Chapter 1

Blood Calling

1. Merry Meet...

It wasn't until he had finished both monastery ales and had moved on to his third tankard containing the infamous Thirsty Cock-ale when he noticed a new face sitting next to him. It was a young girl of maybe fourteen and, while with her willowy figure and fair skin she could have been called pretty, her most striking feature could not be seen but felt. Her aura betrayed a sense of complete bewilderment, as if she had slumbered all her life and had just woken up into a completely different world. For a moment Reynaer could not avert his eyes and the girl noticed his gaze.

            The delicate figure drew herself up and returned his stare. "What?" Her eyes were narrow and sharp, causing her to look a little angry even when she wasn’t.

            Reynaer started as if waking from a trance and gathered his wits. "Oh, I'm sorry, good lady, I just thought... I sensed something different in you. My apologies for staring, I'm a bit travel-worn."

            "And on your third tankard, I see."

            As the man laughed and shook his head, he noticed that the room tilted. The ale had already started its work. "Usually I would protest, good lady, but it seems you are right, this ale shot straight to my head even though I can take a few."

            "Well, I've heard those are a bit stronger than the regular stuff you get around the world, or so I was told by my m... never mind." She had gone pale and returned to staring into emptiness.

            The barmaid walked up to her. "Say, how old were you again?"

            The girl flinched and stumbled with her words. Reynaer turned to the barmaid. "Say, Catrain, she's with me. Could you tell me how strong these ales are?"

            The woman smiled and winked. "The Carengie's extra strong, the Varvig's got even more punch, and the Thirsty Cock kicks like a mule, the strongest ale anywhere!"

            "Huh, no wonder they kicked in fast. Well, give her a Carengie and a Thirsty... no, a Varvig for me. I need to regroup before going head to head with the Cock again."

            Catrain looked the girl up and down but smiled as she poured two tankards and placed them on the bar. Reynaer paid for the drinks and handed one to the girl.

            She accepted the drink without much ceremony. "Thanks, whoever you are. I don't really have money."

            "It's all right, I got some from a couple of lads down the road."

            The girl blew a waft of black hair out of her eyes but the raven strands swiftly returned to where they had just been.

            She held out her hand a bit shyly. "I'm Fyen."

            Reynaer's large, calloused fingers closed around her small, delicate digits as he shook her hand. How fragile she seems!

"Nice to meet you, Fyen. My name's Reynaer."

Then they both turned to their drinks and felt oddly comfortable sharing the project of consuming ale in silence.

Fyen felt the ale of her third tankard bubbling in her head. She had also calmed down a little. The strange, unshaven man seemed to somehow share her hatred at the world, at society. Several convictions and resolutions drifted in and out of focus as she weighed her options and plans. Some, however, kept drifting back and it were those that felt the most comforting. She dismissed them several times but they always came back. It was like trying to convince a fresh piece of wood to stay underwater.

            First, my days as a child are over, done with, history. No child can survive the world alone as it is. This means... well, several things I guess. One is my appearance. I can't look like a child anymore! I must look like an adult, like someone... who can take care of herself. Black, everything black. No more colors, no more beauty, no decorations or smiles. They leave you just too vulnerable. No birthday cakes either. Birthday cakes are for the weak! From now on, everything I have, everything I own, will be expendable, replaceable, disposable. Then it won't hurt if it breaks or gets lost. And I will carry a weapon. That strange man carries three swords and a dagger. He also looks... somehow... casually dangerous. I could ask him what to get and where. Then I will go up against the Sons all by myself. I don't care if I live or die! Besides, who would help me anyway? I can trust only myself.

            Oh, and these damn shoes! My feet are still wet and cold! No matter that I got them for my fourteenth birthday, I will wear black, replaceable, expendable, disposable boots from now on, boots that keep my feet dry. And armor, without armor I'm practically inviting hurt and pain. Need for better body armor, that's what I have. Again, the man will know, I will ask him. In a moment.

            And the arts... I will turn them as black as my hair, as black as my future clothes, as black as my heart. I will seek out the deepest, darkest magicks I can find and I will immerse myself, my soul, my very being into them, become one with darkness, learn to wield it. Yes, things are definitely about to change, for little Fyen is little no more. Fyen is... being ogled by some scrawny douche? What the hell?

Desiderius was on his second pint of ale and he had just eaten a jelly cake. His eyesight sharpened and blurred while the room revolved around him and then stopped only to start its movement again. The boy sat on the edge of a crude, wooden bench which was riddled with splinters stinging his buttocks. He still carried a bagful of broken eggs on his back and he smelled of horse-dung.

            Now I have definitely hit an all new low, Desiderius thought to himself. He raised his finger to order another pint but wasn't sure if the barmaid noticed him. Waiting for his drink that might not come, he looked at the girl again. There was a beautiful, dainty girl sitting on the other side of the tavern. About seventeen maybe, precisely the same age as myself, Desiderius reckoned. Raven-black hair and pale skin. Yes, she looks like a sorceress, like an enchantress... maybe I could tell her about my battles against the terrible swamp-beast and other monsters. No, I should! It would be a crime not to tell her!

