Lux Aeterna Part II

Chapter 6 ~ Portent

Seville was awakened by soft voices that seemed to heave like waves up and down.  Stirring uncomfortably he felt his eyelids and pressed the film away, realizing it was still night and that he must not have dozed long, for the others were still talking.  What little sleep he'd had, however, left him rested so he decided to join the others.  After standing he equipped his leather vest quickly and made sure to have his daggers ready, then he picked up his empty water canteen and headed to the fire, which sometime in his nap the others had decided to move nearer the forest, almost fifty yards away in fact.  No wonder the talking had been so quiet, thought Seville.

The distant walk to the campfire made him feel detached, a single entity pressed against a vast sea of night with only a single beacon to approach, and that beacon feeling miles away.  Though late summer, already the trees were loosing their leaves because hundreds of leaves were soaring past, scurrying along the ground like frightened roaches.  The wind had certainly picked up this night.  The ground had been empty of the leaves before; Seville wondered how long he had been sleeping.

When Seville approached the campfire he found the others adorned with whatever supplies they he brought.  Dr. Sylum wore his leather plate with the short sword sheathed on his belt, Edrick was dressed in his robes and had his pack to his side, closed and readied, and Herrick Gipson donned his entire armor suit, lacking only the helmet, complete with each of his weapons.  Almost like the effect of a mood stone, Gipson's armor shone black in the deep nighttime as opposed to red.  Sided next to each of the sitting light warriors was a water canteen.

Leaves fluttering by on invisible strings or air, Seville sat and joined them.  Along with moving the fire they had built it bigger, almost four feet in diameter and at times the flames licked so high into the night that Seville could not see Edrick sitting across from him.

They talked of Chuck Domino, but it seemed Sylum had won them over while Seville slept, because they were considering strategies to deal with Domino, not violently, but cooperatively, negotiating the possibility of complete coverage, interviews, and several other exclusive privileges.  Gipson especially had softened his mood towards the journalist, and made friendly jokes at the absent man's expense while seeming pleased at the ideas.  Gipson said that, thinking it over, it was a wonderful idea to have a second-hand chronologist for this kind of thing.  Though he had developed a following, the public knew nothing of the other three and wouldn't necessarily trust their reports, so Domino could serve as a support man.  The whole thing had seemed wary at first, but he said it dawned on him that this was no trivial adventure, but the initial trial of the light warriors, and that kind of thing needs unbiased interpretation.  Sylum had mentioned a few things earlier in the day about Domino not being the most unbiased of reporters, but he did not realize that argument at this moment and let the knight say his piece in Sylum's favor.  Then Sylum asked to see all the orbs of light, and Gipson and Edrick responded quickly, tossing them over.  It took Seville a moment longer but he still delivered.  Sylum required both hands to hold them, and he held them forward in the cupped palms and spoke a long rambling soliloquy about their importance.  Edrick commented on what a fine painting the stance would have made, and the others agreed.  As Sylum handed back the orbs Seville noticed that Gipson's, though still absent of the dark gray gas that filled the others', pulsed with a dull purple bead in the center, a throbbing singularity of shear regal light.  The color called to him like the wailing song of an angel, but the other three took no notice of it, and Gipson stuffed the orb back in the pack leaning on the log seat.

Crystalline snaps came from the fire, and they continued to talk, about everything from the days to come, to the Princess, to the festival.  It was all rambling and at times Seville realized he couldn't the least remember what had been said and would try again to stay on top of the conversation, but it flowed from one topic to the next, and without goal at all, so often if sounded like the three were mumbling indistinct truisms with no substance at all.  Seville felt as if their collective drive for conversation had slackened and that everyone should just get some sleep, but the others were content on the moment, oddly.  Since Sylum and Edrick had not retired, Seville knew that he had not slept but for minutes, so it did seem slightly disconcerting that they would have already accomplished what they had, and so quietly, but Seville didn't think on it much, and tried to stay in the wavering conversation.

A little time passed like this, leaves wisping, fire crackling, and the three men before Seville shifting from topic to topic.  Above him the few clouds felt stationary and the stars dimmed.  A void behind him and a grand forest before him, Seville felt as if in a box, but for once this didn't grant him comfort, but just oddity, misunderstanding, disorientation.  Suddenly Sylum spoke up and requested that Gipson fill their water canteens for the next day, better now than in the morning.  Gipson obliged, shifted his tar-black armor, and took up each of them, including Seville's, now glad he had decided to bring it, and then he turned and headed into the fields off the direction they had come the day prior.  Seville didn't remember a river or pond in that direction but Gipson really was the better adventurer, so he must know what he is doing.  The knight seemed to dissipate into darkness as he walked away, only not into the darkness of shadow but into his own darkness.  Certainly he had faded from sight long before he should have.  Seville could still see the tress at that distance.  

