Departure

Miara lay awake in her bedroom in the back of her apothecary, thinking about the day before. She had expected to be mad at herself, but...she wasn’t. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t have a good reason to be, either. Given another opportunity, she would’ve done it all the same. So why couldn’t she get it off her mind?

            She knew the answer, but she didn’t want to admit it. Not even for sleep...

 

            Aran had no such trouble sleeping in his rented room at the Fox’s Den. He had already done his thinking on the hillside. He had learned to do his thinking before he had a chance to let it prevent him from sleeping. Given a second chance, he would’ve asked the giver why he needed one. He hoped Miara wasn’t having trouble sleeping. He drifted off to the creaking of the tavern’s enclosing wooden walls.

 

            Miara went over the list one more time: A small sliver of unicorn horn, a sea sprite scale, essence of one will-o-the-wisp; she hadn’t the faintest idea how Aran would get that; hair from the head of a prince, a scrap of cloth from the robe of a saint, the starfruit peel, a petal from a flower blooming in midwinter, and two ironwood nuts were the only ones she needed Aran to get. The other ingredients were mundane enough to be bought or found in town.

            Miara had been thinking that she was forgetting something. Then Aran knocked on her door and distracted her. He was very good at distracting her.........

            “Hello Miara!” he greeted her with unusual cheerfulness. “Sleep well?”

            “....No....” She knew Aran would ask her why, so she continued “Kept feeling like I was forgetting something......still do....”

            “Something to do with the potion?” suggested Aran.

            “Yes.” Maybe.

            “Let me see the list.” She forked it over. Aran read through it silently, then looked up and smiled, “How about payment?”

            Miara just stared for a moment. Then she laughed. She could do nothing but laugh for a whole minute. Aran smiled at her, but in that less than subtle way that says “Okay, that IS funny, but not THAT funny.” She didn’t care, because she was laughing. She tended to become oblivious when she was laughing.....

Aran stared at Miara, just the slightest bit bemused. Miara’s laughter was a joy to hear. If he were a poet, he would have said it was like golden bells merrily ringing. But that wasn’t entirely true, and he wasn’t a poet anyway. But it was clear and loud and it rang. Like a bell, he supposed.

Miara floated back to reality with a giggle. Now she felt bubbling with energy, which was unusual for her. Maybe Aran’s initial enthusiasm was infectious. “So, anything else? Oh yes, tell him that the time and materials will cost 300,000 griffins. And I expect a hefty profit here.” Aran’s eyebrows rose at that.

            “Your time is valuable.” smiled Aran. Her laughter was starting to re-infect him.

            “Yes it is!” agreed Miara with a grin.

            “Then why do you spend so much of it talking to me?”

            “Because,” Miara giggled, “If my time was too valuable to talk to YOU, I don’t know WHO would be worth it. Then I’d be all alone. But the potion does take a while to brew.” She giggled again. “Anything else you have to say to justify my investment of time?”

            “How does one capture the essence of a will-o-the-wisp?” Aran asked, already knowing her answer.

            “I haven’t the faintest idea. That’s your problem! Haha, maybe you should ask one!” she started laughing again, and this time Aran couldn’t even try to resist.

            “I’ll ask Marson. Maybe HE will give me a SERIOUS answer.” He laughed mockingly.

            “But not one nearly as entertaining!” she riposted.

            “I can’t deny that.”  Aran thought for a moment. “Bargaining with Yiyer could take a while given the distance...keep it brief, please.”

            “That’s not entirely my decision. I hope we decide a price before you finish gathering the ingredients. Hmmmm, maybe not. If he takes that long, I’ll just say I'm not doing it, he’ll still owe you for your work, and I get a bunch of rare ingredients for free!” Miara grinned evilly. “That would be sadistic, though. So I hope we work it out in time.” She giggled again. “I think we’re done. I have work I need to start. Goodbye! Oh, don’t forget the list!” Aran picked up the list and folded it into a pocket.