            Desiderius stared at the girl. He could not take his eyes off her anymore. In fact, it was soothing to look at her as it kept the room from spinning. What a delicate face, melancholy eyes... too bad I can't see what kind of boobs she has. Hopefully not too small. But wait, who's the beefy bloke next to her? Now now, wait a minute, doesn't that fellow have those madman's eyes... isn't he all ruggedly handsome and stuff and I bet the pretty number is all over him in no time unless...

            “Unless I get there first!” Desiderius bellowed but his outburst went unnoticed because the tavern had livened up over the course of the evening.

Everyone was talking or singing or pinging and banging their pints of wood and metal together. Desiderius stood up and swayed heavily. He started a determined wobble towards the corner of the bar where the girl and the madman sat. She was looking directly at him but for some reason betrayed bewilderment and even anger instead of longing and adoration. Probably angry at Mister Beef Shoulders, Desiderius reasoned and wobbled faster. He tried not to bump against too many patrons or pieces of furniture on his way and was relieved to finally reach the bar. In a suave manner he leaned his elbow on the counter and addressed the girl.

            "Good evening, m'lady, this is indeed your lucky evening because now you have a chance to meet a real warrior, that is, the beater of the beast-swamp." Desiderius cleared his throat. "So this one time I fought this monster, um, it had well-defined muscles that flexed under its skin while sweat sparkled like diamonds... pearls! I mean very shiny rocks! And the warrior, who is yours truly of course, had like these amazing flaky fangs and I would end the beast and my life with it! Let me tell you how, um, so me and my sheep Snappy hovered in the air with these great balls..." Desiderius paused for breath and to gather his thoughts, most of them lost in a pool of ale.

            To his surprise, the girl was staring at the unshaven man sitting next to her and not at Desiderius. Her face was not glowing with enthusiasm either, not like Desiderius had imagined it would when he was telling his magnificent story. This bar counter seems awfully comfy, very soft, mobile almost, Desiderius thought and flashed a charming smile at the girl.

            "This nimrod giving you trouble, talking about his balls and whatnot?" the imposing man asked the girl.

            "What? I never!" Desiderius yelped. He squinted his eyes to take a better look at the man. First he saw two men entwined together until his eyesight regained control over the effects of alcohol.

            "Nah, it’s fine, Reyn. Let's just order another round of Cock"

            "She's the one talking about cocks and stuff!" Desiderius exclaimed.

Instead of replying, the big man was looking down. Desiderius followed his gaze and realized, with a slight tinge of panic, that he had been leaning on the man's shoulder all along. With terror, he looked the man right into his pale eyes and remembered what he had pushed away from his mind just minutes ago. This is the man who shoved me right into that hill of horse-shit! Desiderius felt the atmosphere grow tense. He didn't care about charming the girl anymore, he swore he would never drink again, and hoped he wouldn’t have broken all those valuable eggs. The man seemed to grow like a thunderstorm in front of him. A fist is a-coming...

            "Excuse me," said a voice to the left.

Mirlín looked around the tavern hall. It was more or less full, just like she had expected. But she was thirsty and hungry and she didn't care if there was a herd of oxen blocking her way, she was set on getting her refreshments.

            There were people standing shoulder to shoulder before the bar counter apart from one small space left between a skinny, haggard fellow and a broad-shouldered, armored man. Apparently the skinny fellow wanted to keep his distance. Deciding that the free spot was hers, Mirlín waded through the crowd, her face partly hidden by the wolf hide.

            "Excuse me," she said.

            The man glanced at her and gave room. "No problem."

Mirlín had noticed from the corner of her eye how a thin, young, and slightly fragrant youth had jumped a foot or two away from the man at the counter just when she had arrived next to him.

            Strange bloke, Mirlín thought and then addressed the barmaid: "Evening, I'd like to have something to eat, like... a loaf of bread and some cheese, please."

            "Sure, anything to drink?"

            "What's your strongest beverage?"

            "That'd be the Thirsty Cock, miss," the barmaid answered.

The corner of Mirlín's mouth twitched. "I'll have that, then. Been one of those days..."

            "Take my advice, good lady, try the Varvig first. That Cock packs quite a punch." A deep voice on her right said.

            "I can take a punch," Mirlín replied, glanced at the man next to him, and, for a moment, got fazed by his striking features. He had a fierce, chiseled face and eyes like pale-blue icicles. He seemed like he had been through many wars though he didn’t look even forty yet. I bet this one has seen a lot, been to many places... and talked to many ladies before.

            "I'm sure you can, good lady," the man said and lowered his voice to a whisper, "but just between you and me, Varvig actually tastes better and packs a decent punch to boot."

            Mirlín glanced at the barmaid impatiently, wondering how long it would take for her beer and meal to arrive so she could return to her room, eat in peace, unpestered by strangers, and, after that, fall asleep knowing she was safe. Or as safe as I or anyone can be.          

            She drew the hide tighter around herself and ran her fingers over her sword and knife to make sure they were still in place and to feel the comfort of cold steel close at hand. It struck her strange that the man next to her had three swords. Granted, two were lying at his feet, sheathed, but it was still slightly suspect.

