The Forester of Mikkelvenuvik

The Forester of Mikkelvenuvik

By Andrew Bruce Fisk © March 2013

The deep throated call of the forest birds woke Aakon from his sleep. The rugged surface of his cabin felt cool to the touch of his feet as he trod barefoot to the workshop. It was early in the day and time for his first task. Out under the glowing skies of Mikkelvenuvik the creatures of the night prowled, ever wary of venturing close to the home of the man of the woods.

It was an hour after dawn when he finished at the lathe. The tools he crafted were smooth and honed ready for use. It occupied his mind. Now that the suns of his world climbed high above the towering peaks that guarded the frontiers of his forest realm he would walk amid the trees and gather food for his table. This was his way. It had been the same for many years and so it could continue today.

The woodlands of his home were at peace. He feared no danger. The predators of the deep woods were absent. No one would trouble him. He found the berries and roots that he sought and harvested them quietly. He did not want to disturb the sleep of the trees.

They came to him soon after. The softness of their presence touching his mind with thoughts of affection and concern. Flitting between the undergrowth they strayed out of his vision. He smiled. His friends were so shy even after so many ages had passed as they measured time. He left some of his catch for them in the lee of a great oak and retired to the seclusion of his house.

He found the amber soon after. The gift of the shadow folk was a payment in kind. Every morning the fey ones of Mikkelevenuvik would come, never showing themselves, and they would leave the glowing tree jewels on his hearth. He would thank his friends and place the precious material within the safety of his workplace. As the days grew colder he would tap the warmth of the amber drawing comfort from the life force that burned inside. That too was his way.

The evening came and once again Aakon walked alone amidst the glades of his home. The first of the suns had already dipped low towards the tips of the mountains. The light had changed. Its quality poorer now. He listened to distant calls. Voices of a long lost world that reached out to him drawing him back from the refuge he had made for himself. His time was passing. The thought troubled him for a moment. The forest had many needs and his resources were so limited. The moment passed and he lost himself in the dreams of times long ago.

Someone had entered the forest. A stranger walked in his land. A man of violence.

He found the newcomer by the high falls. The spray waters had wrapped a mist around them as they met, perhaps shrouding them from prying eyes. Aakon’s vision penetrated deep into the being of the other. He saw that the man who had come to him was in need of healing. The physical hurts that had been inflicted were great but a wound much more severe was present. Its mark stood out.

The man that lay dying at the woodman’s feet carried a message. He was a ganthir. A warrior from a distant world. One which Aakon had left behind. The man had no name. Dark blood issued from his mouth. Words stuttered out in broken form. A war had begun. Help was needed. There was a threat.

The warrior died before his message was complete. Aakon left his body in the lee of the falls. He would have no dealings with the outsiders. He shut his mind to them. Their ways were not his to own. Let them fight their battles alone.

The night fell. The suns had set over Aakon’s realm.

With the first light of the new day he returned. The body was gone. He cleansed himself in the waters and then made to leave. Out of the sides of his eyes he noticed them.

“Thank you.”

The amber they had left for him lit his way home through the still darkened forest trails. His mood lifted by a degree. Still he was troubled. Arriving home he set about his creations. The day was long and his thoughts were mixed with worry. He spent the night awake considering the events of the day. In the early hours sleep finally took him into its embrace. His dreams were clouded with ambiguity. He could see no reason in them. The darkness dominated the woodlands of Mikkelvenuvikk and its protector.

It was early that day that the stars fell from heaven. Five in number they burned bright in their descent to the forests below. Detonating as they impacted the mass of trees they shattered revealing their incandescent interiors. The creatures of the woods fled in terror. They knew the peril that now walked amidst them.

The elderlord watched the spreading devastation. Fires ripped through the foliage in every direction. The four krell waited impatiently. They were hungry. The journey had been long. The scaled hides protected them from the surging heat but it drew energy from them. They needed to feed.

Elsarina shut her ears to the complaints of her servants. Her thoughts focused on the task she had set herself. He was here. She could sense the presence of one of her enemies. She must act swiftly.

The essence was following free now it had been liberated by the flames. Wisps of life-energy flickered into vision, their ethereal traces burning patterns on her retina. She stood tall against the skyline. A challenge to the one who dwelt here. Her dark sylvian features hidden behind the savage cut of her armour. She was ready to claim the prize. The glory of victory would be hers. She opened the visor and gazed on the spreading inferno. The fires were doing her work. Their evil energy ripping the heart out of Mikkelvenuvik. Soon he would have to act.

She was ready.

The cries of the shadow-folk woke the forester from a deep dream. He had fallen asleep against his will. His body overwhelming his mind. The smell of woodsmoke mixed with the terror of his adopted terror. He awoke in anger. An unusual emotion. Leaving the cabin he strode out to a ledge where he could see for himself the encroaching danger. The heat wave struck him then. He drew breath slowing, calming his racing heart. The horizon was filled with horror. A dying world greeted his eyes. His world.

Aakon saw her silhouetted against the sky. He watched her turn and face him. A mile away perhaps. The flames defined the beauty of her form. A woman of deadly intent clothed in the garments of war. She had done this. The crime was hers.

Aakon paused. Thought and action became disconnected. His desire for revenge quenched by a deeper understanding. She had come for a reason. He knew her kind. The elder-race were governed by law as well as emotion. They followed the patterns of the realms in their arcane, yet ultimately predictable, ways. He had fought them in ages past in the old wars that had scarred both the lands and his soul. He had sworn to kill no more. His oath stayed his hand now.