Then, Sylum said that nature was calling and asked if Edrick was coming, to which the priest said yes and stood to follow.  The two men disappeared into the thickness of the trees and Seville was left sitting alone at the large fire.  Seville realized that for such wind to be passing, for the leaves to be moving by so rapidly, that the trees should have been swaying much more, should have been making more noise.  In fact, beyond the flicks and sizzles of the campfire, the air was silent.  Not a single scratch of branch on branch or the call of a single night-bird.  Seville could not think about that though, because whenever he tried his right arm suddenly began to sting.  

When he tore back his shirt sleeve to reveal the accursed rot, he found that the bruise had shifted from black to purple, or rather the outlining bruise had remained black but the veins were a sharp purple color, dancing down his arm just as the blood might flow.  Even as he looked at it the intensity seemed to build, the light greater and greater, and yet not reflecting on his shirt or the ground.  The purple vibrancy shimmering now from his underarm was not reflected by anything, but only existed for itself.  And then the lines of color did not follow his veins but moved into new jagged paths, and then moved from those, and then again.  The lines were swaying upon his arm, and it was so miraculous a sight that he hardly noticed how the pain was growing.  Seville was aware of nothing else.  All his vision zoned in on the dancing lights upon his arm.

The lines took shape, but did not return to the shape of his veins, but instead crawled into a single line running down the center of his underarm and sided by two crests on his palms that connected at angles.  An arrow.  Following its path Seville looked up into the ling of trees and was suddenly overcome with a burning drive.  He stood and launched into the brush, not caring that the bushes were spiked and they tore at his face.

Hundreds of trees must have grown while he was napping as the forest was impossibly dense, thickening to the point that each of his frantic steps was aimed at dodging another tree trunk.  And still his progress was rapid; he maintained still almost the speed of a run but wasn't sure where he was running.  After some time he began to hear the voices of Sylum and Edrick, shouting.  Seville wanted to reach them, felt a dire urgency to save them, and yet he felt that hope sinking in his stomach so that it weighted him down.  His legs were sore already, his right arm thumping, and still he could not find the yelling men.  Next came the sounds of metal clanging.  Battle.

When Seville finally burst into a small clearing where all around were trees that almost seemed to have faces, peering in with angry sneers, the sounds of metal had stopped and before him he saw Dr. Sylum bent over the body of Edrick Valance.  As Seville approached, very afraid, Sylum raised his sword out of the slain Edrick and began to wipe it down on his cloak.  Seville even now took time to note how the Edrick's blood matched perfectly with the cloak's hue, and so no stain would show.  But was that his sword?  No, no, it was the sword of Gipson, the Werebane.  Sylum then turned to face Seville, who had stopped short and could not think of how to act.  Sylum came closer, holding the blade low to his side, but still tensed and prepared.  When he finally came so close to Seville that a single strike could have sent the rogue to the ground forever, Sylum stood still and let the leaves run past, swirling even between them in that little space.  Seville held his mouth ajar but no sound came out.  His eyes raced between the cold glimmer of Sylum's and to the corpse of Edrick lying on the ground behind.  Then Sylum slotted his sword in its sheath and pulled from behind his robe two glass bottles filled with a dark brown liquid.  A drink then, said Sylum, and he handed one of the bottles to Seville, who could find nothing else to do but to open the bottle and start drinking.  It tasted sweet and quenched a thousand years' thirst.  His entire body felt cool as it ran through him, thrilling him.  The pain in his right arm swept away with a single gulp, and the torrents of wondrous love gushed through his body, with such powerful strokes it seemed he might burst.  It made him laugh, a giddy girlish laugh.  They stood and finished the bottles completely, not leaving a single drop at the bottom of the glass.  And then Sylum looked up at Seville with an unwavering severity.  His brown eyes seemed almost to reflect the red of a distant fire, and they burned intently.  Seville felt like he was falling into a terrible vortex, the sounds of beating kettledrums and wailing strings suffocating him.

So is Gipson back with the water yet, Sylum asked, and he smirked.

Seville was awakened by nearby voices, and instantly looked up to see the three light warriors sitting just near him upon logs and talking over a normal campfire.  They hadn't moved, and judging by things he'd been sleeping only minutes.  But he was saturated with sweat, and in the night air each drop felt like a spike reaching deep into him.  He couldn't stand the humid stickiness of his bedroll so he stood, stretched, and returned to the campfire, at least until the others decided to sleep as well.  He tried his best to smile, but could not shake a terrible unsettled feeling in his gut.  What really had woken him suddenly?  For some reason when Dr. Sylum delivered his obnoxious smile and greeted Seville brightly, Seville became cold throughout.  He could only nod and then sit down on his log.  Sylum tried to talk to him but Seville remained uncomfortably distant.  It suddenly felt like a wall of resistant energy had drawn between them, cold and untrusting.