            "Don't listen to him, lady! The Cock's really good," shouted a fair-faced, seemingly quite intoxicated girl who was sitting next to the man.

As if you have any idea, Mirlín thought to herself.

            "She said it again! Why do I always have to dive into horseshit for talking about cocks and balls and she just gets free drinks and all... stuff," the slightly fragrant youth exclaimed and swayed closer to Mirlín.

The woman could not make much sense of what he was talking about and lost her interest when she finally got her meal and a tankard of ale. She looked at the foaming beer and wondered which one of the ales she had actually gotten. Then she realized she should have ordered her drink in a bottle as there was a large sign behind the bar stating that patrons weren't allowed to take their tankards outside. Oh... bugger me... well, I guess I can finish just one pint quickly. I'm sure one pint in a busy tavern never hurt anyone. Then I'll go.

            "Say, that's a great wolf hide!" the youth said and swayed even closer.

He had a pleasant, young though presently drunken face. He appeared less than proficient at holding his liquor.

            "My name is Delirious... Devirious... Derevous... Desirous…"

            "Uh-huh?" Mirlín raised her eyebrows. "Pleasure meeting you, Des... Des...? And thank you," she replied and feared that the boy might eventually sway over the counter and onto the beer barrels behind the barmaid.

            The tall man and the young, delicate-looking girl had been engaged in an animated discussion earlier but now the man turned back to Mirlín. "How rude of me! It is not in my nature to turn my back to a lady. My name is Reynaer, Reynaer Walraven, a soldier of fortune or, as of late, misfortune."

            Suave. But why’s he with the girl? A mismatched couple if I ever saw one. Then again, most men prefer their meat young and tender.

"Misfortune? How come?" Mirlín asked, took a sip of her beer, and was surprised at how smooth and full the flavor was for a supposedly strong ale.

            The man turned and spat on the floor. "I got this horse as a gift from a woman but the animal was just as treacherous as its mistress and while I was... incapacitated, the thing buggered off with most of my stuff! Luckily I came across two random twerps in the forest. They had just bounced a rider and I got some silver off them. I wonder if it was theirs or the rider's."

            "That you will never know, will you?" Mirlín asked and smiled for the first time that night.

            "Well, you know what they say: ‘if you have to ask, you'll never know,'" he said returning the smile and finishing his beer.

            Mirlín thought he was rather amusing in his own way so she asked the barmaid to pour the old man a new pint to which he exclaimed: "Hey, I'm not old! Or maybe I am, I don't know," and his gaze sunk back into the frothy tankard.

            At the same time the black-haired girl craned her head around Reynaer and peered at Mirlín. "Say, what's your name, lady? Have you said it? I haven't heard it yet. I'm Fyen. I haven't got a mum." After the last words she withdrew and followed Reynaer's example, staring into her almost empty tankard.

            "I haven't got a mom either—"

            "You haven't?" Fyen asked with tears rolling down from her narrow, tapering eyes.

            "No. And I'm sorry for your loss... Fyen," Mirlín answered but she felt no real pity for the girl. Not yet. This was the way the world worked.

            "Thanks, I guess. I'm not sure if my mum's still alive or where she is," Fyen said.

            "That's terrible. What’s her name?" Mirlín asked.

            The girl gulped down the rest of her ale along with a few tears before replying with a cracking voice. "Ayleth, her name's Ayleth. The priests and soldiers of the Sun took her away. I hate them," the raven girl sighed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her blue dress.

            "Cocks! Bloody cocks everywhere!" the young man, whose name was still a mystery to Mirlín, shouted from the floor.

Apparently the youth had sought a more horizontal mode of existence at some point though Mirlín hadn't noticed him fall down. 

            Reynaer looked at the boy and raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure glad I'm not in the same place as that lad, wherever it is."

Mirlín nodded, smiling behind locks of ashen hair. She looked into her empty tankard and frowned. Well, I guess it's time to go... but what that girl just said. About the Sons. They would know... maybe I could get new information if I stayed. Yeah, two pints in a busy tavern never hurt anyone. Mirlín waved at the barmaid and ordered a Varvig.

I knew it! That's what's been eating away at her! She lost her mother and now she's in a bar, drinking her ass off among complete strangers. Poor girl, shit world. Damn world! Reynaer remembered his own childhood momentarily but shoved the thoughts aside as his tankard had emptied itself once again.

            "Oi, Catrain, love, be a dear and pour us three another round." The barmaid looked at Fyen who was nodding against her pint. Reynaer noticed it too but insisted. "It's ok, it's ok, she's with me," as if that made sense.

            "Whatever. What'll it be this time? Cocks all-round?" Catrain asked, smirking.       

            "Well... can't see why not..." Reynaer said wondering why, oh why the brewers had chosen such a name for their beverage. Then he turned back to his last fully conscious companion. "The niblet was right, you know."

            "Right about what?"

            "You still haven't told us what to call you," The man replied.

            The woman laughed. "You have any idea why I might be reluctant to share that information with you?"

            Reynaer looked up in thought. "I have plenty of ideas all right, and many of them actually make sense, contrary to the trend of this evening, but please, enlighten me."

