for him on the short counter’s sideboard. He picked them up and went to a low table near the slow burning hearth on the end wall. Moments after he sat down a young girl placed a mug of ale at his elbow.
“Thank you Katie. Looks like you’ve grown a full hand since I last saw you!”
“You say that every time you see me “Tinker” sir. If it were really so, I would be full grown by now, and have a husband like my sister, and be out of this miserable place!”
“Why Katie! I didn’t know you were looking for a husband already. I have just the right man. He has a good size place up on the slope of Stone Mountain. I imagine Rufe can’t be more than forty five or fifty years old. Told me he believed in baths, and that ‘when the right woman came along he’d put aside his solitary ways’. He figures seven or eight kids would be perfect to carry on the family blood line, and just right for running his goat herding operation! You’d be out from under your folks thumb, and somewhere you’d really be appreciated!”
Katie had no time to reply. Her mother in the kitchen below rang the bell to signal food was coming up in the dumb waiter located in the wall behind the counter.
She retrieved the covered tray and skirted around the core of tables in the rooms center. Moving to a corner booth, its front covered with a drape to conceal the occupant, she rang the small bell on the tray. The girl waited and pulled the curtain aside only long enough to deposit the food and quickly withdraw.
The Tinker watched while he slowly chewed the spicy greens. The Shantu had been to the bath house before him and was now sequestered behind the mandatory curtain kept on hand by every Inn for just such occasions. From what he had heard in the stables there was a matter in the village to be settled, a life would be decided. He had no doubt this Shantu would be able to dispense whatever justice was called for.
As the fire in the stone pit burned down to coals, a middle aged merchant sitting with his wife at one of the trestle tables asked. “Is there any truth to tales of Draegon in the North Isles? I certainly hope so because we have been traveling for months from North Plain to see them in the wild! At the very least my dear Sophie wishes to see a “Hell Hound!”
“Oh yes!” The small woman sitting beside the portly Burgher exclaimed. The glow of “Draegon Fever” was in her eyes. “To see them in their natural magnificence, in the wilderness!”
The Tinker had finished his meal, and was in the process of packing the bowl of a long black stemmed pipe.
“Perhaps you would like to hear a tale of two young merchant princes from your own part of the country?” He said. “It took place a few years past, and will maybe set you on your way with a better understanding of what lies at the end of your adventure.” He settled back against the wall of the Inn, propping one foot up on the bench opposite. “Let me light my bowl, and perhaps Katie could bring a splash of that cider of Perkot’s before things get to dry!”
The folks in the Inn room settled in as he began his story.
It was during the fall of the year, and even in Fear the evenings showed a cooling trend.Two Bravos from the rich port of Klake arrived on the troop boat from Sea
Barrier. According to their story they had been traveling for nearly a year with the small garrisoned town of Fear as their destination. They had hopes of hiring a guide and going into the interior to see Draegon, and at the least bag a Hell Hound as trophy to take back home to show their friends. A wager had been involved along with adolescent honor, not the best combination of reasons to launch an expedition. It had seemed like a good way to “get out of town” with their families hoping the time on the road would “harden them into manhood.”
At this point Katie came with a loaded tray and poured warm cups of spiced cider around, They could hear the wind’s muted howl as it blew across the roof’s slate.
The Tinker continued.
After a few days of talking with the serious minded folk of Fear, their only option seemed to be located in the forests to the North. The local garrison commander had told them of a Hershot who sometimes was willing to take people into the mountains. His cabin was located a day and a half into the tree covered foothills of the Stone Mountain Range.
The two soon arranged for horses and provisions, and headed North on the single track into the green wall of the subtropical highlands. They were flanked in the narrow corridor by tall stands of mountain cypress and pine. they were covered from the ground to their tops by clinging parasitic growth fighting for what light pierced the forest canopy overhead. With their way walled on both sides by vertical drapes of foliage, the pair spent the day steadily climbing higher. Always keeping to the main trail at any branching, they kept an eye on the sun as it progressed across the clouded sky, finally making camp for the night before the sunset left the world dark. It began to drizzle, putting out their fire and driving them under their tarp.
Starting out from their wet camp it was midday before they finally sighted their destination. High above them on the slope was a cabin set back in a nest of stunted pine, looking out over the rain shrouded landscape below.
“Now a key point here is that these two were not from this area, because had they been, the tales of “Sleeps With Vipers” would have been part of their stock of stories heard at their Marm’s knee. Told on nights just like this to keep the younguns in their beds and safe from harm.” The Tinker looked into the corner shadows by the kitchen where the three daughters of the house were sitting. Katie, the elder, sat in the middle with the little girls snug to her side. A worn quilt draped their shoulders, cowling the three heads as one, only their eyes visible.
“They say that even the Stone Viper clan thought he was possessed by Sand Spirits. The story goes that when he was a boy and hunting his first Reg for bounty up in the Sands, he used to carry a bag full of pygmy sand vipers. At night when he made camp he would bury hot coals in the sand in a circle several paces out from where he was gonna sleep. He put a viper into each small depression. In the cool of the night the viper would coil itself on top of the buried coal and remain there while he covered it with a layer of insulating sand. The young hunter would strip down naked and pile his clothes and gear inside the invisible ring. Lying down and focusing on his breathing and heart rate he would lower his body temperature until it would be of no interest to the vipers should they wander. In the morning he would retrieve his guardians very carefully, placing them in their bag with a warm stone to keep them comfortable until the day became hot enough to satisfy their nasty temperaments. “
“As much as the vipers dislike cold they like having their sleep disturbed even less. It’s a fact the Pygmy viper can launch from its coil to strike a running target up to two arm lengths away in an eye’s blink. The intruder usually doesn’t get a second step before it’s over. No matter how big they come, that snake’s venom is a stopper.”