She spoke to him then. A soft pattern of thought that touched the edges of his mind imparting the words with seamless effort.

“Lord of the woods, why do you hide?”

Aakon stood defiance raging in his eyes. His body set in stone.

“Great Aakon your trees are burning. Save them!”

The mockery of language continued to flow into his thoughts. This was their way. Aakon let his mind stray for one brief moment. Somewhere deep in the heart of the woods an ancient servant rose from slumber, ready to serve, ready to drink the blood of elders once more. The man of the forest contemplated the possibility for an instant longer.  It would be so easy to take up the weapon he had abandoned and slay these creatures of chaos. He had forged the great blade he had called ‘Drakkensorg’, the Dragon Sword, in ages past. He remembered those times. An age of blood and shattered bones. A time of terror and shredded dreams. He returned to the present. The forest burned. Its creatures scattered. The amber was fading. Its power broken by the spells of the invaders. Anger flared inside him. His hands itched. He locked his eyes onto the face of his distant enemy. Aakon spoke.

“Leave this place in peace. You are wasted here.”

The elder-lord laughed. The susurration washed his mind. “Come proud lord! You will not save your forest but will you save your children?”

Aakon remained impassive.

“What has driven you to hide here brave Aakon? Why do you not ride to fight with your brothers? Maybe the fey folk of Mikkelevenuvik have bewitched you with their charms. We will free you of their touch.”

The silence continued.

“Your sword is hungry for my blood. Take it, use it!”

His thoughts flickered. A momentary lapse.

“Yes!” She laughed.

The suns bled their light across the darkening sky. Soon the evening could capture them in its grip. Aakon smelt death. He saw the flames torch the lives of his charges. The trees screamed in his ears. Still he said no more. The invaders prowled the valley floors of Mikkelvenuvik unhindered. Finally he raised his eyes once more to the fey lady that faced him.

She held something.

The orb glowed in eldritch light. Its blue glow rich in potential. The forester knew its purpose. It was his end. A faint touch of cold traced across his heart. The fire orb would capture his soul. He would lose his freedom. His essence would be mined by the elder-race. It would be used in their eternal wars. He could not resist without breaking his vow. So this was destiny?

“You leave me no choice Man of the Woods. I, Elzarina of the house of Sharazinni claim that which is rightfully mine.”

The orb pulsed brightly. His thoughts were torn from him. His body trembled as the evil powers of the stone ripped into his being. He opened his mouth to speak. A final command. A plea?

Other voices spoke for him.

A multitude of shapes and colours flashed through his vision. His ears rang with the songs of many voices not his own. He understood.

The scream of fury ripped the walls of Mikkelvenuvik down. In the moment of weakness a god awoke from long slumber. An ancient oath had been broken. The invaders from another world ceased to exist. Their lives snuffed out like the fires they had perpetrated on the world of the innocents. Violence was done in the name of peace. A father protected his children.

A time passed.

They came to him in the evening. They bore gifts gathered from the woods. He thanked them and sent them home with food for their tables. In the quiet of his workshop the forester returned to his lathe and kept his thoughts hidden. Softly he worked the wood. Mending that which was broken.

That was his way.

Dragonstone

Dragonstone

By Andrew Bruce Fisk © March 2013

The dirt covered his hands and face. His mother would not be happy with him. It was here somewhere. He had to find it. He always seemed to be looking for thing that others had mislaid. This time it was his eldest sister who had sought him out, asking him to look for her brooch. She was meeting her man later. She had high hopes of marrying into a highborn family. It could end the poverty that had been their life in the little cottage by the shores of the Sea of Light.

The muddle of five wasted lives filled the tiny storeroom. It was dark. With no illumination he grew lazy. He knew it was forbidden but soon he would have other tasks to do. There was always so little time.

The ‘sight’ took hold of him. Wisps of colour entered his grey world. The hidden secrets of his relatives whispered out to him. Elanemuir eb Danowin entered the dream.

Later he returned to the living chamber where his sisters sheltered. The fire was burning low. Without a glance at the the others ‘Lani’ ventured outside to hunt for driftwood. The air was by the waterside. He drew in swift breaths, calming his still startled mind from the invasion of the previous moments.

It had always been like this.

They had no wealth. Hunger was ever present. Father had died long ago. His life claimed by the savages that preyed on the people of the shore. Their dragon boats hounded the waves bringing terror still. One day there would be a reckoning. The boy gazes out across the sea to the west.

They circled in the dying light. Tiny specs at the end of his vision. He knew them by name. Each one called to him. Telling him of ancient times. Of lands and kings and cities. Of secrets and powers that would make the world well again.

And then the visions took him.


The sea crashed sharply against the prow of the ship. The water spray brought him back from years past. The cries of the sailors rang in his ears. warning him to stand back from the brink. He failed to heed their calls. She was out there.

His companions watched him warily from the safety of the hold. Jared of Ravenspur was their leader. His sharp eyes fixed themselves on him. Eager perhaps to have a return on his investment. Unwilling to take risks when so much was at stake. Their would be words later. Kran the Kaxor and Tracen his lover clung to each other fearful of the ocean’s might.