            The woman opened her mouth as if to reply but then stopped, frowned, as if hesitating, and then sighed. "Mirlín," she said and took a sip of her drink.

            "A good name, I'll drink to that," Reynaer said and took a hearty swig.

            The woman followed his movements intensively with her dark eyes as if trying to figure out what he was made of.

            As Reynaer lowered his tankard, he noticed that Mirlín was still staring at him. "Won't find beer in my tankard, love, it's empty. If you want more ale..." he said with a grin.

            The woman snapped out of her thoughts and turned to the barmaid. "Hint taken. Two more, please."

            Reynaer was a little surprised but in a good way. "Why thank you! The world was still young the last time a lady bought me a drink."

            "Hard to believe, you being such a charmer and all."

            "It's the brown brigandine," Reynaer sighed. "Should've bought a trendy black one and the lady folk would be all over me!"

            "Well, she's all over you." Mirlín nodded towards Fyen, who had passed out against the man's shoulder with drool dripping over his armor. "She your young bride or what?"

            He gave a short laugh but shook his head. "Nah, just met her here today. The kid seemed really shaken about something, you know, in a bad place."

            The corners of Mirlín’s mouth twitched slightly. "And she's in a better place here with you?"

            Reynaer shrugged. "Better here with me than out there with somebody else. I'm not big on trusting people and the kid needs someone to watch her back while she blows off some steam. Didn't go the smartest way about it but I guess she could've done worse."

            "Done smarter than I did, that's for sure." Mirlín said quietly.

            Reynaer laughed. "Or I! The world's a pretty strange place for a kid to grow up in. Gotta be really lucky not to get all bent backwards while growing up."

            "Well, if your intentions are honorable, she's one of the lucky ones," Mirlín sighed.

            Reynaer looked into the woman's eyes for a moment and then smiled. "You got a place for her to crash? She might be local but I have no idea where she lives and she's in no condition to give directions."

            Mirlín nodded. "You three can have my place at the nearby inn."

            "What about you then?"

            She emptied her pint. "Well... I know when it's time to move on. My gelding gallops tonight."

            Getting the gist of what she said, Reynaer gave her a mockingly stern look. "Listen, I don't mean to get all protective white knight on you or anything, and I'm in no way implying in the slightest that you couldn't take care of yourself, good Mirlín, but I really would sleep better if you slept it off with the rest of us losers at the inn." Then he prodded the young man on the floor with his foot. "Besides, could use a hand with Cocks here, what with probably having to carry the kid as well." Mirlín bit her lip and furrowed her brows. The man wiped some of Fyen's drool off his armor. "I'm not big into pajama parties either but these two are..."

            "...wasted. But you look strong enough a man to carry them both," Mirlín pointed out, smiling.

            "Not gonna twist your arm here, just figured it would've been kinda nice for a change, what with us all being these hardcore world-haters and loners," he said with a wink, noticing that his last word had made Mirlín wince.

            She sighed, pouted for a moment, and finally stood up, tossing Fyen over her shoulder with surprising ease. "Let's go, then. But I warn you, I always sleep naked."

            For a moment Reynaer didn't realize he had one foot on the young man's head. Recuperating, he laughed. "Two barfing kids, an old drunk, and a naked lady. Kinda has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

            The young man on the floor seemed to have heard the word ‘naked' for he opened his eyes, closed them again, and shouted: "Cocks!"

As the night was turning into morning and the weary foursome scrambled towards the inn, Fyen came to. She realized she was staring at the ground from the height of a few feet and her head kept bumping against a woman's backside.

            "Cocks, bloody cocks everywhere..." she muttered before passing out again.

Blood Calling - Prologue

Reynaer Walraven: The Soldier of Misfortune

He was stuck in a dark, confined space filled with murky mist. Amidst the stuffy darkness, naked fairies were fluttering about. However, an obtrusive figure drew his attention from the playful sprites: before him stood a heavyset but small and gnarly man who bore a striking resemblance to a tree stump. The walls throbbed inwards along to a dull beating of a tired heart, causing nauseating shifts in air pressure.

            Reynaer opened his eyes but shut them again. Why did the fairies disappear? He brought his hands to shield his face from bright sunlight and slowly opened his eyes again. Water... He groped around for his water flask but felt only dirt and warm ashes under his shaking hand. I have to get up. I need to get up and drink water. He sat up, grabbed his flask, and drank deeply.

            Reynaer awoke and realized he was still sprawled on the ground, his water flask was still missing, and he was still thirsty. Swearing silently, the big man sat up with an all too familiar throbbing in his head and a foul taste in his mouth. Wondering where his flask had gone, Reynaer remembered something, looked around the camp, jumped up, and let out a string of curses. His horse was nowhere to be seen. It had disappeared with most of his belongings. Panic started to set in. He ran around a bit but then, noticing his hangover had abated some, shrugged and decided to relieve himself in a nearby bush, hoping that the procedure in all its nastiness would rid him of persistent morning wood.