Chapter 7 ~ The Love Below Pt. 1

Headmistress Glump was quite possibly, no, definitely, the fattest woman in the entire world.  Unable to press her folds into any form of constricted clothing, she wore tailor maid dresses of astonishingly hideous floral décor, though, in a pinch, they would make fine sails.  Her normal movement was that of a grave saunter, as if in perpetual practice for a funeral march.  Her eyes were downcast anyways, the bulging folds from the brow above demanded it.  Not that she couldn't run, mind you, just that her run was like an avalanching boulder, ending in nothing but crashes and death.  At the waist she circumferenced at least ten feet, though you'd be hard pressed to define where her waist ended and the rest of the fat began.  Add onto that a height no greater than five and a half, a pumpkin of a head from anything to size or shape, bread-dough arms slathered with veins crying for release, and feet long and porcine like gluttonous ferrets and you have Headmistress Glump.

In the fall semester, her first year of teaching grade school, no less than five minutes of each day were lost to her agonizing struggle with the door frame.  Through soft moans she pressed against the portal, blubbery folds ridging over the frame so that it disappeared, and for that brief terrible moment her and the frame were one, a duality of pressures, inward and outward, struggle and release.  By November the children spoke and giggled about the scuttle impressions coursed over the inner wooden slats.  For reasons beyond the comprehension of the children, the faculty heads decided to keep Glump on, so over the winter break a work order was signed and the door was widened to accommodate.  Three children could enter the room at once shoulder to shoulder and not even suck in their chests.

And she was old too, but this was hard to surmise because her body literally could not afford wrinkles, there was no space within for the indentions.  But her badly grayed hair, hanging in multiple pockets like noodles tipped from a bowl was one clue, along with her voice, high and creaky.  The dimpled oldness of her face was hidden under millimeter thick make-up anyways, a result no doubt of her never removing a previous coat.  Boysenberry blue for the eye lids, syrupy black for the lashes, strawberry red for the lips, and cream white for everything else, her face was a veritable sundae.  When she spoke, and she did in great length, her acorn pouch cheeks jiggled like a Buddhist luck-maker; it was always something to watch when you couldn't follow the rant about how kids these days were goin' straight down in the proverbial hand basket, and there wasn't a thing to do about it so shut up and learn your multiplication tables.  But they'd learned them already.  Nine times seven was sixty-three last month, gee, it's still sixty-three this month.  They breezed through the syllabus like Glump breezed through a doorway.

Therefore, it was a breath of fresh sardonic air when the new kid arrived in the early spring.  After all, one could only hear the Glump chant (lumpy glumpy, short and stumpy, bag of donuts, still she's grumpy) so many times before it got old, not that the leader of the class clown brigade, Thadwick, noticed this.  But a new kid meant a new target to which all the children were welcome.  It started the very first day, about a month into spring term.

“Children,” wheezed Headmistress Grump, “we've got a new student in class today so I want everybody to help make her feel…”

“I'm a boy!” said the new kid.

“Oh, of course, dear.  Help him feel welcome.”  Not a good start at all.  The boy's earliest memories were that of childish snickers as he walked to what he thought

was the nearest empty seat, sat and realized it was broken, stood, and then found one towards the back; cruel eyes upon him all the way.  His first day of class not but moments passed and already he felt as if in a pit of rattlesnakes, the threatening rattles replaced with jokes.  The tall, nasally boy he later knew as Thadwick, sneered and led a rally of laughs.  And at what?  The little boy, so confused, lost.

Most aggravating to him, and that which he grumbled about as he sat in the back and ignored the lesson on multiplying the terrible sevens, was that he did look like a girl, that this oafish beast ahead the class was not the first to make the mistake.  Rather it was a stigma, plaguing him.  How else would you expect a boy with brilliant red hair hanging down so that it framed his rosy cheeks to look?  And his clothes too were bright red, his pale face sticking out like a fog light.

Early on, a small black-haired boy, probably one of Thadwick's goons, held up a picture he'd been working on diligently since the new kid's arrival, sweeping clockwise around the room and ending with the boy.  The picture was cruelly accurate, and under read the caption: Santa called, he wants his clothes back.

“Time for lunch, children!”  It couldn't have come early enough, but when the black-haired boy made sure to deliver the picture personally to the new kid's desk, the new kid realized that it didn't really matter.

(Read'em and weep, gents, deuces and jacks…)

He sat alone in the cafeteria and mulled over his five wood-like chicken nuggets, grainy mashed potatoes, and half-melted Jell-O cup.  He kept his eyes away from the long table where Thadwick and goons sat, but he heard all the laughing, sharp and distinct as if it was aimed at him, which it probably was.  Twice he felt the quick slap of a nugget on the back of his head, but he didn't respond.  That would only make it worse, right?