Elanemuir knew only about the song. It reached him still, despite the lashing of the elements against his body. He drew energy from the notes. The singer was out there somewhere and she needed them. He had wandered long years to find one like her. She was an ancient voice that drew his childhood past back to the fore. A promise for the future. He had sought her kind for all of his life and now he was so close.

Jared had commissioned him for this journey. The markets of Port Balleaxe seemed a world away. The others had agreed to join the endeavour. Adventurers on the make. There was money to be made in raiding the tombs of the ancients. It had always been the way.  They had left port bound for the western isles three weeks back. Jared had knowledge of an island. A place where the bones of creatures were interlaced with treasures of ages past. A place of opportunity. They had needed Elanemuir. His gift was precious to them.

They landed in the bay of skulls. The seaman whispered amongst themselves as their cargo alighted on the rough stoned beach. The wind had calmed with the arrival of the morning. Jared failed to share the serenity of the moment. His impatience for progress raising the ire of the waiting sailors. Elanemuir kept silent. He sensed tensions more fundamental than a nobleman’s foolishness. The others ignored him.

Kran died instantly. The sharp blow to the back of his head crushed the life from his body. Tracen screamed in terror as another attacker grabbed her by her carelessly loosened hair. A dark flurry of shapes swept across Elanemuir’s vision. They were betrayed. An assailant reached for his throat.

The magefire swept the beach robbing the treacherous sailors of any chance of escape. One remained unscorched clutching desperately to the girl’s neck. A knife pressed in. Jared laughed. The excitement of the scene overwhelming him. A sharp blade glinting in his hand.

The young thief they had found in the taverns of the port city of Balleaxe flicked her eyes from the approaching threat. She knew her life was done. The smell of fear reached them. Time stood still.

And then Elanemuir opened the dream. The hand around her neck loosened. Tracen broke free. Jared finished the the task wiping his sword against the rough cloth of the sailors jerkin. It was still early in the morning. Their was more work to do.

The noble stood apart from the others. Tracen’s features wore a mask.

“Bring him back mage!” The words cut the air with an intensity of razors.

Jared chuckled.

Tracen knelt beside the body of her lover. The Kaxor was still warm.

“Bring him back?” she whispered softly.

Elanemuir turned away.

“He does not have that power girl.  Come, we have work.” Tracen spat into the sea. The boat that had brought them rocked empty against the swell of the waves. They were alone. There was nowhere to escape from the mockery of master of the young aristocrat. She shrugged. Life was hard.

Kran was buried swiftly admit the rocks of the bay of skulls. The others were left to the crows. They left the beach, securing the fishing boat that had transported them to this place. They had no wish to linger on this spine of rock. Jared led them up a winding cliff path. Once they reached the top of a rise he turned and fixed his gaze on the others.

“Elanemuir, this is the limit of my knowledge. I need you to find ‘your lady’”

‘She is quiet. We must wait for her to awaken.’

Jared nodded his acceptance. Wordlessly they took shelter in the broken ground set back from the cliff edge. Tracen was sent to find driftwood for a fire. The mage kept watch. His mind seeking dangers. The girl returned loaded with fuel and Jared set the flame ablaze. They were alone in the desolate land.

And yet there was something else here. Or someone.

Jared referred to ‘the lady.’ A voice that had called out to them all. A source of power. An opportunity. Elanemuir knew better. There was something to be found here. Something had been lost for a very long time. Like his sister’s treasures in the cottage by the sea he would discover the secret. He would prevent its misuse.

The evening came upon them. Jared stared into the darkness. His angular features lit by the orange flicker of the fire. Tracen was quiet. Her thoughts hidden. As for the mage, the dreams were gentle tonight.  

The creatures of the island called to one another. Perhaps they sought to understand the nature of the visitors. The stars were uncovered in their glory. The gods were watching. They each took a turn at resting. The eastern skies lit slowly one colour building upon the next. The night departed and still Elanemuir had no news for them. Jared remained patient. Such was the way of magicians.  They let him wander through the rock strewn hinterland above the skull bay.

The sun bore down on his back as he walked. The heat brought memories of school lessons at the hands of the old masters in the long lost time of his youth. The voice he sought belonged to a being of immense energy and beauty. He knew the perils of dabbling with the dark arts. The gods did not look kindly on those mortals who tampered with the laws of their reality. What ever he found in this barren isle must be handled with great care.

The gulls circled the bodies of the fallen on the beach below. The abandoned fishing vessel that had borne them here was safe, grounded high above the reach of the tide. The questing waters snatched at it but were denied. Kran rested in silence.

She spoke to him then. First a whisper hinting offers. Then it was a shouting command. The melody of the dream gone. The warning was clear despite the absence of words. Their intentions were not welcome. The voice of the dream softened. The meaning shifted. The syllables of a language not spoken on this earth for millennia coalesced within his mind.

“Come to me alone.”

The last embers of the night’s flame died. Tracen realised she was alone. Looking round at the expanse of rock and moss that littered this place she could see no sign of the others. Quickly she gathered her possessions and returned to the cliffedge. The boat rocked gently in the incoming swell. It was safe. There was a way out. Her heart calmed. She made to return to the camp but something delayed her. A sensation she had not felt for so long. A warm gentle touch. She spun round knife drawn.

Deep within the heart of the Isle of Skulls Elanemuir woke from the nightmare. The dark assassins that sprung forth to steal his life vanished. He lay naked. The stone was cold. The air still and tipid. Somewhere nearby there was a light source. It flickered unnaturally. Blue to grey and then green. He sensed the presence of mage-power on a scale he had not previously encountered.