            After half a bush of leaves spent wiping, the tall man pulled up his worn, black pants and slouched back to the remains of his camp-fire. He noticed that his armor and weapons were scattered around the ashes. After failing to remember why he had taken off most of his clothes and disarmed himself, Reynaer put on his gambeson, leather brigandine, and hung a long, black cloak over his broad shoulders. He gathered his few remaining belongings and belted a dagger and a longsword, both of which had seen better days. Yawning deeply, he started walking down a narrow road, glad that the sun had disappeared behind tall firs.

            Reynaer's mood improved with every step and he was actually grinning by the time he heard the steady ripple of a nearby mountain stream. He stepped off the road and wandered deeper into the dense woods, following the sound. Soon he came to the stream, kneeled before it, and quenched his thirst. It seemed that just this once the gods were smiling upon him as he felt the purifying and healing effects of the water. Since cold water is this good, why would anyone drink wine? Ever? Again? His musings were cut short by the sound of hooves coming from the road. It was followed by a distant rumble of thunder and, of course, rain. Perfect. Just how many miles is it to the nearest village?

            With a steady step, Reynaer strode back towards the road, hoping to meet the rider and possibly talk himself a horseback ride to the next village. Not that it matters much anyway, it must be only some miles by now if my calculations are correct... but the sun is going down and the rain just won't, can't let up, not an inch, not today. Damn.

            By the time he reached the road, the rider was gone but he could still hear sounds ahead. However, something did not seem quite right. Despite the steady rainfall, he could have sworn he heard a fight break out somewhere. Ahh, yes, a woman! She was shouting at someone. Reynaer broke into a run, cursing his presently horseless state. With a pleasant surprise, he noticed his step was light and his stride long. He felt proud of his ability to recover quickly from a less-than-ideal, mostly liquid supper. Reynaer had sprinted perhaps five hundred yards when he came to the head of a curve and saw a rider galloping away on a blue roan while two ragged men gathered themselves from nearby bushes. He guessed it had been the rider’s voice he had heard a moment ago.

            Highwaymen. Should've guessed... Reynaer slipped off the road and moved quietly through the undergrowth. He picked up a fallen tree branch, heavy enough to work as a cudgel. The two men were still standing on the road, looking at something on the ground. The first one fell without making a sound. The second raised his blade but Reynaer struck it aside with the cudgel and landed a solid punch on the man's jaw. He fell down into a miserable heap but Reynaer lifted his foot and stomped on the unmoving head just the same. He then proceeded to loot his victims and found a purse containing a small handful of silver coins. Reynaer pocketed the money, collected the swords of the two men, and started walking along the road.

            By the time he reached a sign that read ‘Welcome to Kumby', he was soaking wet and angry. Unconscious... dead... what does it matter? What does any of it matter? Wouldn't the world be better off with most people dead? Well, a job well done is a job well done, I'll drink to that. At least the swords will go for good money. So thinking Reynaer strode through the thoroughfare as if knowing exactly where the village tavern was.

            Just as he spotted a public house, a young man bumped into him. Reynaer's foul mood took the best of him and he shoved the boy, causing him to fall down onto a pile of manure. Maybe I should help the poor lad up and apologize. Then again, maybe I should just fuck off and mind my own business. He stepped over the scrambling youth and continued towards the tavern.

            Reynaer glanced over his shoulder to ensure the youth wasn't coming after him to try anything stupid. Then he stepped into a musty, candle-lit room which smelled of spilled ale, cider, and roasted meat. Only the barmaid gave him a quick look but even she returned to waking up a patron who had passed out on the bar. The tavern was fairly crowded but the atmosphere was peaceful if somewhat melancholy. The tall man nodded in acceptance. Finally! A place where people take getting drunk as a task, a serious matter needing concentration, focus, and effort! He walked straight to the bar, placed the two stolen swords so that they rested against the counter, and asked what ales were available.

The girl behind the counter was barely in her twenties but replied with confidence. "We have two monastery ales, Carengie and Varvig, but my favorite is our own brew, the Thirsty Cock.”

Reynaer grinned. "I'll have one of each, lassie."

"The name's Catrain."

            "My apologies, Catrain. One of each, please. Here's the silver." With that Reynaer settled perfectly into the crowd and was soon immersed into the hypnotizing world of fine ales.

Mirlín: The Snow Wanderer

First it looked like a ghostly shadow gliding through a misty forest but gradually the figure took the form of a horse which moved with light, silent steps on thufts of moss. The animal was of rather sturdy build and its coat shared shades with the surrounding shreds of fog. The mane hung low like a coal-gray veil and the fine ears turned from left to right, listening carefully. A likewise gray figure was straddling the animal's broad back, dressed in a scruffy wolf hide which partly covered the rider's face. Still, at a closer look, it was sufficient to say that the face belonged to a woman.

            Soon the foggy forest spat the horse and its rider out to a narrow road and the woman tugged at the reins, stopping her mount.

            "Which way do you want to go?" Mirlín asked the horse; a fine blue roan. "Left? We might find a lake and a nice quiet shore where we could wash up and spend the night. Or right? There could be a settlement of some kind. Which way you want to go?"

            The gelding didn't hesitate when he turned right. Perhaps he could smell the oat and the warm stables of a village, patiently waiting for the two at the end of the road.