“How did I get here?” the boy asked himself.  His head hurt.

(You cheatin' son of a submariner…)

Recess wasn't looking much better, so the new kid stuck to the far end of the grounds, away from the other children.  He spent the slowly passing time staring up into the sky, vainly thinking that if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him.  He heard them start laughing again.  It was about him, he knew it.  No stupid little third grader was that funny on his own.  Looking up for so long made him dizzy, so he crouched down and started pressing the gravel around with his hands.  What a way to spend a first day at school, he thought.  He wanted to go home, but realized he didn't know where that was.  His head hurt a lot.

The reaping motion of his hands halted, but he stayed crouched, silent and still like a gargoyle atop a cathedral buttress.

(Yeah…yeah…just deal it again.  Hey man, you with us…)

Basking in that tranquil stance the thumping in his head faded slightly, so he tried to maintain it best he could, even slowing his breathing to long silent wisps.  He managed to forget everything around him, leaving just him and his small plot of gravel, feeling only the lazy, soothing breeze upon him.  But in such motionless sentry he could not avoid the vague mysteries in the back of his mind, a plot of black clouds, a blanket over the past.  The boy remembered nothing.  Not his family or home, or from where he came even.  For only seven days now had he been aware, as he thought of it in his mind.  Before that, nothing at all.  So lost in his mind he became just then, that at first, and not until they were upon him, did he hear the voluminous, wailing screams.

Before he recognized any sensations he was pulling his face out of the gravel and cupping the back of this head tenderly, and his eyes saw along the ground's horizon several legs running past him.  A slap to the back of the head was some warning.  He heard several children now screaming, and another sound, deeper and ferocious, but a scream of some sort.  Dazed from his falling collision, he bumped himself up and tried to look around, but again without notice he was pushed one way and then another, small clamoring hands pressing him forward and he walked with them with little time to question, they lead wherever he was supposed to go.

Another tyrannical growl came from behind him somewhere, even louder this time, a bellowing sound, a roar.  Defiant against the hands pushing him away he spun back, and saw for himself the creature amidst the astonished cries of the children.

“A T-Rex, a T-Rex!!!” they were calling.

The boy screamed instantly as well, but stopped it short and continued to stare, to the point that others were almost pulling him.  The giant reptilian beast bounded forward on two thick legs ending in menacing claws.  From top to bottom it ran with dimply blue-green scales, and its eyes shone off its head like diminutive yellow beacons.  Its shattering roars came out through a maw of gigantic brown teeth that shut in on each other like a cage.  As it ran it lashed its tail to each side, accompanied by the mighty swoosh of the wind.  Recoiling back, and caught off by the other children trying to pull him away, the new kid lost his footing on a random jut of rock and fell to his back.  

The beast noticed and looked as if it would charge, but after a single lunging step it reared back and perked upwards, twisting its head around.  The boy winced in confusion, and the other children continued to pull at his shoulders, but he angrily shook them away.  They yelled at him, turned, and ran.  The T-Rex completely turned then and left his tail to the boy.  He sat there a moment and watched the monster duck its head and bobble like a chicken away from him, moving slowly.  He took no notice of the other children having left him, only the view before him.  The giant beast finally subsiding its growls, he suddenly knew what had attracted it away.  

(Come on, man, you gotta pay attention…how many you want…)

A high-pitched squealing, a girlish cry, was ringing over the field, somewhere in front of the boy and also before the Rex.  The sound was obvious and terrifying, but before all things had come together for the boy, the beast hunkered low and charged forward.  The boy heard the metallic scrapes and cracking wood as the Rex launched its head through the playground, sending splintery logs and many of the long metal canisters that had formed the hideaway pipes soaring through the air.  Too lost in this sight, the boy still did not move, and the Rex circled around and sent another chunk of the playground away.  The beast ran in circles, mulling its snout through the debris, searching for its food, but seemed to find nothing.  It worked slowly, but powerfully.  

The boy's head suddenly hurt incredibly, the sharp glimmers of white that pierced the blank darkness of his mind physically pained him.  Something was coming to him, something natural, though it hurt to try to realize it.  Once more without notice his hands were searching the ground, combing quickly through the gravel and dirt, doing their own searching.  He wanted to do something, wanted it so bad, but feared it.  Was this right?  Finding nothing more suitable than a palm-sized stone, he stood and charged forward at the Rex.

(That's three times now…do you wanna play or not, buddy…)

The T-Rex was taking a fresh chew into a still-planted metal canister as the new kid finished his run onto the ground and halted instantly, finding that he had little to do offensively.  For the short while, the monster seemed to care little of him, so the boy followed the wailing cries that had led both adversaries to this point.  Hopping a mangled log, once part of a swing set, and cornering around a long grounded pipe, he came up to a short and wide dome structure where kids would hide and make the base for games like knights and bandits.  He peered in and saw a milk-pale Thadwick clenching against the side of the dome, trying his best to hide, but still screaming.  