She was here.

He raised himself from the rock surface. The chamber he was trapped within had no exits. He could not recall the events that had brought him down from the world outside. His thoughts were drawn to the light source. It came from a ledge cut deep within the stone in front of him. He moved closer. His curiosity overcoming fear.

“Who are you?” He asked. He voice quiet yet the echoes reverberated throughout his mind. The light shifted in shade. It turned dark and glimmered in purples and deep emerald. She was waiting for him. That thought appeared obvious. Elanemuir made a decision. He calmed the excitement building inside and opened himself to the entity before him.

The skies of the homeworld bled darkly as the three suns rose above the horizon. He soared high into the clouds driven upwards by the force of his new body. Dark lizard like scales covered his hide and his wings spanned the heavens. He roared in triumph. He was king of the overworld. Dominator of his kind and destroyer of his foes. Mage-power flowed through his racing heart and mind. He knew the world that he had left behind well and he recognised what he had become and it made him glad.

He saw her wheeling higher still. Her body silver and gold. A vision of beauty in this savage realm. He knew she was the one. The queen he had sought for his entire mortal life span. A fitting mate for the lord of the sky.

He raced to meet her. This was their time. It was destiny.

They met in mid-air. Fire and Ice, locked together for a brief moment. The intensity of love banishing fear and anger.

And then it faded.

Elanemuir opened his eyes. He was standing in the bay of skulls, the boat rocked on the rising tide nearby. The water lapped at his feet. He was clothed.

He realised he held something in his clenched right hand. His hand glowed, lighting the skin of his fingers and palm. Mage-power flowed through his being. The world he had visited was gone.

“Give me the fire orb.”

Jared of Ravenspur approached from the direction of the cliffs. His face was unreadable. His eyes spoke a dangerous story.

The mage paused before making his reply.

“We had a deal Jared. I take the artifact under my protection and you and the others claim the reward offered by my masters. I would advise you to keep your word.”

The aristocrat smiled.

“My masters also require the orb. They do not require anything else.”

The wind picked up blowing open the lord’s cloak. A sparkle of sunlight on metal caught Elanemuirs eye. A badge with a symbol he knew. The mage cursed.

“What have you done to Tracen?”

“She lives. Unlike...”

Elanemuir knew what he faced. His power would be useless here. The being he had known as Jared of the City of Ravens could not be conquered by the lore of the living. The lordling marched to a different drum.

“So why has one such as you shown interest in this? The lifestealer has trophies plenty does he not?” Elanemuir shifted his ground putting himself between his advancing foe and the boat. He raised his left hand with the glowing ball. It radiated ruddy red. A warning perhaps?

Jared replied. Defiance radiating from his features.

“My master seeks to free the one imprisoned within. Under his control and guidance of course. She is a pretty one is she not? Her kind defy the lords of heaven.  She would obstruct my masters plans. That can not be.” Jared drew his blade level with his shoulder ready to strike. “You could not control the orb or its prisoner. She is useless to you. Give her to me and you will be spared.“

“Where is Tracen?”

The wind dropped. Jareds cloak wrapped itself around him.

“I lied.”

Whispers of conversations long past touched the edges of Elanemuir’s consciousness. A deep sense of sorrow emanated from the stone in his grasp. A deep fury mixed with the mage’s own growing sense of horror. The lady of the flames spoke to him and him alone. There was a promise and something more.

“Give it to me. I have tired of your time wasting!”

The cries of the gulls echoed in Elanemuir’s ears.  Their song brought back the memory of the life by the sea of light. The circling birds danced in the sunlight. Time slowed and for this brief moment ‘Lani’ stood alone on the shore of another sea.

The moment passed.

“I have a gift for you and your master. Catch!”

Elanemuir drew back his arm and threw the glass ball high into the air. Jared screamed in rage but could do nothing as the fire orb arched upwards through the air and shattered against the rock walls of the cliffs. The detonation ripped into the stones sending them flying apart with its force. Flame and blazing light tore across the beach smashing both mage and spectre to the ground. Splinters rained down from the shattered mess of the fishing vessel. The wind slammed into them throwing them apart.

Elanemuir recovered as swiftly as he was able. He was wounded in several places. His body hurt. He could not see Jared.

“How...?” The voice croaked from behind him. He turned to see the mangled remains of his enemy emerging from the sea. The body of the creature was wrecked and burning, water boiled and steamed off Jared’s body. This man was neither living nor dead.

Elanemuir winced in pain. And then he laughed.

“What is it like to feel alive Jared?”

“You fool!” The words hissed from the aperture that had been  a mouth. The creature lurched into motion, grasping for the throat of the mage. Elanemuir summoned the mage-fire. Its power whipped across the intervening space ripping the physical form from the being of half-life. Jared of Ravenspur was torn from the fabric of the mortal realm, his protection absent. The fires died as quickly as they had ignited. The mage colapsed, half covered by the cold waters.

He awoke later. Someone was touching his face. Kissing him?

Tracen?

The lay together on the beach that evening. The young runaway thief and the magelord. Neither spoke. Both had lost and gained too much. The evenings light glowed in the west after the sun had left the heavens. Finally Elanemuir turned to the other.

“So you returned?”

Tracen leant back against the dune where they lay. The beach was empty. The boat smoldered in the distance.