All eyes in the room were on the Tinker.
“The trick to collecting them is to put the opening of the catch bag between you and the snake…… so it launches into the trap. Transferring the lethal critters into the carry bag is easy . The fact the old Hershot was still alive was testament to his obvious skill with that bag, and being able to never sleep late. One bit of sunshine on his magic circle of protection, and it became as lethal to him as to anything else! Being able to sleep naked in the center of a ring of death, with any number of things out there in the night willing to eat you, shows a faith beyond the kin of most mortals!”
The Tinker paused to repack his pipe bowl.
So…..the first thing to strike the visitors was the cabin’s surrounding piles of bones. What could only be Draegon parts along with Daemon skulls decorated a row of scarecrows in a large garden plot. They rattled in the small gusts of mountain air. It looked like things were dropped where it was most convenient. Whether intentional or happenstance, it made the approach to the cabin a zig zag course through a gauntlet of giant bone shards. They proceeded through the maze only after hailing the cabin several times and receiving no reply,
Walking, leading their horses through the narrow pathway, the two approached the low slung dwelling. The door stood open, held by a leather thong looped around a piece of ivory tusk driven into the wall.
“Hello!” They repeated the call several more times.
“Flatlanders!”
At first they didn’t think they had heard anything, the word had come so softly, Both looked more closely at the cabin but still saw no one.
“The Reg had you last night. While you huddled under your tarp they talked of having you for dinner. If the HUNT had been on, you would have been fodder for Draegon two hours out of Fear!
Then they saw him, seated amongst the bones by the door. Dark stained leather, iron and hair the color of bleached sand in a heap. At first glance, a pile of worn horse tack. All buckles, straps and rings.
He was bare from the waist up, his dark skin melding into the shadows perfectly. His chest and shoulders were covered with a fine white fur attesting to his true years, but not concealing the still muscle slabbed body. His truncated legs were bowed from years in the saddle. The eyes were a pale amber set deep under a heavy brow. A coarse and tangled braid of smoke yellowed hair hung to the right side of his head. He was wearing lacquered leather with panels of River Draegon over his shins, straps with bronze buckles and rings holding them in place over trousers of leather reinforced sun bleached cotton. Low boots were shod with short knob ended spurs. Ready at hand was a body harness with attached scabbards holding two long bladed fighters. The swept form of a Hershot saber with its hanger lay across his knees. The grip was held loosely in his right hand. The equipment’s patina was from years of service, the bronze gone to nut brown, leather scales once bright with fresh lacquer showing blood red colors through a patchwork of scars. Each part showed a different map of hardship.
The Tinker paused for a moment. “For you folks that haven’t had the pleasure of knowing our dessert allies, a trait universal in the Hershot culture is their being meaner than two Running Viper in a tight sack!”
The Greenhorns were smart enough to see right off this particular individual living alone on the doorstep of the Draegon flyways must be at least that tough. They also had enough sense to keep their wits when their horses suddenly shied, fighting their bits to back away from the giant mastiff, who rose up out of the bone pile to the right of the door. It’s short white hair blended perfectly with the landscape of bone shards.
The pony sized dog stretched, and slowly crossed the small clearing to sniff the nose of the nearest horse. The horse trembled, the whites of its eyes showing. The dog did the same with the second animal and returned to the doorway to lie down at the feet of the old Hershot, eyes closing to just narrow slits, tail slowly dusting the ground, the scars on its coat a mirror of the old man’s.
“Well…..you must not be too dangerous or Ellie would have had you for dinner. It would have been a forced situation though cause she usually won’t eat anything the Reg have turned down. She doesn’t really care much for hairless Flatlanders either…. so if you have come to throw difficulty in my path, I would advise you to leave. I will give you one chance and then your fate will be the same as those watchin over my garden!”
The two spoke between themselves then turned to him, having decided to state their case. The old Hershot would have already dealt with their “future” if he had so desired, therefore things looked promising.”
“Excuse me tinker sir.” The Innkeeper’s wife interrupted. “The girls need to be to bed and with the weather probably holdin bad for a day or two more, perhaps you could save the rest for the filling of tomorrows eve. After a few days together we’ll be short of news to share that hasn’t already been around once, so the stretching of the tale will please all I’m sure.” So saying she began herding the girls toward the narrow stairs to their small 1st basement room.
“Well my friends, the good wife of the Inn has spoken. It’s the word to the wise that we listen and put ourselves to bed. Tomorrow is another day and if we wish to eat, the cook must be allowed her rest. Thanks to you Tinker for your story.” The Innkeeper sent the few locals on their way out into the whipping rain. Their cloaks blew straight out from their sides as they made their way down the narrow path towards their own hearth sides. A lantern showing in the distant harness maker’s shop was a beacon for them to follow into the night.
Inside travelers went to their blankets. The merchant and his wife went to the “Best the Inn has to offer”. Down below in the stable the Shantu slept in the stall next to the small grey footed and dappled mare.
As the Tinker went to his bedroll in the last stall he thought “There lies a two legged viper ever bit as testy as the crawlers up in the SANDS. Ware the fool who disturbs its sleep.”