“Shut up!” whispered the boy at Thadwick, as emphatic as a whisper could be, but at first the frightened mound either didn't understand or didn't choose to obey.  He continued to shoot out the echoing, nasally screeches of fright, punctuated with breathy gasps.  So the new kid ducked into the dome, crouched over, and slapped Thadwick across the face.

“Shut up, I said!”

Thadwick was so shocked he actually did.  But in that very first instant of quiet they discerned how close the monster now was, so close they felt its hot breath jetting in from the unwelded seams of the metal dome.  To Thadwick it must have seemed like some masterful fury, but to the new kid, he was drawing a mental blank and operating on sheer kinetic energy.  The boy grabbed Thadwick hard by the upper arm and pulled him from the dome, just as the angry teeth of the Rex were crushing it like paper.

Twisting, the ball in his shoulder tugging on the socket, the new kid slung Thadwick past him and the bully fell forward.  

“Run!” the boy screamed, but Thadwick only dug his head down into the gravel like an ostrich, bawling.  So the new kid turned and faced the monster that had already discerned there was no food in the little dome.  He heard the heavy blasts of air from the giant lizard's nostrils and he also heard the distant shouts of the other children.  They sounded almost like cheers, the teasers now cheering him towards his doom.  And he felt a terrible urge to go to it, what started as pain and lead to courage now felt like sickness in his gut.  The Rex cocked its head, almost confused by this little creature that didn't run, and then with mighty steps it approached.

The new kid lunged his arm only to realize it wasn't holding the rock anymore, so he let out a panicked yelp and then ran forward under the monster's trunk-like legs.  He feared the beast would continue on to Thadwick so he turned and yelled, but already the Rex was turning to charge again.  To draw it away the boy ran off to the other end of the playground, hurdling the splintered remains of wooden climbing sets, and the Rex charged but stepped hard on a plate-metal slide that did not give so easily and so the creature lost its footing and sidestepped awkwardly to gain balance.  The new kid thought he heard the distant voices rally up in applause but couldn't be certain and wouldn't take the time now to look.  He scanned the ground desperately and finally found it, a long metal bar torn jaggedly from the dome structure, the end was crude and spiked, but it was not so long that he could not carry it.  He fished it up and waited for the beast that had now readied itself and muscled back to release an angry roar.  Then it lunged forward once more and for some reason, in that instant, the boy realized that he wasn't even sweating, that he wasn't even afraid.  

The T-Rex brought its head down for the fatal chomp but the boy sidestepped and swung the bar around like a greatsword, splattering the creature's eye like a hammer would an orange.  The monster lurched forward two bulky steps and turned hard in the direction of its good eye, loosing furious roars and screeches.  It was horribly disoriented, it began to charge for a moment only to stop and try to balance itself, always turning slightly in the direction of the uninjured eye.  It seemed unable to find the boy, and realizing this the boy backed away rather quickly, hoping that what he'd done would be enough.  The amount of blood alone was stealing from him a will to fight; it spurted from the socket in intervallic shots of canon velocities.  At last the creature would not handle the swirling world around it, and it both dashed and hobbled away from the grounds towards the forest that, the boy could only assume, it came from, though he couldn't tell if the dinosaur knew where it headed.  But he heard the distinct scurry of whipping leaves as it proceeded further and further back into the foliage, eventually beyond his vision, that he just now was noticing was quite keen.  He was breathing hard to be certain, but his hands did not tremble, and the feeling of sickness had faded.  In fact, all things considered, he felt fine.

He contentedly walked over to where Thadwick was still hulking himself in the gravel, and he saw the other children rushing towards the grounds, despite an incredibly fat woman now a ways behind them yelling at them to halt.  They rushed in and circled around him and yelled things that he couldn't make out, it came like a hurricane of sound.  But it was good sound, at least that he could tell.  The winds had changed as it were.

(Gipson…)

The bully Thadwick was thoroughly abashed, though he stood quickly when the others arrived to try to save face.  He failed, and a grin formed on the new kid's lips.  When Headmistress Glump finally arrived she had only pronouncements to deliver but the children gave little care to her, and were in no mood to return to class.  

(Gipson…)

They all faced in to the eye of their storm, shouting stupid little lines of admiration and wonderment.  But it meant something to the boy; it hit him as a warmth he'd never known.  So there are good things in this world, he thought, and whatever fear may have existed in himself, his confusion over what had come over him, it was slight and defeated for the moment.  He beamed.

“What was your name again, kid?” asked one of the boys, one of Thadwick's goons the new kid noticed.  