“She said you needed to get home. It is too far for us to swim.”

“You mean?”

Tracen smiled.

“She gave me her life.”

The dragons danced in the light of the dying sun. They twisted and weaved as if they had been separated by ages of mortal time. The morning would come soon and it would be time to return home. Elanemuir watched them drop below the horizon before turning to his lover. Kissing her softly on the forehead he spoke. “You will have to join your people one day.”

“I know.”

They embraced. The final rays of light left the sky. The darkness swallowed them.

“But not tonight.”

Tara's God

Tara’s God

By Andrew Bruce Fisk © Feb 2013


The brittle chill winter touched Tara's heart. She was out on the hill edge again. Alone except for her thoughts. She glanced up from the valley where she had been observing the menfolk collecting fuel. Up above her, a sparrowhawk circled in splendour. Other creatures shrieked in alarm or hid in fear.

No such feelings gripped Tara today. The stark emptiness of the cold season brought out a unique response from within her soul. A celebration of her place in nature’s realm. Her father would describe her mood differently. He was all she had now. Her mother had perished in the winter two years back and her brother had died in the endless fighting with the men of the southern plains.

If anything concerned her it was the fear of being left here in this place of insignificance. The hills had been her home all sixteen summers of her life. The crofts of the Edge Folk were safe from the dangers of the wilderness to the north and the warrior kingdoms of the south and east. They had not been safe enough to Kia her brother.

Grass stood short out here on the edge and sunlight crept through the cloud base illuminating, enriching and promising more to come. She felt a small sense of hope. The worst of the past was just that, in the past. She could build a new life, perhaps with one of the trade folk who came periodically to the nearby port of Ston.

Then she saw the God.

Frozen more deeply than could be caused by any work of nature she stood exposed on the escapement.

It arose from the south marching like some titanic force of nature but instantly dispelling any transient illusions that this was a creature of the Earth.

It had the height of ten fully grown men and wrapped itself in garments of fire and darkness. The eldritch figure strode powerfully up the vale of the great river.

Down below in the valleys men and their womenfolk rushed to hide from their divine master. Children cried out only to be hastily silenced. Animals fled with a new terror. The birds took flight, oblivious to natural predators. The god marched on. One mighty step after another. Its rate of progress was prodigious. In its wake the ground trembled and burned with bright indignation. The very earth cried out in protest at the supernatural invasion.

Tara stood without motion of mind or body. Locked in place on the skyline of the Edge.

The god paid no heed to mortal concerns this day; storming onwards on its northerly path. With time, life returned to the valleys and the hills. Tara blinked, unsure of what she had seen. But, due to knowledge passed down from elder days, she knew the danger it posed.

"Father Krystos protect me."

The words came out of habit rather than true belief. She had tried to believe in the ancient myths but the gods of her age were so much more tangible, real and evident than the ancient stories.

Time had restarted.

She realised with sudden alarm that it was getting late and she was needed at home. Her father would be worried, especially after the visitation.


Koban sat quietly before his hearth. The fire he had set crackled with an evil intelligence, reminding him of his past misdeeds. It dragged him back into the darkness of his personal failure. Reminding him how he loved those that were no longer alive. Koban mourned alone.
With sadistic intent, the light from the fire shone deep into the black oblivion of his life.

Neila, his beloved partner had been so much a part of him. She had answered his call, ended his loneliness for a time and been the mother of two fine children.

Why had she been taken away?

The wasting disease had touched his household before. It had taken the lives of both his parents. He had prayed to the gods for deliverance then. He had prayed again when his wife's life was slowly ebbing away.

The gods answered his prayers with violent spite.

The door swung open with softness of wood on wood. Quiet steps echoed from the short entrance hall and Koban roused himself from his immersion in self-inflicted pain.

Tara had come home at last.

"What delayed you? I thought that maybe I had lost another child tonight."

"Is that what you thought father? You know I would never leave you."

"Just like mother, like your brother?."

Tara sat down next to the dying fire and regarded the sober figure slumped in the wooden rocking chair. She was tempted to reach out and comfort him. She feared his reaction.

"I saw a god today."

Koban shrugged. Noncommittal, or maybe he kept his concern hidden.

"It came from the sea, full of fire and flame and it frightened the menfolk."

Koban opened his eyes and returned his daughter's gaze.

"Did it frightened you?"

Tara wanted to give him the answer to another question. One concerning a much deeper fear.

"It was just a god. Why should it frightened me?"

"Good answer my child, now go fetch us some supper."

Tara wondered at the unexpected praise. Rising swiftly she made her way to the food store and began to prepare something simple. Something her increasingly critical father would accept. She too feared further loss. She did not want to be returning home to a cold empty hearth. There was no one else.


The wharfs of Ston buzzed with greater activity than was usual. A trader ship had been seen approaching the mouth of the estuary. The winter had loosened its grip sufficiently to allow the ship passage through the ice pack. Storms had delayed the arrival of the trade folk but that situation was to be consigned to the past. The farming communities of the Western Edge soon heard of the news and the people gathered in the anticipation of trading opportunities and to exchange gossip with the newcomers.

Tara had a particular interest in the approaching vessel. She hope to sell woollen garments she had worked on during the long nights of winter. She had another reason to wish speed to the sailors. Nethen had promised to return to her with the first trip of the year. He was an honourable man and had yet to break his word. Tara hummed with delight at the prospect of seeing him again. Maybe if things were different she could convince him to take her away with him once the trading had been accomplished. But that would mean leaving her father. She sighed that was something she could not countenance. Koban was, in reality already alone but she was not ready to abandon him.