            “Don’t blow yourself up doing whatever it is that you do.” Aran smiled. “Seriously, don’t.”

            “I’ll be careful.”

            Miara still didn’t know what she was forgetting. She ignored it. Culbert’s aphrodisiac wasn’t going to brew itself, although she really wished it would. It smelled rancid.

 

            Aran paid a visit to Marson later that day. The wizard was usually with Lord Culbert as part of his retinue, but there was still a good chance that he was at his house just outside the castle’s walls. Aran had asked him why he didn’t have a chamber in the castle, and Marson had replied that he didn’t like the dank, musty smell. If he was needed, Culbert had a talisman that would alert him and tell him where to teleport to.

            What he didn’t say was that he liked his rooms magically guarded, and by guarded he meant demons, which servants tended to object to.

            Aran knocked on the reinforced wooden door, and Marson’s guard demon, Chalaldagh, appeared in his mind’s eye. Aran liked Chalaldagh, demon or no. He (it? No one knew if demons had genders.) was a little too fond of the whole fire-and-brimstone-scare-the-crap-out-of-people thing, but that’s just what demons did. Chalaldagh liked to talk, and he was willing to help his friends by sending his minions to pester people or steal from enemies. While Chalaldagh usually appeared to mortals as a measly little imp, he was actually a Friirjyk, one of the ice demons of Hell’s seventh level, which meant that he probably had about 40 subordinates of varying echelons of power. Aran didn’t know for certain, as demons were not wont to talk about their power.

            “Who goes there? What is your business here?” Chalaldagh boomed, not entirely appropriately, given his guise.

            “It’s Aran, Chalaldagh. You know who I am.”

            “Then you should know the password.”

            “I’ve already said it.” the password was the demon’s name.

            “Fine. Marson’s busy, but then he’s a wizard. He’s always busy.” Which was true. Aran felt sorry for wizards for a number of reasons, unremitting work not being one of the lesser.

Marson appeared through an illusory wall with a warm smile. Marson looked significantly younger than he actually was; again, nothing special for a wizard. If you just looked at Marson, you would not say that he was a wizard. He wore clothing that was practical and durable, but still looked nice.  He looked to be about 35, what Marson believed to be the ‘perfect age’. Aran didn’t know exactly how old he really was, but he did know he grew up with Lord Culbert’s father, and the current Culbert wasn’t exactly spritely and youthful...

            “Hello, my friend. Have you finally come for the sole purpose of seeing me? Or did you have another boring question?”

            Aran grinned and replied,

            “I'm afraid it’s the latter again.”

            Marson shook his head with a sigh and motioned him inside.

            “Come in anyway. One of these days I'm going to shut the door on the next person with a question and have one of Chalaldagh’s imps steal all their underwear.”

            Aran decided not to comment. Marson melted back into the illusory wall, and Aran hopped through backwards. The reason why he did this was a very old joke between them. Not even Chalaldagh knew what it was.

            Aran reappeared in a fairly typical looking wizard’s study. Books lined the towering walls in ornate wooden shelves; several blackened stone worktables were pushed into a corner, along with a large chamber pot that Miara had told him positively reeked of magic. She theorized that along with its more practical purposes as a chamber pot, it made it harder for Marson’s guests to detect any other enchantments, so strong was its aura. Marson had told him that it led to a different plane of existence where he could safely dump any experiments that turned explosive, acidic, infectious, poisonous, alive, undead, or simply too smelly, but in a lot more words. Aran had smiled and nodded, not provoking him into any more wizard talk.

            Marson sat down at one of the several ornate wooden chairs in the center of the room and conjured a cup of some steaming, odorless liquid. Marson had an extremely sensitive nose. He did not conjure one for Aran, because Aran did not like having to wait for pleasantries to get his information. And Aran did not wait.

            “How does one capture the essence of a will-o-the-wisp?”

            “Why don’t you ever ask easy questions? Like, whether it’s going to rain tomorrow?”

            “I already know that it’s not going to rain tomorrow. I do know some woodcraft.”