“Oh, it's Herrik,” he responded.  “Herrik…”

“Gipson!!!” shouted Seville.

Gipson's eyelids fluttered twice and then the image snapped into place, and even before it had focused his mind began to register a count of bodies.  Three that he knew, three that he didn't, six all told.  To his left was the Dr. Darrin Sylum, affixing a studious eye on him, and to the doctor's left sat Seville, clearly prepared to shout again if need be.  Not sitting at the round table was the apprentice clergyman Edrick Valance, who was back a little ways against the wall standing next to a high bar stool.  To Gipson's right this time he saw three more or less indistinct men, commoners by their clothes, but not sedentary.  Travelers he thought, but not the easy going type as he discerned a gray, foul look about them, the kind of shadow that the mind puts there more than might exist, a very potent reflex in the knight's repertoire.  Their faces were hardened, fixed in a permanent scowl, and the one that let teeth show was missing more than a few.

“Are you with us this time, big guy?” asked Seville, a bit perturbed.  “The cards don't play themselves.”

“Yes, yes,” he thought quickly, “I'm sorry, I must be a little tired, gents.”

“You don't get tired,” continued Seville, now just playing with the old knight.  

“Well, I do have my rare moments.  I recommend you take great note of this for it's the last you will see of it.  Whose turn?”

“Yours, of course,” said one of the dark men sitting to his right.  His voice had the dusty, rakish sound of a seaman too long away from the ocean breeze.

Gipson remembered now, looking at the five cards gripped in his fingers.  Nothing, zilch, terrible hand.  

“Fold,” he said, and passed the cards over to the furthest new man, who had the deck.  They rolled their eyes and spoke to themselves under their breathe, having waited that long for a fold.  Gipson said nothing in response though, he kept quiet and let the memory rush back to him.  He rarely dozed and didn't care to do it.  The cards were played out and a meager pile of golden coins was pressed over to Seville who seemed overly bright, saying something about having all the luck that night.  He's acting, thought Gipson, something that worried him and he made sure his blades were still equipped.  

It was a traveler's pub, he remembered.  They were two days out now from Corneria, and with a second day of travel showing little in the way of progress; the light warriors had grown solemn, against the attempted well-wishings of Dr. Sylum.  Truthfully, Gipson still held onto his hope and didn't worry, and he wouldn't think that Seville would question the professor in the least, and so it was only idly relevant at the moment.  He would at least wait until they arrived at the next major commerce city, named Jrist, another day's travel to the north, before he considered losing steam.  If there was word to find, it would be found there.  Looking out the window and quickly scanning the display of stars it was clear that night was long fallen; he wished to rest soon.  Old bones don't work like they used to.

“Where'd you say you was headed?” asked one of the men to Gipson's right as he dealt out the hand.  Sylum, taking up his diplomatic responsibilities, did the talking.

“Didn't say, and don't know.  Just traveling here to there, Mr. Smythe.”

“Ah, but there must be a 'there',” responded the man apparently named Smythe, “It's not a day when people do much travel for no reason.”

“We stopped by the Centennial, on the first night that is.”

“And left so soon?” Smythe was sneering.

“It didn't suit us quite right.”  Sylum was flustering.  Gipson felt the handle of a short sword under the table, and Seville's eyes were widened and cautious.  

“And what does suit you?”

“What suits us is money,” Seville suddenly broke in with a wide smile, “Full house!”

Cards were thrown down in anger and another pile shuffled over to the youngest of them, who amusingly cackled and stacked the coins into impressive piles.  

“Don't get greedy over luck, Seville,” said Edrick with his head laid back against the wall, “If you were to have me list things that do not last…”

“Well it's the devil's luck he's got tonight, boy-o,” said a man next to Smythe, and Smythe finished a thought.

“Or cheater's luck.”  His raspy voice was instantly weighty.  

“Mr. Smythe, we've done this already.  You checked the deck yourself.  Fifty-two then and fifty-two now, count if you like,” Seville countered.

“Were that the only method then of course, but you and I know it is not.  It's your deck so your mark.”

“And what would you ask?” Sylum interrupted.

“Professor, I got it.” Said Seville, “Mr. Smythe isn't serious.”

“Am I not?  Well then, sleeves up.”  Smythe's gritty face showed not the faintest hint of a joke, and the other's just looked at him momentarily.  “A gamer's courtesy, as travelers I'm sure you're aware.”

Seville became still and careful.

“I'd rather not,” he said.  

“And therefore admit that you've cheated us,” said the snarling Smythe, and Seville came to realize how ghoulish the gray-haired man looked.  

“It's not that…” but then Edrick began to speak before Seville could properly think.

“Mr. Smythe, why do make such … ridiculous requests, when you've no … reason to accuse us … and … on my word … as a priest of the church I can assure you there is no ill-play.”  He stumbled over the words frantically, and they diminished almost to nothingness as he spoke.