            "You're probably right, boy. It's going to rain and neither of us likes sleeping on a damp forest floor, a damn rain drenching us all the way to the bone," the woman muttered and let the animal trot.

            She squinted at the sky and her suspicions were proved right as she spotted heavy, dark clouds looming over the murky-green pine forests. The narrow road ahead already looked darker and the woman dreaded what she might find behind the next bend. This is the weather of―

            "Stop right fucking now! Get off the horse! Give us your fucking money! Fucking now!" ―highwaymen.

            Mirlín pulled the reins and took a quick look at the robbers: two men who seemed strong but the woman hoped their still sheathed swords were a sign of inexperience. As she didn't comply immediately, the men glanced at each other, as if expecting the other to take the lead. Then the one who had spoken grabbed the reins of the blue roan.

            "Did you hear what we said? Get down and give us the fucking money!"

            "I haven't got any," she grunted, keeping an eye on both men. Then the robber closest to her grabbed the woman's leg. "Get off!" she shouted and jerked at the left rein.

            The roan charged the highwayman, pushed him over with its muscular, wide breast and trampled him under its heavy hooves. The woman spurred on her mount and rode right towards the other man, and even though he started to run, the horse caught up easily and pushed him straight into the gutter. Raindrops were already in the air. The two highwaymen were left stunned and bruised by the road, as  the blue roan and his rider disappeared into the evening.

The village of Kumby looked fairly small as it had only one muddy main road along which stood rows of houses of wood and stone with idyllic back gardens, tightly closed window shutters, and doors that were painted with falu red. Since it was raining, Mirlín was the only rider on the thoroughfare.

            She rode past a public house and through its grainy windows, a lambent glow fell on the darkened street and the sounds of people chattering and dancing reached the woman's ears. However, despite her being soaked and hungry, she didn't cast a longing look at the warmth of company and frothy drinks. She avoided crowds as much as she could.

            After having left her gelding to a livery, Mirlín rushed away to look for a place where she could dry her clothes and, if she was lucky, take a bath. A little further down the road she found a small inn. A gale of wind swung a rusty sign above the entrance which read: ‘King's Head Inn'. Mirlín pushed open the red door and stepped into the building, her wolf hide dripping water on the floor, her boots leaving muddy tracks in the hallway. It smelled like leather and fresh linen inside.

Two hours later yet another red door stood before her as she hesitated, weighed her options, her hunger and fatigue. The woman glanced over her shoulder but found the thoroughfare dark and deserted. Rainwater splashed down on the muddy ground from the eaves of the tavern. Even though she was shielded from the rain, a bristling autumn wind bit against her cheeks; the raindrops like needles.

            She took a deep breath and pushed open the tavern's door, her free hand hovering close to her father's knife.

Desiderius: The Great Warrior

The beast was great but the warrior was greater. His wavy, golden locks shone as bright as the sun, his well-defined muscles flexed under his skin on which sweat sparkled like pearls. No wait, like... like huge boulders! Of sweat. And his gaze was fierce, determined, and full of fury. He would end the beast as if his life depended on it. In fact, it did, for the warrior was in great peril. But he did not back off an inch!

            His white steed danced upon sand and stones as the warrior's glimmering blade flew through the air like a flash of lightning. The terrible swamp-monster of Doomoors revealed its pointy fangs and growled menacingly. Its skin was flaky and disgustingly brown, its eyes were like great balls of fire, and the stench... it was indescribable, unspeakable.

            Yet the magic blade of the warrior could not be stopped. It hovered in the air and then dived, surely, fatally, right through the stinking beast's heart it went. An unholy screech escaped the monster's throat. It was told that no mortal could ever stand the noise of a dying swamp-beast without perishing along with it.

            However, believe it or not my keen audience, our blond, brave warrior and his shiny steed stood still, as if they had turned into stone. The monster bellowed for the last time, gasped its last breath, and slowly sunk into an unidentifiable blob.

            Thus was the village saved. The noble warrior turned his horse around and returned to the people whose lives he had just saved. The village chief's beautiful and svelte daughter ran towards the warrior, crying out his name lovingly, anxiously...

            "Desiderius! Desiderius! Oh, Desiderius!"

            "Desiderius!"

            "Darn it, Desiderius have you gone barkin' deaf?"

Desiderius held a limb of birch wood like a sword, wore a bucket as a helmet, and a barrel lid played the part of a shield. He was confronted by no other than Hilfur the farmer who had offered Desiderius a job at his stables months ago and now greatly regretted it. Hilfur was a stout man and, in present circumstances, far greater a threat to young Desiderius than any swamp-monster the boy could think up. When Hilfur got irritated or mad, his complexion became like that of a ham and his bald head shook like the top of a jelly cake.

            "Collect your sorry bones at once and take some eggs to the village, now!" he huffed.

Then he looked suspiciously from the boy to a barrel and an oat sack placed upon it. Desiderius had drawn a grimacing face on the sack.

            The young man noticed Hilfur's look and hurried to explain. "It's supposed to resemble a monster. See, I was practicing for—"

            "For a band of jokers, eh?" Hilfur sneered.