The red sails of the caravel were visible as the traders caught an onward wind. Tara had left her belongings with her father and had climbed the curtain wall that protected Ston from those who would wish its inhabitants harm. She strained to see the faces of the sailors as they worked to bring in the ship safely. The sand banks were the greatest hazard out there in the river and many a boat had grounded before it could make port.

Tara wondered whether Nethen could find acceptance in her father's heart. Koban lived the lost lives of his ancestors. His world had closed in and around him drowning his perception in a sea of fragmented memories. Nethen had arrived in their lives like a blazing lightning storm. The effect had generated drastically different responses from Tara and her father.

The young trader had indeed set Tara's blood afire when he had stepped out onto the quays of Ston and into her life. He spoke with a strange accent and conjured visions of different ways of experiencing life.

He had told her about the wonder of the Krystos, and for that Koban would never accept or forgive him.

"Foreign gods bring nothing but curses," had been his response when she had confessed to him.

For sure, she loved Nethen for his energy, for his love of life that had sucked her into his world, and for the quietness and deep sense of joy she felt when she was beside him.

Tara watched the ship pull round into the harbour, guided by the pilots. She could see no sign of her lover and was well aware of the father's growing impatience.

The priesthood had filed out of their assorted temples ready to bless the newcomers. Tara wondered what Nethen would say about these elder of her community. The gods were counted in the hundreds in the minds of her people. Yesterday she had seen for herself their power. The priests represented power of a different kind.

The traders bought their charge home to the dockside. Help was offered and taken in lashing the ship safe.

Still Tara could not see the man for whom she longed.

Sighing to herself she resigned to the fact that he had not returned this time, not on this ship. Hoping in her heart that her world would remain intact, she left the rampart and climbed back down the wooden stairwell. Koban was waiting. She could not acknowledge his stare. Nethen would not have knowingly broken his promise to her. Something must have prevented him?

Tara felt sick.

She finally mumbled an answer to a question she had not heard and indicated that she was ready to take their goods to the traders.

The day finished as it had begun. Light transitioned back into the darkness of night. Nethen had been absent from the market and she despondently wondered whether the memories of last year had meant anything.

Night turned to day and the hillside called out to her. In truth she was glad of the errands that drew her to the slopes of the hills. Out here herbs and wild fruits she used in seasoning their meals could be found. There were things to do at home but she cared little for the silent condemnation she faced in that place.

Softly, without the slightest outward sign, Tara's heart broke.

As the days passed she stayed away from the port and kept her own company. She was no longer the wild spirit that lit up every gathering of edge folk. She withdrew from the company of men and women alike.

She waited for the day when the ship from the south would depart. Word reached her that there had been plagues and famine in the wider world. Tara did not dwell on the possible consequences of such news.

The last day of trading had come. Tara had lost herself in her work. Koban had been forced to deal with the southerners. The departure of the training ship would be marked by festivities and Tara's moods deepened in anticipation of this coming ordeal. Nevertheless she would be expected to attend.

The sunlight of the day yielded a form of solace to Tara as she made her way down the dirt track into the town. The softness of nature at this point of winter's boundary with springtime gave her a little strength. Her father remained silent, walking by her side. A subtle change had entered the relationship. Perhaps an acknowledgement of shared grief, shared pain. Tara wondered whether this day's journey would end this way.

Farmers, fishermen and townspeople mixed together in the central square of the settlement. The high priest had decreed a blessing for the travellers. Whether by genuine acquiescence or by clever politics the outsiders also attended. By custom the entire population, young and old, would be present to hear the plea for their safe journey home.

Tara decided that today her fortunes would recover. Nethen and his god had abandoned her. At least she knew that the deities of her land were real.

The time had come. The priest chanted and raved, danced and capered before their followers.

Their cry to heaven echoed around the valleys and the people waited.

The new gods were fallible. They came and went as they wished, imparting gifts and punishments in a indescribable fashion. They were true creatures of another world, to be feared, to be worshipped.Tara paid less heed to them than she should. Her father swayed to the rhythms of the crowd, now murmuring quietly to himself, then crying out loud. She tried to play along. Before last year she would have had no such difficulty in being a living part of the community in this occult devotion.

It would have been better if she had feared the gods.

The frenzy first waxed. Then waning to near silence before a fresh outbreak of collective insanity spread itself amongst the people assembled in the square.

Would the gods hear them? Could such beings truly understand the human mind?

Tara hid her face from her neighbours. She was sick with revulsion. In what way could she relate to these people she had grown and lived with? Not like this. This was wrong.

"Tara, are you well?"

She filtered the voice from the surrounding din that threatened to drown it. Something touched her. Awakened a feeling, a sense of past and future. A realisation that the strife of recent times have been for nothing. Totally unnecessary.

"Tara, come away from this!"

She knew the voice. It penetrated her. She looked up at its source.

"Nethen?"

She was confused. Had she not been to the ship. Had she not counted the sailors one by one as they embarked on their work?

"Where?"

"Other work Tara. I am sorry I am late."

Time slipped. They left the madness of the crowds, retreating to the hills of the edge.

She knew his company, his touch, his warmth. She listened to his voice striving to really understanding the words. She adjusted again to his ways, his accent. His walk, his body.