On a ledge above the path, a blocky form crouched in the rain. Its eyes followed the retreating figures. His alien senses warring with his restraints….the smell of so many warm bodies was a rough file on his nerves. Their fear as the storm pounded and raged against bolted shutters sent spikes of fire through him. His talons were fully unsheathed, kneading the stone on the ledge, tiny chips flying into the bushes. His tusks reflected briefly when the Inn’s door was open, emerald eyes hidden beneath the watershed of the floppy brim. His thoughts pursued them. “I feast on your thin fear because I am “Walks Also”, no longer of the pack!” With that he dropped the five meters to the Inn’s entry, sniffing the ground, then loping off towards the ramp leading down into the stable yard, black on black disappearing in a weak flash of lightning over the high barred gate. Splintered gouges in the barrier’s iron bound timbers were the only telltales of his passing.
The Second Night
True to predictions, the following day barely ventured past a look of pasty dawn. Thunder beat at the peaks. Brief breaks in the torrential rains would bring customers scurrying into the Sparrow to deal with the Tinker.
Needles were picked over, pots, pans and staples like salt and flour were weighed and bargained for. The Tinker sat at a corner table doing repairs. Tin lined leaky copper teapots were soldered. A shallow yellow brass yogurt pans broken handles were replaced with new ones riveted in place. Cracked pottery was patiently holed with a small bow drill and wired back to useful service. The village Smith purchased some of his wrought iron from the foundry at Hardfistdown, with the trimming of the pack train’s hooves and for some veterinary work on two that had infections from fly bites. Many balances were marked down in the Tinker’s ledger to be collected on his next visit. He gave credit where needed, knowing prosperous times in a small mountain village couldn’t always coincide with his arrival.
It was with an audible sigh of relief the few guests of the Inn and those villagers of the past evening gathered around the fire that evening, glad a day being shut in was about to finish on a high note.
The Shantu hadn’t been social, keeping to the stable, or behind the curtain of the corner booth. Word had it that tomorrow there would be a “Judgment”. Then they would see this Shantu.
A few more weather bedraggled travelers had arrived during the day. With villagers arriving who had heard a tale was in progress, the Inn soon filled with customers. They were willing to put their money down for some of Perikot’s cider to warm their innards, and that made a happy Inn keeper on a foul day such as this had been. Katie filled tankards around while a stool was brought for the Tinker.
Outside snow flakes swirled around the Inn, dumping out of the heights onto the steep mountainside aflame with Spring’s Rhododendrons and Dogwood blossoms. Their colors, for the moment muted by the opaque lens of the storm’s white curtain.
Inside all was warm. The benches were filled. Everyone waited patiently while the trader fired his bowl and took a sip of cider.
He began. “So…. the two youngsters stated their case, getting no response. The old warrior just sat there and looked up at them.
Finally he said. “Tell me if I have this right. You two Flatlander shitheads got together with some equally stupid arses and decided that the adventure of a lifetime should include Dragons, not only seeing some, but bagging one of the mean tempered sons-a-bitches! At least your friends are still back home in their snug little beds while you two idiots are standing in front of me. At least some sense prevailed on their part! Not only that! Your parents sanctioned this?”
He leaned forward speaking very softly, eyes in a close squint. “Tell me boys. Did the town send you off with a parade? Did some soft young thing throw herself at the departing hero, laying out the only thing she had to speed your way home?”
The two looked at each other, their faces turning red at the questions.
His voice raised. “Up here you’re just meat! All the glory will end when the Draegon separate your bodies into their smallest parts! There will be no parades for the returning sons. Someone else will be spreading those sweet thighs, because your earthly remains will be glue holding together Draegon turds!
The good Burgher and his wife reddened when everyone chuckled or nodded in their direction at the mention of Flatlanders. There were a few more in the room from the lowlands, but none stood out as these two.
“We’ll pay you well.” The taller of the two said. The shorter one shook his head in agreement.
The hooded eyes of the old man never blinked. He just sat motionless, those eyes boring holes through their chests.
“I’ll take you far as the headwaters of the Golden. From there you do as you will. I’m headed into Blue Stone country and have no interest in your doings, however foolish. So… I don’t need to hear any more about adventure!”
He rose from his seat amongst the bones, his eyes now level with the shorter of the two. “You’ll be Water”, he said. “And your partner will be Wood. When we stop I want a fire big enough to roast a cow, and every water bag kept full! I don’t want that fire to burn itself out during the night! I don’t want to be caught in the day’s heat without a drink! If either happens I’ll kill you myself and save the natural elements the effort.’
Ellie didn’t move. Her eyes were mere slits as she soaked in the last rays of the evening’s sun.
Pointing at their mounts he said. “Bring your horses around back and put them in with mine for the night. You two can sleep with them, that’ll keep you outta my way in case those Reg show up looking for a little tussle!”
Leading their mounts, they followed the Hershot Horse soldier around the cabin to its back, where a bronze bound door was set in the mountain side. When he opened the heavily timbered portal a large stable lay in front of them. Stalls held several of the dessert warrior’s rangy horses. Saddles and horse armor were mounted on stands in its center, Along the walls were pens with a handful of sheep and goats. Chickens were cooped immediately beside the door. Water seeped in a slow trickle from a crack in the rough stone overhead. It dripped into a pitch sealed trough several meters below, giving off a minute splashing sound in the cavernous low ceilinged space. Bags of feed, oil and other supplies were stored in meter high clay jars sunk in the floor, their lids weighted with stones to keep vermin out.