            "No! For an epic battle!"

            Hilfur's patience had run out by now and Desiderius decided to lay down his shield and sword before his master got his unkind hands on him. Quickly the young man took his pony, Snappy, out from the stables, grabbed a basketful of eggs from the front porch, and rode down a road towards the small village of Kumby. The clouds in the sky promised rain for the evening.

Snappy had a thick coat even though the climate was mild throughout the year in that part of the fair country of Rodal. Sometimes the sea on the other side of the valley brought in cool winds but winters were often snowless. Snappy had been brought from the mountains two summers ago. Desiderius' father had given her to him though at first the boy had refused to ride a pony. He had asked for a real horse, a bucking stallion, but all he had gotten was an exceedingly furry, headstrong pony. Eventually Desiderius grew to tolerate his feisty Snappy but he could not help dreaming of a big knight's horse.

            But how could he, my own father, my flesh and blood, give me such a stupid, unfair ultimatum? It is utterly ridiculous... sending me away like that, having nothing else for the road but a stubborn pony, a dagger, and dry bread. Bitter thoughts filling his head, he forced Snappy into a gallop even though the basket on his back was full of eggs. I don't care about Hilfur's silly eggs! For a moment he pushed aside his dreams of glory and fortune and let in only anger. The weather seemed to agree with Desiderius and let the first drops of rain fall down.

            Snappy bucked and shook her head. Rain ran dark stripes on the pony's creamy white coat. She wanted to find dry shelter as much as anyone in such an ungodly weather and Desiderius didn't hold her back as Snappy cantered down the thoroughfare of Kumby. As if possessed, she rushed towards the door of the only tavern in the village, the aptly named Crying Cock.

            Desiderius tugged at the reins but Snappy was determined to have her share of tavern life too. Boldly she pushed the door open with her flour-white muzzle and neighed in a surprisingly demanding manner, causing all the heads in the tavern to turn towards the entrance. Desiderius glided down Snappy's shoulder and toppled on the floor, his legs shaking. A roaring wave of laughter erupted from the crowd.

”Oi! Lad! That sheep of yours thirsty or what?” someone shouted.

Gathering the last fragments of his dignity, Desiderius stumbled back on his feet and backed Snappy out into the rain. She protested and tried to bite him as Desiderius dragged her further away from the building and towards the stables on the other side of the road.

            "Um, good even, sir! You have a place for this little mare of mine?" he asked the stable master who stood in the doorway.

            "Always space for a small pony! One silver a night, bring her right in."

            "Thanks! There you go Snappy. Let's take this saddle off before you ruin it too," Desiderius murmured.

Then he remembered that the eggs had gotten shattered during his reckless gallop so he looked into his leather money purse with a due sense of dread. He would have received a rock of salt and coins for the now perished goods. I wonder if someone would buy smashed eggs… Luckily there were still plenty of silvers left. He paid the stable master and walked back to the tavern, counting the remaining silvers... one, two, three...

            Suddenly Desiderius bumped into someone. He was a tall, muscular man with such eyes as Desiderius could only imagine a madman would have.

            "Bloody hell!"

The stranger shoved Desiderius and he fell flat on his backside on a pile of something soft that felt and smelled very much like relatively fresh manure.

Fyen: The Twice Born

Poem of Death I

a lively kitchen

running feet

on the floor,

a sizzling pot

busy hands

on the door

now crowded room

surprised screams

silenced by gore.

The air smelled fresh, almost sweet even though there were clouds in the horizon. A raven-haired girl ran down the village thoroughfare and all who noticed her, smiled. Her whole being conveyed a sense of immense zest and joy of being alive. She finally came to a halt in front of a grocery stand.

            An old woman stood up with the aid of a gnarly cane. "Aye, Fyen, that's a beautiful blue dress! What can I get you today?"

            The raven girl smiled. "Eight eggs, a pound of butter, and some sugar, please."

            "Oh, my wrecked mind! Happy birthday Fyen! Is your mum baking you one of her wonderful cakes?"

            The girl laughed. "She is, Bess, and I know I'll get huge and fat and hideous but I don't care!"

            The old woman cackled. "That's the spirit! You are skin and bones anyway! Send Ayleth my greetings, she's a good woman."

            "Sure thing, Bess. Take care!"

            After getting her things, Fyen galloped back to her home where her mother was busy cleaning the house.

            "Fyen, did you get everything we still needed?" the woman asked, wiping their kitchen table with a moist cloth.

            "Yes, mum, everything's here. Bess sends her greetings."

            Ayleth laughed. "That old lady is still a piece of work. Remember when she pelted that Sun priest with eggs for saying her chickens looked sinister?"

            Fyen put the groceries on the now clean table and giggled. "Do I? I thought I'd never stop laughing!" Then she gazed around as if to see if there was something that needed to be done around the house.

            Without looking up from the groceries Ayleth smiled and said: "You can go downstairs, dear. Just lock the door behind you."

            Letting out an excited squeal, Fyen gave the woman a warm hug. "You're the best, mum! I will!" With that she dashed off into a dark cellar and locked the door behind her.