            “Then what will the weather be tomorrow?”

            “Cloudy, but not overcast. Will you answer my question?”

            “I don’t know. I also don’t know why you’d want to.”

            “Um...I’m not sure if I'm going to be sworn to secrecy on this or not.......”

            “I understand. Personally, I think that you should ask one.”

            “...That’s what Miara said I should do...” Marson knew Miara personally. Miara was technically Culbert’s alchemist, but she preferred not to carry the title.

            “And you still came bothering me with questions?”

            “She didn’t seem serious to me...”

            “In what way?”

            “She wouldn’t stop laughing.”

            “Why did you ask Miara in the first place?”

            “She’s the one who said I would need one for this possibly top secret thing I’ve agreed to do.”

            “Which involves a potion? A poison?”

            “How would you get close enough to ask a will-o-the-wisp a question?” Aran asked, changing the subject. “Would one even answer such a question? Can they even speak?”

            “You would have to encircle it. Probably not, although you might be able to bribe it; with what, I don’t know. Yes they can speak, they sometimes lure people off roads with the voices of friends.” Marson was used to answering questions in this rapid fire manner.

            “All right.” Aran leaned back, signaling that he was done with serious questions. “Is Chalaldagh still trying to figure out where your chamber pot goes?”

            Marson smiled.

            “Yes, and he’s running out of ideas. Most recently he tried simply dangling an imp in with a rope tied around its middle. The portal pulled so hard he almost didn’t let go in time.”

            “That’s a very brave imp.”

            “Actually the imp had irritated him in some way. He wouldn’t tell me how......”

            “No, I imagine not.”

            “I think it has something to do with " sorry, Lord Culbert’s calling me. He has impeccable timing.” Marson rolled his eyes. “You can show yourself out. Or be forcibly removed by a demon. Your choice.”

            “I’d like to see him try. But I’ll show myself out this time.”

            “If I'm bored next time you’re in town, I’ll see if I can get Culbert to stage a public duel between you two.”

            “A demon fight would draw one hell of a crowd...let’s do that. Later.”

            Marson nodded and vanished, but not with any of the smoke or fire or flashes of light that many other wizards Aran knew. He showed himself out the illusory wall and the door as promised, stopping to sniff the air. No. Definitely not raining tomorrow.

 

            Aran sat up against the city’s outer wall. He needed to think about where he would go next. Much as he liked Broden, he was never going to find what he needed here. He took out Miara’s list. Rather than look around for just anything on the list, he decided to look for one item at a time. Now to decide which one to start with......start with the beginning is usually a good strategy. He looked at the top item.

                        Sliver of Unicorn Horn

            On the other hand, you could surprise your foe by starting from the end.....

                        Two Ironwood Nuts

            But then he might just be expecting that! So maybe you should start it the middle and improvise from there.

                        Hair from the Head of a Prince

            That he could do. Start out relatively slow. He thought a moment more. Prince Ardent owed him a favor. But knowing Ardent, it would probably take more than a favor to get his hair. Wizards could scry someone they didn’t know personally if they had a part of them, say, a hair, or some blood. Most people didn’t have to worry about this because they usually didn’t have enemies that were wizards or rich enough for the services of one. It could be protected against, but it would be a drain on their wizard’s magic, so high-ranking nobles and royalty usually had their wizards cast spells that prevented their hair from falling out, or bits of skin from falling off, and so on, (although there wasn’t much they could do about bleeding) at least until they were in a safe area, usually a hidden chamber somewhere. Anyhow, he knew that Ardent trusted him enough. Ardent had made him work for his trust, and he would make him work for his hair too. But Aran knew it would be good work.

            The problem was that he did not know where Ardent was now. He knew where he wasn’t, the capital, Sente. Aran didn’t know why he wasn’t at the capital. He sighed. Politics he sighed mentally. He put away the list, got up and walked back into Broden. He had some rumor-mongering to do.