Tara was born once more that morning.

But to meet with gods is to invite grave danger.


Out in the ocean mass the Lord of the Sea awoke in anger. His rage was of supernatural origin, quite unlike the violence of his devoted worshippers. Rising silently, he sensed a hunger that needed feeding, a call for the world above that he could answer and devour.

Violent intent became a physical presence as this master of mortal destiny surged from the deep, where he had long slumbered. Thought took on form as the being coalesced, shifting its physicality as the water pressure lessened. Upwards the lord surged. Striving to reach the estuary of the river of mortals. The god surfaced in majesty, a mass of tendrils and fins. Lord Cyrae had come to feast.


Tara had vanished. The thought entered Koban's mind with sudden urgency. It distracted him from the subtle change in mood of the surrounding crowd.

Something was wrong but all Koban could think was bitter annoyance at the tardiness of his daughter. How dare she run off! Just like her to show public disobedience.

The first signs of danger were becoming apparent to the inhabitants of Ston. The priesthood continued their performance but gradually, one by one, the onlookers fell silent. Tremors  had begun to shake the buildings of the town. Water lapped a little higher by the quayside.

A god was coming.


They rested together in a glade above the farm. Tara rose from the forest floor. For once she was happy. Nethen remained asleep so she dressed and gently covered her lover with his travelling cloak.

Tara wondered how long this would last. Nethen had offered an apology but no explanation to his behaviour. His ship was due to depart today.

Why could he not stay? Did she mean so little to him. Questions she could not ask. Ones he could not answer perhaps. Tara's thoughts shifted focus. Maybe she could persuade him to remain behind, but irregardless of that she must at least give him the choice.

"Tara I must go now."

Tara shivered. The sun was starting to go down once again in her life.

"You will return to your ship?"

"I am sorry."

Something had stirred the wildlife of the forest. The creatures of the edge were agitated.

"Why can you not stay here with us? I will talk to my father."

Nethen got to his feet. It was obvious to her that he was unhappy.

"There are some things we cannot avoid. I will return my love."

They said no more. Neither wanted their time together to end in disagreement. Wordlessly they started on the journey back to Ston.

Cyrae rose from the river, a worldly apparition seeking fearful adoration. A silence had fallen over the Edge Land. The wind had dropped. All was still. The Inhabitants of the coastal town were frozen to the ground on which they stood. A wordlessly paralysis had taken hold of their minds and bodies.

The god spoke. Words formed in the minds the watchers. A gleeful tirade of semi-intelligible language flooded their awareness. Cyrae feasted on their terror, on their confusion and dreadful doubt.

Soon the god grew bored. It was evident that the being from the deep wanted more than mere submission from his flock. The priests knew a sacrifice would be needed.

Cyrae did not wait.

Pain lanced through the thoughts of the worshippers. Panic spread through the crowd, scattering and crushing in equal measure. The god roared with approval.

"Lord of the deep, how best can we serve you?"

The voice of the high priest rang hollow.

The Lord of the Deep was not to be concerned with his mortal acolyte. A savage thrust of his body smashed into the crowd. More would be destined to die this day in, but the priesthood would be unable to save them.

"My Lord, I beg you, spare your people!"

Cyrae fixed his eye, now with a greater intent, fully on the figure of the cleric. He paused his murderous intentions momentarily.

"My Lord we thank you, we - "

A demonic limb lashed out decapitating the unfortunate mortal.

"I have great hunger!"

The words echoed in the minds of the fleeing survivors. A mental resonance adding confusion to the agony of the renewed assault.

Cyrae howled with pleasure as the wharfside disintegrated taking its human makers down into the depths of the harbour.

"I want more!" Roared the mad sea god.

The square was empty now. All had fled or perished. The creature pulled itself more fully onto the land, but it was sure to retain a link to the sea, the source of its origin and power. It revealed a hard, calloused body studded with rock and shell. Questing with its mind it sort out the hiding places where, perhaps, it would find fuel for its desires.


Nethen and Tara saw the destruction from the perceived safety of the forest edge. Ston lay in desolate ruin. Fires burnt with fierce intensity, quickly claiming more lives.

"Father is there. We must hurry!"

Nethen remained silent for a moment. Then whispered softly, "Tara, I will face this."

She glared at him. Her resentment mixed with suppressed trepidation.

"I do not fear that monster. It is my family, my people it's murdering."

Nethen shrugged. He had enough problems without confronting Tara of the Edge.

The beast was still. The pulse of its beating hearts throbbed slowly. The remains of its prey splattered across its hide.

Lord Cyrae was sated. He knew that fresh meat was available. But for now he rested, digesting in peace the physical and spiritual essences of the humans. A movement caused him to rouse from his slumber. There was a complete absence of urgency in the gods behaviour. With an almost careless effort the god opened his eye and observed the newcomer.

Koban stood alone in the square. Something had broken within him. At some other time and in other places he would have fled like the others. But the creature whom he had worshipped had gone too far. The god was far from divine.

The wind was absent, the breeze taken away. The chill lessened in Koban's heart. Life was returning to him just at the moment when, maybe, it was due to end. Fear returned momentarily but Koban had been living in its shadow for far too long and its grip was weak on him.

"My Lord I would beg an audience with you."

Cyrae paused. This was interesting indeed. A mortal standing fearless before him. Surely no threat.

"I desire to give the Great Lord a gift."