“I put everyone inside last night when I heard you on the trail. There was a bunch of those Shantu skirts through a few weeks back headed up the way to bag some Reg, so the hairy bastards have been staying low until yesterday. They were very interested in you and your horses last night, enough so that a few days inside for my stock seems a good idea. Tonight you’ll be in here with the door barred. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out in the morning.”
“Won’t you need our help?” Water asked.
The white brush of eyebrows scrunched together and the stocky old fighter bent double laughing until his eyes watered.
“Help! You’ve helped enough! I don’t have to go chasing the sneaky vermin all over the damn mountain, you’ve brought them right to me! You have actually put a bit of humor in my day. I think I’ll have a bite of dinner, and then maybe sit around and wait for company.”
Wiping the tears from his eyes with his right hand, he pointed with the tip of his sheathed saber to stalls for their horses, and a blackened hearth where they could have a fire to light the stable and dry their gear. Just before he closed the door he stopped and turned around.
“I’m not taking your money. Usually I’d be taking a goat or two along to stake out in case the locals are tempted to eat me before I’m ready. You two scurrying around all day and night should do just as well. How could I possibly take your gold when you’re saving the lives of my goats?”
Laughing uproariously he stepped into the fading light outside, swinging the massive door closed with one hand. The two travelers quickly slid the bar into place.
Moments later, as they tended the small flame burning on the hearth, a banging and scratching began on the door. They scrambled to their saddles to grab weapons. The next minutes creeped by. With sweat running down their sides they waited, blades held ready. There was only silence.
Something struck the door with a loud thud making them both jump. Muffled laughter came through to them.
“Did you piss your trousers boys? If you wore skirts like them Shantu it’d be on the floor instead of in your boots!” They could hear him howling with laughter as they turned back to the fire. The morning seemed far away.
The following day dawned bright and clear. By the time the small party started along the hillside only an hour had passed since they had opened the door into the stable at the old Hershot’s call. He had quickly fed and watered his livestock and saddled one of his mounts. The tall horse was armored with lacquered platelets held in place by joining rings. Straps and buckles were deftly adjusted to make sure nothing would hinder the animal’s movements. A second was loaded with bags of provisions and his camp. The whole was not much of a pile for someone going into the wilderness for several weeks. When asked he told the two he would kill enough to keep him fed up in the “Blue Stone” country. You only need enough supplies to last while passing through the flyway where the Dragon hunt.
“And since you Flatlanders got enough goods in Fear to get you the several days to the Golden that should be enough, cause from that point on your hours of survival will probably be short! There‘s no sense in you carrying a bunch of useless baggage to slow you down.” He didn’t laugh this time.
They left the cabin behind, the door still hanging open. A large hand built lock made of bronze and iron secured the cave’s door. Something Reg couldn’t manipulate. He hung the simple key suspended by a thong on the door jamb, explaining.“There’s somebody comin by in a few days to tend to the place until I get back. It would be kind of a bonus if some vermin have taken up residence in my shack. My friend won’t complain quite so much if she finds something to kill when she gets here. If it’s something particularly nasty it will just make it better! The REG aren’t smart enough to figure out the key goes with the lock. You can never tell when the HUNT starts, and someone may need to hole up in my stable until I can get back to kill whatever is walking on my ground! Besides, if something is in the house, I don’t want to force my friend to have to kill it for a place to sleep. Some things around here don’t kill that easy.”
He tied his second mounts lead to the tail of his saddled horse, and with a wave of his hand sent Ellie on ahead by a few horse lengths. He put his short legs into a rolling gait and spoke over his shoulder. “You may call me Lord General, my due per the tenants of the ACCORD, but don’t use it too often!”
The group left the solitary cabin on foot leading their horses. Their guide had pointed out to them it was best to walk while fresh, and save the rides until later. Even this far out on the edge of the Dragon’s hunting grounds a rested mount could mean the difference between beating a hasty retreat and living, or being Draegon fodder.
For the first part of the day they swung to the South, the narrow trail not much more than a goat path. They climbed steadily, first to a high saddle in the range and began a number of downward plunges followed immediately by steep ascents over razor backed ridges. Eventually the small party came to a stop on a high plateau for their first evening’s camp.
For the past several hours Wood had been foraging along the trail, his horse becoming a walking pile of twisted and spiny brush. Water had found it necessary to fill canvas water bags at every opportunity. The combination of sun heated stone and blast furnace hot air churning through the narrow valleys from the interior created atmosphere so dry moisture evaporated at its touch. The springs breaking through to the surface had their waters wicked away within a few paces.
They had stopped mid afternoon under a large overhang out of the sun’s direct rays. The two youngsters stripped down to their waists, trying to get some relief from the heat. It didn’t matter. The black rock of the mountains made the temperature the same no matter where they stood. The mounts were motionless, their heads down. Not even flies had moved. The Hershot sat on the ground with his back against the rock, his legs stretched out straight on the gravely soil. Spiny bushes clung to the steep sides of the ravine. There had been no signs of greenery since their route had turned inland mid morning. That was when their path had entered into the first of the canyons leading to the East, and the headwaters of the Golden. The only vegetation they saw had to defend itself with sharp thorns, and have a penchant for surviving in eternal drought with the occasional flash flood throwing moisture its way.
“How long before we stop for the night Lord General?” Wood had asked.
“There’s a mesa up the way that’s got enough water,” the old warrior said.