 

            Aran arrived back at the Fox’s Den a brief walk later. He had decided to talk to Cob, the innkeeper. Since his clientele consisted mostly of travelers and self-proclaimed adventurers like Aran, he was a very world-wise man. And he also made it his business to know things, because his clientele wanted to know things. Such as where Prince Ardent was right now.

            Aran caught Cob’s eye and tipped his head toward a nearby barstool. Cob nodded and headed towards it as Aran sat on it.

            “What can I get you?”

            “A nice conversation.”

            “And what would you be likin’ to know?”

            “Well, I was looking for a friend of mine, but I don’t know where he is right now...”

            “What would your friend’s name be?”

            “Ardent. I believe he’s a prince.” It really wasn’t necessary that they speak like this semi-roundabout way, but Cob liked to, and Aran liked Cob enough to humor him about it.

            “I might just know where he is...if only I could remember...” which told Aran that, first, Cob did know where Ardent was, second, it was a secret, and third, it was going to cost him. Cob actually made a nice profit from his rumor-mongering.

            “Wait here a second.”

            “I'm not goin’ anywhere.”

            Aran went upstairs to his room and retrieved a bottle of strawberry wine from his pack. He had found it in some bandits’ campground, and wasn’t sure why he had taken it, or held on to it so long. He knew it was good, but wasn’t sure how good. He was glad for an excuse to have carried it so long, anyhow.

            Aran returned downstairs with the bottle in hand. Cob’s eyes went to it and his eyebrows rose a bit.

            “Would this help jog your memory?” Aran asked.

            “That it might.” Aran slid it across the bar to him. Cob picked it up, held it up to the light, uncorked it, and sniffed.

            “Mmmm...strawberry.” Cob reached under the bar, produced a small glass, poured out a small amount and drank it. His eyebrows rose again. “Damn, that’s good. You could get a whole silver pegasus for that from the right person.” He recorked the bottle and put it down. “Now as for your friend.” Cob leaned over the counter, continuing the charade. “Last I heard he was in Kisheen. Supposed to have gone there in an unassuming caravan, with some of his personal guards dressed as mercenaries. Never breathed a word about it outside the court. Certainly didn’t want anyone to know where he’d gone, or why. Veeerrry secretive. Sounds like good business for someone like you.”

            “How current is this?”

            “Learnt about it yesterday, supposedly happened about a week ago.”

            “Did your informant see the caravan himself, or hear about it second-hand?”

            “He didn’t tell me anything more than I told you. Traded it for free drinks for the evening. I know him personally to be trustworthy.” He looked at the bottle of wine again. “He didn’t actually drink that much. I’d say I’ve made a tidy little profit here.” He looked back at Aran. “You sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

            Aran shook his head.

            “I have to get to Kisheen as soon as I can.” Aran reached into his pocket, produced two copper hawks and three iron swallows, and slid them over the bar. “For rent and food.” he said. He stood up and headed upstairs.

 

Aran sat on the bed in his soon to be vacant room and packed his belongings. He knew some who could pack in the time it took you gather all of your scattered detritus into one spot. Aran preferred to take the time to pack well, so that he could fit as much in his pack as he could. The limit on what people can carry over long distances is more a matter of space than weight. Aran was an unashamed packrat, so he loved items that were small and light but useful. Like Miara’s potions. She was good at making her potions compact, although Aran observed that they were usually just as heavy as other potions of the same effectiveness......Aran finished packing and started donning his armor.