“Ill-play from the ill-company of a most ill-church.  Indeed I have every reason to accuse anyone when the entire world has turned ill as it has, priest of the church.  I come from over the seas but here now stay because the winds have turned stale even as the seas churn in fury.  The very ground itself has soured.  All is slipping into chaos.  And if I can't trust the sea, I certainly won't trust a rogue and his friend of the church.  Especially those that keep company with an old knight who clearly couldn't keep a watch past supper and a soft-boy of books.  You're no travelers.”

“It was a good effort, Eddie,” said Seville, “You've already proven your mettle beyond my highest hopes time and again.  But this man here is clearly insane, and only listens to insanity.  So I'll give it to him.”  And Seville flashed a cautious glance to Gipson and then pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket, revealing the arm flush with black scars.  “Do you see any cards, because I don't.”

“My word…” muttered Smythe and even the men to either side became wide-eyed and curious.  Gipson, always keeping track of the complete surroundings, noticed that Seville had drawn eyes from other tables as well, so he nodded his head towards him to wrap things up, but Seville was not satisfied with that.  

“One more hand then, just to be sure,” Seville said, rolling up the other sleeve and then grabbing the deck.  “Eddie, deal.”  

“I don't think I should get involved with…”

“Eddie!”  The apprentice clergyman vaulted to the table and hastily grabbed up the deck, nearly spilling them all to the floor but luckily saving face.

“One more game?” asked Smythe, still in awe of the odd and somehow frightening black whelps running all down Seville's arm.

“Because I wouldn't want you to lose all hope and think that all in this world is ill.  We should at least have a happy game of poker to look to after the day has waned.  Surely you trust the priest to deal a hand without bias?”  And nobody said anything after that, but rather waited to see the drama played out.  Edrick passed each of the six their cards and also handled the swaps, hand visibly shaking as he passed them around.  As the turns circled around the table the central pile of gold grew heavy, the largest pot of the night.  At the swaps Smythe took three cards, but Seville took only one, not for a moment breaking his stare at the dark man across the way.  Gipson had to remember to advise against things like this later.  As the only traveler among his crew he knew it was not wise to deal with other travelers.  Few were there with such benevolent goals as their own.  Perhaps a talk with Seville about the meaning of cockiness.  

“That's it then, left of the dealer first, that's you,” said Seville to the man to Smythe's right.  It was so arranged that Seville would show last.  Wow, thought Sylum, still not concluding on any judgment of the event, did Seville have a flare for drama.  He liked it, the professor, liked it a lot.  The first man and Smythe turned out with no better than pairs, but the final of the unknown men had a high three of a kind, which beat out both Gipson and Sylum.  Seville paused for effect and cast glances to everyone.

“Three of a kind is a strong hand, but it doesn't even come close to my straight flush,” then he laid down the nine, ten, jack, queen, and king of spades, as pretty as could be.  “Better luck next time, she's my lady tonight.”  

Smythe slapped his fast on the table, downing Seville's golden towers and sending the coins rolling along the floor.  He pointed a sharp finger, “You've every look of a cheat!”

“And you've every look of a man walking quietly out the door.  I'll get your tab, don't think you can anymore anyways.”

A growl seemed to want to crawl out of Smythe, but the man forced it back, turned, and walked with the other two out of the bar.

Edrick helped Seville fetch all of the scattered gold while the older two sat at the table and gave each other opposite looks.  Gipson had always worked his way around such people by playing off his likeability.  Actually, he rarely got into such situations because of that.  But Seville confused him briefly.  The boy seemed to aim for conflict, almost aggressively so.  Despite definitely being able to put the earned money to use (the group had decided that all winnings should first handle provisions, and then be given to the victor), Gipson had desperately hoped that the last hand would go to Smythe or his comrades.  The knight had always relied on his, usually, accurate ability to judge people quickly, but that first night at the Lux he had not sensed this in Seville.  This felt desperately portentous.  He checked his blades once more.  

Sylum however seemed rather bright about the event.  After the three had walked out he had given Seville a slap on the back, another warning to Gipson's heart.  It became obvious how little they knew of adventuring.  They had little hope of success, he realized, unless the professor be correct in his theories of fate and destiny.  

Seville plopped back into his chair like one who has eaten more than his fill, and Edrick set the bulgy coin pouch down and then finally joined them at the table.  With a delicious grin on his face, Seville slowly unrolled his left sleeve, and just as it neared the base a rolled-up playing card fell out, the ace of spades.

“You did cheat!” shouted Edrick.  

“Quiet down, Eddie!  'Course I did, fools like that are happily parted with their money, trust me.  They're not gonna do anything with it for the betterment of society.  Where as we are on a divine mission and are going to need food tomorrow.”  Gipson didn't like it one bit.