            She knew the darkness like the back of her hand. Six steps along the wall, third shelf up, flint and tinder, sparks that left funny figures in her vision, and behold, there was light. Fyen grabbed a large tome off the bookshelf and carried it to the center of the small room. She sprinkled sand in the form of a circle around herself and the book. Then the girl stood up and went to a cupboard beside the bookshelf. She took out nine white candles and a mirror. Sitting in the center of the sand circle, she placed the nine candles along the sand and the mirror beside her.

            Then she lit the first candle. "Lunar light, please give protection to Ayleth and me."

Repeating the phrase by each candle, soon all nine were alight and shadows fluttered across the walls. The girl opened the thick, leather-bound book and skimmed through it until she found the page she was looking for. Then she took the mirror and turned it towards the candles and closed her eyes.

"Divine Goddess of lunar light

and Mistress of seas;

Divine Goddess of the darkest night

and of mysteries;

Within this place of candles bright

and with Your mirror nigh;

Protect Ayleth and me

with Your loving might!"

After saying the words, she stood up, held the mirror in her hands, pointed it at the flames, and started moving clockwise around the circle, gradually gaining speed. As the girl skipped around the circle of candles, the whole room was filled with light and dancing shadows until Fyen finally slowed down to a halt, smiling to herself with her eyes closed, relishing the peaceful and loving atmosphere of the house. Briefly she touched a bloodstone that hung around her neck, a gift her mother had given her a few years ago. After opening her eyes, she blew out the candles, carried everything back to the cupboards, and returned the tome to the bookshelf. Soon the room was like any normal cellar again.

            Just as Fyen was ascending the stairs back into the kitchen, her mother opened the door. "Fyen, get back! Hide under the stairs and stay there!"

            "What is it, mum?"

            Ayleth's eyes flashed. "Do as I say! Now!"

            The woman gazed at her daughter, a peculiar expression on her face before she closed and locked the cellar door. Fyen did as her mother had told her and sat quietly in the dark under the stairs with her arms around her knees. After a moment she heard a loud crash from upstairs and the sound of several heavy feet stomping into the house.

            "What is this, priest?" It was her mother's voice.

            "You would do well to come with us, Ayleth Caradas. We don't want to cause a scene, do we?" an emotionless though somewhat unfriendly voice asked.

            "You don't call bursting through the front door ‘causing a scene'?" Ayleth sneered.

            Fyen heard a loud slap and several footsteps of people leaving the house. Then everything was quiet and still, the only sound the girl's pounding heart. After several moments, Fyen stood up and listened intently. Silence. She walked up the stairs and reached to her left. Finding the spare key, she opened the cellar door and peered out. The house was empty. As she stepped into the kitchen, Fyen felt a stab in her heart. The dough for her birthday cake had been ready. Now it was smeared across the floor next to a broken bowl. Where have they taken mum? And why? What's going on? She stepped out but saw no other signs that anybody had ever even been to their home.

            As Fyen walked out to the village thoroughfare, she noticed that her hands were trembling and that her heart was beating fast and hard, slamming against her ribcage. A wave of nausea and dizziness came over her and she had to steady herself against a passing woman who, oddly enough, behaved like a post of wood. She stared straight ahead as if Fyen wasn't even there. When the girl let go, the woman walked on in silence. Fyen went to Bess, who was holding her arm.

            “Fyen, you poor darling...” the old woman started.

            Alarmed, Fyen felt another surge of dizziness. "What happened to your arm, Bess?"

            The old woman waved her good hand in dismissal. "It's nothing. That damn priest had his ruffians break it since I ‘breed sinister animals and have acted disrespectfully towards the church of the Sun.'"

            "But that's awf—"

            "Dear girl, never mind! It's important that you are all right, that you are still here!"

            The woman's words reminded Fyen of what had happened. "Bess, some men came into our home and took away my mother! I don't know what to do!"

            The old woman lowered her eyes and started weeping. "They took her away, child, they took her away. Somebody had heard her talking about magick and they took her away."

            For a while Fyen couldn't think, let alone say anything. She anticipated thoughts starting a race through her head but none came. Everything just stood still.

            "Poor dear, do you have everything you need? Can I help you with anything?" It was as if the old woman's words drifted off with the wind.

            Then something cracked and Fyen felt like she had to be somewhere very urgently, somewhere that was anywhere but here. Just as Bess opened her mouth to say something else, the girl broke into a sprint and ran without direction. As she felt the air stinging her lungs, it occurred to her that she did have a direction after all: away.

            Out of breath and her thighs burning with exertion, eventually the girl found herself in the surrounding forest. She slowed down to a walk and then, reaching a small clearing, to a complete halt. Just at that moment a raindrop fell on the tip of her sharp nose. Soon it was pouring and she seemed to regain control of her body, her mind. One by one the thoughts started coming: the birthday cake on the floor, mother taken away by the priest and the soldiers, the cellar door locked, the birthday cake on the floor, mother on the way to the dungeons, then to the gallows, the priest's soldiers hitting Bess, the birthday cake on the floor... Fyen fell on her knees and her hunched shoulders started shaking as she cried her heart out, raining tears on the soaked earth.