His armor mostly consisted of a scaled mail cuirass. In Aran’s experience, it was twice as effective as chainmail, and three quarters the weight. He’d had it since.....well, he had no idea how long he’d had it. Its armored skirts made greaves unnecessary, so he didn’t wear greaves.  He also had a pair of thick leather steel-toed boots, a decent-sized round steel buckler, a pair of steel bracers (which were another magic item he had that he didn’t know what they did. Probably some passive defensive spell.), and an impressive pair of pauldrons.  They were of elven make, smooth and graceful, sloping up his neck and down his shoulders, colored to blend with a forest, and decorated with an intricate leaf motif. His cloak matched his pauldrons, another gift from elves. It was perfect for his profession. It had a myriad of small pockets on the inside, some visible, some for the purpose of concealing weapons, of which he had plenty. His quiver was simple leather, another item he’d had for years, and it did not need to be anything special, so it wasn’t. His bow, on the other hand, was special. Not because it was magic, although it was very high-quality, but because Aran had made it. Not by himself, but he was still very proud of it. Sometimes in his spare time he would carve decorations into it. He strung it backwards, slung it over his shoulder, and strapped on his sword belt. He was intending to look like a good warrior. His outfit, though a tad motley, did the job well.

            He left the Fox’s den for the wagon grounds. He knew some adventurers who would never dream of riding somewhere rather than walking on their own feet. Aran preferred to walk, himself, but since he did not know Prince Ardent’s purpose in Kisheen, and thus how long he might be there, haste would be prudent. Convoy wasn’t much faster than foot, but it did mean he would be less likely to be sidetracked.

            The wagon grounds were on the western side of Broden, near the city’s proper entrance. Traffic was pretty light today...Aran hoped he could find a wagon bound for Kisheen. He really did not want to go horseback again.......besides, a man looking like him riding hard into Kisheen (as Aran knew he would) would probably attract some attention. People would want to know why he was there, so he would have to make up a story, and Aran hated lying. He was fairly good at it, but he would rather just remain anonymous.  

            Aran found an outbound convoy. He approached the man who seemed to be in charge, one of those people who exuded an aura of command. Who was also going bald.

            “Where are you bound?” Aran asked the slightly pudgy man.

            “Gondael. Are you looking for escort work?”

            “Sorry, not to Gondael.” Gondael was to the west, approaching the coastline. Entirely the wrong direction.

            “How much would it take to persuade you to come with us to Gondael? We’re short on our typical guard, and I’ve heard the road is dangerous...”

            That was new.

            “Dangerous? How so? I’ve always thought that Broden to Gondael was a well kempt and patrolled road.”

            “It is, but it can’t help but be dangerous when a tribe of orcs decides to settle alongside it.” THAT was definitely news. But it wasn’t reasonably near the locations of any known orc tribes. Aran expressed this concern to the wagonmaster.

            “Yes, everyone thinks it a bit odd, but you can verify it with the other wagonneers.” So Aran did so. He apprehended a very flustered looking man with a head full of wavy yellow hair haggling with a mercenary.

            “How is the road to Gondael?”

            The man gave him a brief glance and turned back to counting out coins from his purse.

            “Awful. There’s a tribe of orcs newly settled along the northern edge. Road’s still being patrolled, but the nobles are still bickering over whose troops are going to get rid of them.” The wagonneer gave a second, better look. “You bound anywhere particular? I'm going to Fyrna with a load of salt. Salt’s evidently in short supply over thataways, and that’s likely to make us more of a target for bandits.” Fyrna was a little north of the line between Broden and Kisheen, in the right direction. Aran could always get a different convoy once they got there. But he preferred to stick with one convoy until he reached his destination. Besides, Aran had a feeling he could trust this man.

            “I'm bound for Kisheen, so that’s just about as perfect as I could hope for.”

            “So, how much am I gonna have to pay to convince you to travel with my caravan? There’s three others with the same idea.” The wagonneer asked this as though he was about to enter another long bout of haggling. Aran took pity on him.

            “I'm no mercenary. How about I’ll give you a free guard in exchange for a free ride?” Aran watched the man internally sigh with relief.

            “I reckon I can do that.” The man reached out a hand. “Name’s Hugh.” Aran shook the proffered hand warmly.

            “Aran.” Hugh smiled.

            “Haven’t I heard of you from somewhere?”

            “Hmm.....I killed that dragon that had built a nest near a village between here and Heymere.”

            Hugh nodded.

            “That’s it. Somethin’ else, too, can’t remember what. How big was the dragon? I’d heard it was bigger than a house.”