“The problem is the number of us. The amount of water we need to stay alive. If we stop here for more than a day, this little trickle will be used up. It will take several days to overcome natural evaporation and begin to accumulate again, so we must keep moving. It doesn’t mean we couldn’t make it to the next water hole under normal circumstances, but we are in Draegon range and nothing is normal here. You must be ready to make a stand wherever luck places you. Without water it well be a short one, so we move on to the mesa for the night.”
After only a short time under the overhang they had proceeded. The small basin someone had hacked out of the stone below the slowly oozing fissure, was licked dry by Ellie before she took her place thirty or forty paces ahead of the rest as they filed up the ravine. Her head swung from side to side as she scanned the way ahead for possible trouble.
The sun set, throwing everything into darkness, its last rays shining around black distant peaks. The only light was from the bright orange flames of the fire Wood had kindled as soon as they’d stopped. Its warmth not even noticeable against the still intense heat stored up in the boulders around them.
They had eaten, and Wood’s pile of burnables looked sufficient for the night. The water bags were full, and a cooling breeze began blowing across the table top of the mesa. Their camp was surrounded on three sides by four and five meter stones whose backsides plunged several hundred meters to the broken stone littering the foot of the mesa. Their redoubt was a slim finger of stone tilted out, away from the plateau. It was only approachable across a narrow exposed ramp littered with melon sized boulders.
He had placed their camp up against the rocks, to the back of the natural box formed by the vertical slabs of rock. The fire was placed in the opening to their “Hold”, exposing any movement on the ramp and leaving plenty of room to fight if necessary. He had explained to the “Pilgrims” that their night vision was destroyed by the brightly burning fire, so Ellie’s nose would warn of any approaching danger. They were told to place their bedrolls as close to the base of the rocks as possible to prevent any night fliers from snatching them off into the darkness. The horses were tied nose to tail against those same rocks.
As Water closed his eyes his last vision was of “Sleeps With Vipers” sitting with his back against the still hot stone, his legs stretched out in front. Ellie was lying to his left with her nose pointing to the fire, and the narrow causeway on its far side. His saber lay reversed across his thighs, the grip by his left hand. A war hammer’s sculpted bone grip rested in his right palm. The bronze anchored lanyard was wrapped several times around his scarred wrist. The end was held between his heavily calloused thumb and forefinger, so his grip would effectively bind the piece to his hand.
Several times during the night Wood had been prodded out of his sleep to stoke the fire. The rest of the night was quiet.
“You two are piss poor substitutes for goats! It’s been plenty of time since those “Skirts” were through here for our fuzzy little buddies to work up a good appetite. I figure it’s because you smell so sweet! Maybe if you stopped wiping your arses to good and tried staying away from baths you’d appeal to their delicate senses better! It’s hard to say, but one thing for sure, it ain’t gonna happen in the next few days. “Skirts” take baths you know. Smell like damn Inner Sea whores. Just walk up to a poor ole Reg and bonk him on his head! Me….I got enough scent to bring in the bastards from days out, but they’re scared! They know I like to wrassle them a little…..sorta takes the fun out of it from their point of view.”
He had readied his horses while he talked. The two were still saddling theirs as he crossed the boulder strewn causeway, leading the animals with Ellie moving to the front, her nose working to digest the smells already warm breezes were delivering. They hurried to catch up, still lacing up boots and trying to tie down water bags and wood as their horses began ambling after the others.
The Innkeepers voice broke in on the Tinker’s tale.
“Speakin for the cats folks, it will be hard for those here in the Sparrow to catch the mice eatin the grain if we don’t out the lights for the night. Speaking for myself and the missus, we would be honored to have you all back on the morrow’s eve if the Tinker is willin to finish his tale. I’m thinkin to pull the bung on a cask of Midland wine to go with the roast we’re fixin.”
People shrugged into their slickers and made their way out the door, or to their rooms. The Tinker nodded to several as they thanked him for the night’s story, saying they would see him tomorrow.
Yes, he thought to himself. Tomorrow will be interesting, there’s a judgment to be made. For most this will be their first exposure to Shantu LAW. In this remote village, probably their lifetime’s only encounter, and there was the story to finish. If the weather lets up I shall be on the road by day after….. He made his was down the steep stairs to the stables below.
The snow had nearly melted from the earlier fall and the flurries had turned to a steady drizzle. Winds had abated, giving the home bound villagers a respite from the fury of the previous several days.
Above them, his back against a tree trunk, the Reg ate. The snapping of bones as he savaged the dog’s carcass didn’t prevent his mind from searching for fear among those below, each small bit a tug on his restraints, those bindings crippling his mind. He finished stripping the last of the flesh from the animal, stuffing it into his shoulder bag. Only a silhouette showed against the dripping white mantle on the bushes as he made his way to the Inn’s yard, and his nest among the baggage stored along its wall.
The Third Day
The first rays of the morning sun broke through the grey shroud clinging to the mountains.
The melt from last night’s Spring snow tumbled down a sheer face of five or six meters, before striking the large flagstones of the villages small plaza. It ran between and over the feet of those who had staked out their spot for the days trial at first light, then it gathered in the lowest area and flowed across the Path, where it poured over the side to finds its course down the mountain side. The sun brought flashes of rainbows to the many plumes of snow melt that cascaded down the mountain around the village.