Cyrae understood the weaklings position. It was begging for mercy. Perhaps seeking to placate it's god's holy appetite.

The god laughed.

Horror filled Koban's mind, striking harder than any death blow could have done. Koban dropped to his knees.

"Mortal I consider your gift."

Koban shivered, waiting for his life to be ended.

Time slipped.

Moments extended their reach. Past continued its transformation into the future. The sound of Koban’s heart drowned out everything.

And then it was over.

A hand touched Koban. Shaking him back into reality of the moment.

"Father?"

The old Edgeman opened his eyes and met the gaze of his youngest child.

"You should not be here."

Tara shook her head in denial.

"It is going to be put right. Nethen has a plan."

"Praying to that god of his?"

The earth shook, ending the shared respite between parent and child. Cyrae was speaking. His booming voice echoing through their minds.

"I would not be defied!"

The pair turned to face the tyrant.

Nethen stood before the god.

"Krystos protect us," murmured Tara.

Nethen was speaking. Tara could not hear his words or the god in his reply. Koban cursed, his sacrifice unwanted. Tara ignored him focusing instead on the scene before her.

The minutes dragged. The god's voice was quiet now. Just brief murmurings reached them.

Tara waited. Finally silence fell over the ruins. They still stood alone against the alien entity.
Nethen turned his back on his adversary. Smiling to Tara he raised his hand as if he was to tell her something.

She strained to hear. She Read his lips.

"I love you."

The god struck down hard. Smashing bone and flesh, crushing life and soul.

Lord Cyrae roared in triumph and then turned. It turned and slid back towards the sea satisfied with this days entertainment.

Tara's world fell apart.

Koban sensed the coming of darkness, the snuffing out of his life light.

Cyrae thrashed his way into the shallows of estuary. But something had changed in its ravings.
Somehow, out of schedule, the tide had turned. In his occupation with the mortal world the god of the sea have not noticed the danger.

Some force had drawn back the water from whence the god drew its strength. The tide had gone out. Like a beached whale the great master of the currents heaved and pulled its body down the harbour, desperate to find water.

Koban knew that the moment had come.

"Death to the demon! To arms!"

In ones and twos, men, woman and even children emerged from hiding and approached the thing of evil that languished in the sand swallows of Ston Harbour.

Snatching a fallen block Koban struggled forward and hefted it through the air.

The stone struck home. The god howled in annoyance. Tara stood silent.

Shock had paralysed her anger. But the paralysis thawed. With boiling rage she joined her father and launched a stone to towards the object of her fury. Others join them tearing down the stonework of the temple square. Men reached their side with long bows taken from the town armoury. Swiftly the weapons were applied.

Lord Cyrae, master of the sea, tyrant of the deep was torn down limb by limb, wound by wound. He bled into the empty sands of the harbour. Bereft of his power the god cried out in fear.

Tara watched as her relatives and friends exacted their rage and hatred on the god whom only moments before they had worshipped. Tara too was angry but a deeper emotion ruled her heart now. One of regret. One of sadness.

She watched Cyrae die screaming in agonised disbelief.

"Lord have pity."

Her thoughts were vocalised without her realisation.

"Let it die swiftly," she added. No one heard her. She stood alone.


The sun set over the hills of the edge and she wandered long in the midst of the deep glades of winter. In the high fields above the town she found her father sitting with a stranger. One of the stranded traders, Nethen's people. Upon her arrival the stranger bade farewell to Koban.Tara could not meet her father's stare. The emptiness of his life seemed a perfect reflection of her own.

"Just hold me father.”

Tears came at last. But they were only a temporary release. Life would continue in the hills and the town. Somewhere across the sea Nethen's people would mourn his death as well. She was sure of that.

Koban did as he was bid. Patient with his child.

"Why did they have to die?"

Koban remained silent.

"Father?"

"Have you learnt nothing?"

The response made her recoil. She sensed the criticism was not implied but she was not ready for the return of her father's moods. Not today, not now after this.

"He had a plan. Why did he die?"

Koban sighed.

"Maybe you should ask your god that question?"

Tara broke away from her father’s embace.

"Nethen would not say a thing like that."

"Ask your God."

Tara felt anger rise was within her. She did not need his sarcasm. Surely they had suffered enough.

"Ask your God." He repeated.

Tara heard change in tone, his voice carried a gentleness she had not heard for a long time. Confusion replaced her anger.

"Father I cannot bring him back."

"Turn around and ask him."

For a single moment time stood suspended. Tara sensed a twisting of mood in her father's voice, something combined with the lightness of touch, something new. Humour.
Koban laughed softly.

"Turn round and ask him!”

This was too much. She had to leave her deranged father and find peace somewhere else. She turned her back to her in her heart stopped.

"Nethen?"

He wore the same travelling cloak that he had done the first time they had met but the something was different about this man.

"I do not understand - "

"No you do not."

"How?"

Nethen smiled. Tara remembered that smile. From another age, another time.

"Did you think that creature was truly a thing to be worshipped?"

Tara's confusion deepened. Shock was setting in.

"Do true gods really act like wild animals? What you really think Tara?"

“You are dead! How can you be here?" The words somehow escaped from her.

"Do you not trust your eyes? You're not insane Tara, just tired."

"Do not leave me."

Nethen smiled again. "That is something that will never happen."

The sun set over the hills of the Edge. But it had left behind something new for Tara and her people.