            Aran smiled. If someone had told Cob that there was a dragon that big, and a man had killed it by himself, he would have thrown them out for being far too drunk for their own good.

            “It was about as long as one of your longer wagons and about as tall on four legs as one of the wheels. Vicious little b*****d, got him eventually though.”

            “I’d also heard that you stood right in its fiery breath for a whole minute and beheaded it with a single stroke.”

            “THAT is only partly exaggerated. I did stand in its flames, with the aid of a fireproofing oil, though. But I'm not stupid enough to just stand there. I hopped out within about half a second. I killed it by sheer number of wounds, and I did cut its head off after it was dead. I figured the villagers would want it as a memento.” Aran chuckled slightly. “Whoever was telling you this was more than a little inebriated.”

            “Definitely” Hugh agreed. “Well, glad to have such an infamous dragonslayer aboard!”

            “When do we leave?” Aran inquired.

            “Soon as we’re loaded.”

            “Then let me help.”

            “You’re definitely no mercenary. Jacob!” Hugh turned and called to a thin boy of perhaps thirteen years staggering under the weight of an enormous wooden crate. “Load that up and hop on in the wagon. We’ve got a new hand aboard.” Hugh turned back to Aran. “Thank you.”

            “Not a problem.” Aran walked over to the boy and started to take his crate, but was repulsed by a vigorous head shake. The boy jerked his head towards a stack of similar crates, which Aran walked towards and selected one of the lesser members of, picked it up, and decided that maybe he shouldn’t have volunteered his help. He had forgotten that salt is a rock, and that rocks are heavy.

 

            Miara approached Marson’s house, wondering if he was going to be there. She held Aran’s drawing gently in her left hand, and knocked on the door. When Chalaldagh appeared in her mind’s eye, she feigned disinterest and studied the iron bands holding the door together. She liked to annoy the demon. She briefly wondered just how many other women in the kingdom had the nerve to purposefully irritate a Friirjyk, arbitrarily decided that it was exactly 1139, and turned her attention to the demon.

            “What? I'm here to talk to Marson, not you.”

            “What’s the password?”

            “You of all people " I'm sorry, DEMONS " should know the password! Aren’t you the guard or something?”

            “Yes, I'm the guard. But what’s the password?”

            “Why are you asking me? What makes you think I know?”

            “You’re here to talk to Marson, aren’t you? You can’t possibly do that without knowing the password. So what is it?”

            “What makes you think I want to talk to Marson?”

            “Why else would you be here?”

            “Hmm, there’s moonprickle over there, and being an apothecary, I might want some...”

            “Then why wouldn’t you have just picked it and left?”

            “Shouldn’t I be polite and ask permission first? Marson might be growing it for one of his own projects.”

            “Then you would be here to talk to Marson! So what’s the password?”

            “No, I would be here to simply ask him a question then. But, as you’ve probably deduced, I'm not here to pick the moonprickle, I already have plenty.”

            “But are you here to talk to Marson?”

            “As a matter of fact, I am.”

            “So what’s the password?”

            “Do you honestly need me to remind you? Okay, I’ll give you a hint, although I'm not actually supposed to. It starts with a C.”

            “Yes....go on.”

            “Still can’t remember? Okay, the second letter is an H.”

            “Continue....”

            “I can’t continue, you’re hovering in front of the doorway.”

            “No, continue with the password!”

            “It smells like garlic...” Demons smelled like brimstone, imps smelled like garlic.

            “I do NOT smell like garlic!” Chalaldagh protested indignantly.

            “I never said you did! I wouldn’t dream of insulting a big scary Friirjyk like you.”

            “Just tell me the password already!”

            “If you really can’t remember, it’s your own name.”

            “And what’s my name?” growled Chalaldagh, belatedly realizing how perfectly he’d walked into a verbal trap.