The plaza was roughly oval in shape, surrounded on three sides by the walls of a natural stone notch in the mountains side. Over the years shops and residences had been cut into the hard stone’s face. During most days small stands operated in the open space. During the winter the stands were wrapped like cocooned butterflies, glowing, lit from inside by oil lamps. Today vendors on foot dealing their wares from shoulder bags and baskets were the only ones in sight, the rest had given their day over to being spectators.
Space normally occupied by the seasonal stands was taken by a small dais with a folding stool centered on its red cloth covered platform. A fractured basalt block served as its step. A three meter Shantu banner in crimson silk hung to the left. The stool on the ground facing the dais was a simple one, having neither the delicate clawed feet nor the oil finished black wood and bone of the judge’s. This rough furniture had but one leg, a goat herd’s for his arse while he milked his nannies. The narrow seat was worn by years of rough homespun burnishing its split finish, no match for the intricate brocade of silk strung on the Shantu’s seat, nor its bronze finials and clips.
The dais had been in place when the first people arrived.
By midmorning the area surrounding the low platform was full of spectators. The issue to be decided had been the local talk for weeks. There was an air of eager anticipation about the crowd, the need to see justice done, to see the LAW being worked.
The Tinker and several others from the Inn had found good positions on the slightly raised stoop of a tailor’s home and shop. The owner, a patron of the Inn for the past two nights was honored to have the well known Tinker as his guest for the proceedings.
The tall traveler stood in the shadow of the porches awning, out of the sun’s direct light. He removed the silver bent staple holding his nerveless left eyelid closed, massaging his eye…… holding the lid up so he could see the dais over the heads of the crowd.
As the noon sun warmed the full of the small space, the crowd parted as a man was led stumbling from the traveling Path to the area immediately before the dais.
The silence was broken by a rooster’s crow. Several in the crowd gave warding signs, lest the spirit that momentarily possessed the fowl mistake their soul as the one to be carried off.
Two large men wearing robes of the Temple Het held the prisoner’s arms. His hands were tied and feet hobbled with a short lead to prevent his running.
The Tinker put the man’s age at twenty years, barely out of adolescence by city standards, but old enough to remember the HUNT coming through here…so…..a man.
His eyes didn’t look around as he kneeled next to the single legged stool lying on
It’s side. He stared down at the stone slab under his knees.
They were followed by the Shantu, cowl still in place. The short figure carried a tall lacquered box by folding bronze handles. The intertwined Running Vipers on the grips burned in the now hot sun’s glare.
The box was deposited on the dais’s corner. Simple catches released the cover so it could be set aside. From inside the cloak draped figure pulled a Shantu “Helm of Conciliation”. Its crest was a Running Viper, its body lacquered leather, with ivory fangs and horn claws, its scaled form frozen in time atop a perch of forged iron, bronze and leather. Next came a simply adorned bronze skull cap, a blackened raised fist its crest, deposited alongside the other on the red surface.
The Shantu stood for a moment, back to the crowd, then turned to face them. With a quick flick the cape was removed. The people closest involuntarily stepped back, meeting the push of those behind straining to see what was happening.
She was small, probably no more than fifteen years of age. The head was shaven clean except for the thronged clutch of dirty blond hair above the left ear. A heavy line of tattoo arced from above the left eye, slashed across the cheek and ended in a series of blue dots along her nose. The nose was peeling from too much sun, and had been broken. Her face was lean and showed more age than she carried. There was a puckered and ugly scar that started between her right eye and ear and proceeded more than a hand span up the side of her head. Tall tan sandals were laced to the knees, marks from greaves worn into the waxed leather. A skirt of tightly woven blue cloth was trimmed in red leather, with bronze rings affixed to protect her spine and lower thighs, topped by a light vest of pale blue lacquered plates linked by more bronze rings. A rack of poisoned throwing spikes was tucked into its pocket over the left breast. Yellow silk sleeves billowed from the cuffs of snug fitting gloves whose knuckles were covered with more lacquer reinforced leather. There was no weapon hanging from the leather harness draping her shoulders, only a light fighter in its button scabbard at her waist.
“I am Ak Tu Ra, Shantu, the LAW! As requested by the elders of these clans I stand to judge! As decreed by the Temple Het as guardian of the Alliance I stand to judge! As required to uphold the LAW I stand to judge! Any who wish to challenge my authority or writ, stand forward now and be judged first!”
No one moved. The only sound was the silence of anticipation, feet shuffling in place, everyone waiting for her to kill some fool right before their eyes. Challenge the Temple, Elders and LAW all in one fell swoop?
She watched the crowd for a few moments, turned, picked up the Conciliator’s Helm and lowered it over head. She quickly mounted the dais and sat, head erect, gloved hands resting on her knees.
The prisoner still knelt by the crude stool.
Her voice came clearly from inside the Helm, her eyes barely visible.
“I understand there has been an assault. A young woman has been taken against her will. She has been pledged in troth to another. There is the matter of possible paternity. There is the honor of the Clans and the innocents, the needs of the Land and the LAW.”
Both sides were heard…..with the hours being tracked by the sun moving overhead.
The girl, a tanner’s eldest daughter was about the same age as Katie at the Sparrow. Her hair was tied back in a long braided “Maidens Lock”, traditionally hers to wear until marriage or the birthing of a first child. In a land rife with inner clan feuds the bonding of families through arranged marriages brought some degree of peace. In families of little or no financial means, their value to the Clan may be most held by their daughters. Their roll……:“to bridge the Clans differences with ropes made from their Maidens Locks“. She knelt by the judge’s side and told her tale only loud enough for those ears to hear.