            “Oh, please tell me you know your own name! How is anyone supposed to get in if the guard doesn’t even know his own name, let alone the password?!” Chalaldagh started to reply, but Miara continued before he could start. “You know what? I give up. I'm telling Marson that you’ve forgotten your name, are so utterly incompetent that you can’t even "“

            “That’s enough, Miara. Come in.” Marson had opened the door, and was standing, trying to suppress a smile, in the middle of the doorway.

            “Helllooooo, Marson!” Miara greeted him with a little curtsey, the picture of innocence. “I just wanted to ask you one little question.” Marson motioned her in and followed.

            “You’re the only one who ever gets past him without actually saying the password...why do you do that to him?”

            Miara produced a small glass vial from a hidden pocket.

            “Demon’s adrenaline. Exceptionally useful. Pure, it’s about ten times as potent as human adrenaline.”

            “And how did you get it....?”

            “I have my methods....” Miara replied innocuously, keeping her hand away from the small cold iron knife concealed on the inside of her girdle. Demons couldn’t feel cold iron.

            They sat in two seats on the opposite sides of a low stone table.

            “Ooookay. What was your question?”

            Miara flourished Aran’s picture.

            “As I'm sure you know, Aran was in town recently.”

            “Yes, he asked me boring questions about will-o-the-wisps. Wait, shouldn’t it be wills-o-the-wisp? Nevermind.”

            “And he found something interesting, so he drew it. He said that it appeared to be a large lizard, and there was green fur in the middle of it. I decided that a green-furred lizard was too weird to not have some part useful to alchemy.”

            “Likely true. Did he keep any of the fur?”

            “Yes, I have some. Here.” She produced it from a pocket on the inside of her robe. Marson took it, studied it, smelled it, put it down, and leaned back, as though trying to remember something. A bit later he grunted gutturally and one of Chalaldagh’s imps scampered out of heaven knows where, took the fur, and made for the illusory wall that was the door.

            “I think Chalaldagh might know something about it.”

            “Why?”

            “Just a hunch.”

            A hunch which proved to be correct. A moment later, Chalaldagh appeared between them, landing on the table with a rush of icy air. Chalaldagh in his true form cut a very intimidating figure. Snow white, bulky, muscular, with translucent speckled blue dragon wings, an insectoid tail with a large stinger on the end, white bear legs and feet, and a plethora of large and menacing tusks and horns, Chalaldagh presented you with a great variety of options if your goal was to die an excruciatingly painful death. It amused Marson that he employed a demon as powerful as a Friirjyk as a doorman. Chalaldagh liked it just fine. ‘It’s better than Hell. It’s really not hard to be better than Hell. I mean, it’s my home, but there’s a good reason that you try not to go there when you die.’ He had stated. Back to the present, he held aloft the handful of green fur.

            “Where was this found?” His voice was deadly serious. Something was definitely wrong.

            Miara answered, “On the fringe of the Teiarak jungle. Why?”

            Chalaldagh turned toward her.

            “This is hellhound fur.”

            Miara opened her mouth to deny it. She knew what hellhound fur looked and smelled like, and this was not hellhound fur. But the demon cut her off.

            “Not any hellhound. A Tarsian hunting hound. They are only found in the company of demon princes. Occasionally, which for demons means every few centuries, a demon prince will decide to go on a murderous rampage through civilization. Usually they are satisfied after leveling a city or two, and then they go back to hell and continue doing their evil demon stuff.”

            Miara interjected,

            “So, it’s nowhere near us. Not even the same kingdom.”

“That’s odd though. They invariably go for high population areas. More carnage, more blood, more stuff to burn. In general, more fun. But this was found where there are hardly any humans at all. Maybe elves, definitely some orcs and probably goblins too, but nothing much. That worries me. What were they doing so far out?”

“Maybe they just went hunting. We don’t know what all lives in that jungle. Aran said the remains were saurian, maybe a dragon?” Miara didn’t understand what Chalaldagh was so agitated about.

Marson held up the drawing.

“No wing bones.”

“A basilisk?”

“I thought they were snakes.”

“They can be, and they can also be lizards.”

“What if they weren’t hunting? What if they were attacked?” asked the demon.

“Who would be stupid enough to attack a demon prince and his pack of hounds?” Miara wondered.

“Something strong enough to kill a Tarsian.” Marson answered.

“Yeah, but the corpse was a lizard.”

“True...”

            “Can we get back to the point?” Chalaldagh interjected. “Suppose it was the corpse of a hellhound.”

            “I thought we just established that it wasn’t.” Miara objected.

            “She’s right, hellhounds aren’t saurian.” Marson agreed. “If the corpse is demonic, then it’s probably a salamandr.”

            “But if it was,” Chalaldagh stubbornly proceeded.

            “That would be worrisome.” answered Miara. “Aren’t hellhounds immortal or something?”

            “They can be banished by killing the form that appears on this plane, and killed permanently by those foolish enough to enter Hell while they are still alive.” Marson provided.

            Chalaldagh shook his head.

            “Tarsians are different. They’re immortal, but magic can banish them. It’s happened a few times before. I doubt they can be killed in hell, but I don’t think any mortal has ever gotten that far”

            “The fur could have just fallen off during the fight.” Miara suggested. “And besides, if a demon prince wants to take his hunting hounds and kill some dragons, I'm fine with that. The world could use fewer dragons.” She turned to the demon. “You’re sure that it’s hellhound fur?”

            “Positive.” Chalaldagh confirmed.

            Miara turned to Marson.

            “Okay, the fact that Tarsian hunting hounds are in the mortal world is bad, but it’s nowhere near civilization.”

            “Which is odd but nice.” continued Marson.

            “But they could move towards it. Or they could just have been doing their crazy demon stuff and have left already.”

            “I think it would be prudent to discover whether it is a problem or not ahead of time, and discern the nature of the problem.” advised Marson. “Maybe give people some warning.”

            Chalaldagh interjected,

            “It would probably also be prudent to dispose of the fur. I don’t really have any hard facts, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea to have it lying around.”

            Miara disagreed.

            “I think that if, in the future, we had to investigate this problem, the fur might help us in said investigation. But I do agree with your concerns. Marson,” Marson turned towards her. “Would you be willing to keep it here, under safeguard? If it turned problematic, you could just throw it down the chamber pot.”

            “Yes.”

            “Good, because I think that if I keep it in my shop, I’ll start experimenting with it.”

            “I assume we’re going to keep quiet about this?”

            “Yes, especially since all we have for evidence is weird fur and the word of a demon. Actually, I might tell Aran, to be honest.”

            “Yes, I was thinking the same. He would be the ideal person to investigate.”

            “Yes.”

            A silence fell on the trio. Marson stood after a bit and said,

            “Well, I’ve got to get back to meddling with dark forces better left alone, so I’ll offer you the usual choice of showing yourself out or being forcibly removed by a demon.”

            “I’ll take the former, thank you.” Miara stood up and briskly exited through the illusory wall into a surprisingly dark night. She decided to take it as a bad omen, and hurried back to her shop.

 

            A few days later, Hugh’s convoy crested a hill that offered a good view of Fyrna. Aran sat in the front wagon, fully armored, dangling his legs off the front idly. The trip had been uneventful, the company not particularly interesting, the food plain but palatable. In short, a nice, brief pause in Aran’s normally eventful lifestyle. As Fyrna came into view, he saw what he expected, a small but busy town, no walls, but plenty of life. The kind of town Aran liked to stay in.

            The next morning, Aran took a similar position, but noticed that it was oddly silent. The town, still a half-day off, seemed oddly still.

 As the convoy rolled closer to Fyrna, the silence and stillness seemed to deepen. Aran felt as though something was stalking him, but he had no idea what.

As the convoy entered Fyrna itself, Aran made the same observation as everyone else: the town was completely abandoned.

Author's Note

That's actually a good question: What is the plural form of will-o-the-wisp?

Reviews

[Lindsey]

Dude this is seriously a great story. It's descriptive in a good way I can understand and it has a lot of things to keep people reading.