The Tinker looked at the two of them on the dais. The Shantu was probably the same age. She had shared none of the girls experiences in her own years. Since the age of nine she had probably been aide and runner for a Hershot General called “Stone Eater” in the flat lands between the Keep of the Hunt and the Second Redoubt. There had been no Maiden’s Locks. Her head had been shaven since her earliest memory, the tattoo growing with time. The scalp lock came with full rights and pay, her own rice bowl, and at night dreams of Daemon and Reg swarming over the lines defending the Keep. Her first three years with the Lite Horse were spent racing from one end of the long rectangle of land to the other. The all but flat area was bordered by the Ramparts on one side and the sea on the other. The road travels from the Keep to the port of First Stop and Second Redoubt, ran along the foot of the cliffs to give the populace a quick route of retreat when needed. Two days could see a flying squad gate to gate if they had enough mounts. The fourth year, when the HUNT began, she earned her “Lock”. There had been no bride price for her, or dowry of goat herds or potato fields. No teenager’s fantasy of sacrificing for her Clan. She was Shantu, the “orphan” Clan. No blood….No ritual….No mercy….The LAW.
As the shadows began to lengthen in the plaza the judge rose to her feet. The Running Viper’s red scaled hide glistened in the rays of the evening sun.
Motioning to the attendants she said. “Sit him on the stool facing them so I may render judgment .”
The people in the crowd began talking among themselves, even a few stepped forward. The young man who knelt on his knees in front of the dais had never been questioned, or asked to speak on his own behalf.
“To satisfy LAW I give sentence! There are issues of contract. The tannery worker’s clan has lost “Face” with this transgression, and the binding of Clans is threatened.”
The attendants steadied the young man, his legs numb from being on his knees all afternoon, holding him upright on the thin shanked stool. His balance was lost as soon as he looked away from the flagstones he had been staring at for hours. They snatched him back from tipping over.
People moved closer to see better. So close he could probably feel their hot breaths on his neck.
“To the charge of assault, I find the man without guilt. From the midwife’s tale I understand there is a child to be expected, but I do not find the use of force as implied by the charges!”
“The LAW of Clan and Alliance have been broken. Were we governed by our hearts the land would be a different place, but we are not!”
“The joining of Clans by marriage will take place as contracted. The babe will be of one blood, and born with honor into its new home!”
There was a shocked look on the faces of the family of the young man and many others in the audience. It was obvious some had hoped for a resolution that would see the young couple together.
“This man will give service to the Bride’s new family until the child achieves the age of fifteen, at that time he will go North to stand at the Wall of Hell’s Gate. Should there be no healthy child brought into this world, he shall immediately go to the Gate. If this woman or man should have physical contact again, he shall go immediately to the Gate!”
“Let all who are gathered here bear witness! I am Ak Tu Ra, Shantu, the LAW. I have judged and rendered sentence. As I have decreed, so it shall be done!”
The crowd was silent as the young man was led, still in irons, to stand before the
Tanner. The old man put his hands on the young man’s shoulders to steady him while the chains were removed by the Temple attendants, then walked him slowly out of the plaza, their heads bowed. It was common knowledge to all in the village the two youngsters had been sweethearts since they were children, but contracts were made for the good of the Clan.
The sobbing girl was led away by the Clan elders, to be sequestered in isolation until the marriage.
The Third Night
It was a quiet crowd that gathered at the Sparrow that evening. A few travelers bound for the low country to the East had departed that morning, before the trial.
Everyone else in the village was packed into the Inn until no more would fit.
The Innkeeper’s wife had done herself proud with the evening fare, and all were well into the Midland wine. The Tinker leaned back against the wall. Taking a few long drags on his pipe he continued his story.
“For two more days Wood and Water traveled with the old Hershot. Each day led them further into the headwaters of the Golden. Every day dawned hotter than the one before, until they thought their heads were going to explode from the heat.
“It’s the ground that makes it so,” he said. “There’s liquid stone not far below the surface in this valley. It’s why the Draegon like it so much here.”
They were camped high in a saddle, their path dropping steeply into the broad boulder strewn valley below. The River Golden reflected the sun as it set at their backs, plunging the valley of the Draegon into darkness.
“So…..tomorrow you’ll be on your own! It’s time for me to swing North. I’ve come a bit further East than I planned, but I was hopin you two would lure in something for me to kill! No such luck! Anyhow, in the morning you just head down the hill here and I guarantee there will be more than enough Draegon to satisfy you! The question is: will there be enough of you to satisfy the Draegon?” He chuckled at his joke as he settled his back against a boulder, Ellie, his sword and war hammer at hand.
In the morning the three were ready to part company at first light.
“My advice would be for the two of you to turn back now,” the old fighter said loudly over his shoulder as he began moving up a slim track to the North. “Few live to be this far into Dragon country, and none but you and I will know if there be truth to your tales of Draegon!”
After he was out of sight, the two mounted up, and began working their way down the scree covered slope towards the waters of the Golden River.”
While the Tinker repacked his pipe the Innkeeper said. “Would anyone care for a bit more drink?”
The Shantu signaled him for another from her now undraped space in the corner booth. Since the trial was over she was no longer burdened with the need to be secluded from the locals. After issuing sentence she had used the two Temple attendants services to repack the small bamboo dais, stool and banner. She had replaced the two Helms in their case, lashing them secure and moved everything to the stall space she shared with her horse.
“So….did they see Draegon!” the thickset Burgher asked.
His wife nodded with him. “Yes, please do tell that part. We have stayed here three nights to hear of the Draegon!”
The Tinker continued. “It was about six months later that I passed through Fear. I got this story from the garrison Commander’s surgeon.”
About four weeks had passed when Water stumbled back down from the mountains. He was clad in the remains of his trousers, with only a rawhide bag slung by a gristly strap across his bony chest. His arms were covered with pustulent scabs from fingertip to shoulder, his skin burnt red and peeling. The doctor had tended him until he was recovered enough to travel, and gotten this account of what had happened.”
They hadn’t encountered any Draegon until well into their first evening. Their camp was well situated with the fire burning brightly and their two mounts tethered between two large boulders.
The first horse was down before they had their bedrolls undone. They heard it hit the ground, then gone, its screams carrying faintly over the stuttering cries of its abductors. It was over quickly….the two saw nothing.
It could have been minutes or hours before the second horse was taken, neither was sure, only that they had again seen nothing.
First light saw the two of them approaching the banks of the Golden. The sun was barely over the horizon, and already the valley was blast furnace hot. They had to have water. It had taken only a matter of moments after the second horses disappearance to agree to leave the valley in the morning. Without mounts they realized things had seriously changed….. they needed to leave.
They saw it just as they began making their way back up the long scree covered slope. There was no place to hide!
It launched from a peak near the valley’s furthest Southern reach, The giant avian slowly climbed high on the thermals rising from the baking rock of the valley, then dove on them from high above their heads.
Black with scales and coarse bristle, some red and yellow markings on the head and tail. The image would be forever frozen in Water’s mind.
The talons ripped through Wood’s chest when it struck, driving him to the ground then bearing him away, six meter wings churning the air. Wood had made no sound.
They had been gone from Fear less than two weeks. Barely a day had gone by since last seeing the Hershot, and Water was alone. With few rations and no mounts his chances were bleak.
He spent his days hiding in crevices too narrow for Draegon to reach, scratching his way into vermin infested holes with Dragon ripping the ground apart trying to reach him. He spent his nights scrambling from cover to cover. Little by little he made his way out of the valley. Big or small, they all knew he was out there, playing him like a rat in a maze, sometimes chasing him from boulder to boulder. Until, at last, he was free of them. The Reg were on his track until the end but he managed to survive even them.
Water had seen Draegon enough to satisfy anyone, and when his wounds allowed he took ship South, beginning the long journey home.
“So you might know. He didn’t desert his boyhood friend. He didn’t leave the valley until he had searched out his remains. The sores on his arms were from digging through the shit piles surrounding the Dragon’s perch, until he found what was left of Wood.”
“That’s what he had in the shoulder bag then,” the Burgher asked?
“No. He was the shoulder bag. His belt buckle and a piece of skull were inside, sole remains of the young man’s adventure!”
Folks around the room nodded as they looked at the Southern merchant and his wife, seeing them as skin bags in their mind’s eyes. Some looked away, uncomfortable with the gruesome vision.
“I would think any wise man would need nothing more than this tale to dissuade the taking on of such a perilous task.” The Innkeeper’s wife said from her seat next to the children. “And it wouldn’t be the first time a woman has been drug off into danger by some man’s foolishness either,” she said, looking at her husband.
People around the room laughed quietly. All the locals knowing the closest to “perilous” Handson ever got was downing to much of Perkot’s cider, and trying to navigate the ramps below the Inn.
The Tinker looked at the two Flatlanders. “I would make my plans carefully if on the track of Draegon. There is no denying their attraction, but at times it is best to follow the example of the insignificant field mouse who knows from stories passed down among its kind, that it is unwise to venture into the meadow when there are raptors about. It is a foolish mouse who persists only to prove the truth to the tale once again.”
Handson stood up from his seat behind the counter. “Think it’s time to call it a day my friends. As always we welcome you to our hearth but the night is well upon us and our travelers need make and early start on the morrow!”
A sleepy eyed Katie began moving around the room, snuffing out candles as she loaded empty mugs onto her tray.
Each time the door opened you could see the stones of the Path outside covered with moonlight. All signs of the past several foul nights of foul weather had gone.
The Burgher and his wife moved towards their room, her small hand clutching his jacket sleeve tightly while she spoke into his ear. He shook his head like a horse who had just seen a snake. His wife’s agitation was growing as they disappeared into the darkness, a single candle lighting the way.
The Tinker made his way down the narrow stairs to his bedroll in the stable.
An interesting day it’s been he thought. She could have easily executed him, and none would have questioned the right of it. Those who would under their breaths deny this judgment, have never seen the LAW as rendered by some Shantu. Let’s hope she retains her humanity, as the years beat her with a duty she was given through misfortune.
He stepped into the dark shadows of the stall shared by his lead pack horse, stroking the animals neck a few moments before rolling up in worn blankets.
Below, along the wall of the ramped yard, it sat among the bales of goods, the hat sitting low, with just a sliver of the eyes showing. The auras of those above spread like water flowing over a round stone, each on its own course. He could feel the acid touch of their fears against the walls of his mind’s prison, like a feather drawn across the surface of an open cut. His shoulders bunched, talons extending slowly from their sheaths. His bloated stomach rumbled, calling him to an alien sleep. He let the wisps of their spirits go, being consumed by their fire to stay alive while it slowly consumed him. Tusks ground in frustration as green eyes closed under the floppy brim.
THE END