“Even so, fools like that can be dangerous.  We're not talking about forest imps here,” the knight said.  “That Smythe had a dark look about him, grizzled for sure, but I've no doubt he has skill with a blade, a skill built from use.”

“Eh, you too, Master Gipson?  I mean, I expected it from Eddie.”

“It was quite a show to put on just to hide the fact that he was right.  You've seen few taverns outside your godfather's, and believe me they are not all so friendly as even this one.  I will expect the utmost caution from all of my teammates.  Don't speak of fools when you yourself are foolish.”  Gipson feared the dark Smythe.  He was the first man in a long time to suggest the knight's proper age.

“It was just … eh, fine … you got it, big guy.  No more cheating at poker.”  Seville reclined the chair back and put his feet up.   

They sat there quietly for the moment, letting that topic settle away.  Edrick had wanted to go on and scold Seville further, but assumed he wouldn't do as good a job as the knight, so chose to stay quiet instead.  Among the many considerations that had crossed his mind over the two long days of walking was the wondering of whether or not becoming a light warrior would set Seville straight.  And Sylum too, now that he thought of it.  Perhaps now it was his disappointment that quieted him.  He'd spent many nights in anger at himself, angry he was unable to stop Seville from whatever crime.  If only he could press his will on others.  If only Seville would ask to be good, he would teach him.  If only he could do anything.  The time passed a little longer, the night's animals were in full life.

“What did you think of the man's speech, professor,” asked Edrick to break the quiet, “About the wind going stale and everything?”

“Thought it was a fine speech.   A little dramatic maybe but the night certainly isn't short of that.  I found it interesting, his mention of chaos.”

“How's that?”

“Well, I read this rather depressing essay a long time ago by the famous Dr. Unne,” the others showed no sign of having heard of him, “in which he states that the only innate quality of existence is chaos, a force which he called Sin, and though it seems to fluctuate, in other words seems to be more apparent at some times than others, it is nevertheless ultimately eternal.  And therefore, over the millennia, creatures of the world have become bound to chaos, many species have become its puppet, and that is why there is evil, and so evil is unending.  Unne made quite clear that this is the only thing you can count on when you're in a pinch.  Like I said, depressing.  People don't generally hold with it, but I'll admit that it seems a fair judgment of this world, if not a tad too gloomy.”

“So how was he first received?  Dr. Unne, I mean?” questioned Edrick, fascinated and needlessly nervous.

“People thought he was nuts.  Would have put him away were it not for his work on the ancient language, which is astonishing.”

“So whenever we find the princess and the stakes get high, at least we can count on everything going wrong,” entered an amused Seville.

“Right on the money!”

“Peachy.  Hey, you guys wanna play some more?  No money, of course.  I'll even roll my sleeves up.”

So they set out to the cards once again, and since no coins were crossing the table, Edrick joined them, much to the other's dismay as luck was truly with him.  After he could have potentially made more money for the group than Seville even when cheating, Seville spoke.

“We have got to get you behind a real game, Eddie.”

“You already know the answer, Seville.”

“Yeah, but hear me out.  If we had the kind of financial security we could count on with you playing, then I wouldn't have to cheat anymore.  I'd be a better man.”

“It's our choices, Seville, not our options that make us who we are.”

“Buddy, haven't you been listening to the good professor?  We're workin' for fate now, there are no choices.”

“Professor, is how Seville plays cards effected by fate?”  Asked Edrick while he absent-mindedly stared at his hand.  Sylum passed two across the table and cleared his throat.

“Well, technically yes.  It encompasses everything.  It decides when you go to the bathroom…”

“That's kinda creepy,” said Seville, trying to get a rise out of anybody, his dark dream of the night before forgotten, or at least forgiven.

“But like I said…”

“Wait a sec,” interrupted Seville, “Let me try.  I wonder how you combine the infallibility of destiny with the eternal presence of chaos.  Your basically saying that there is a one hundred percent chance that our life is going to suck.  We've no choice to escape chaos.”

“Well, like I said…”

“Get down!”

The arrow shuttled just over Dr. Sylum's ear and he yelped aloud and scrambled to the floor where he met the eyes of Seville and Edrick.  Then they heard the wooden thunk of another arrow striking the table.  They saw Gipson stand and pull free two of his swords.  He dashed over to the wall next to the window and called again,

“Move!  Move!  Next to the wall!”

The three men scurried like salamanders from the flame to the wall beside Gipson, who was checking with quick nods of his head out the window, one long sword and one short sword drawn.  By their magical aura it was clearly the expensive ones.  Seville made to get up, already having pulled his daggers, but Gipson pressed him hard down by the shoulder and told him to stay.  

“Smythe returns,” the knight said.  “And his friends.”

He couldn't find them out the window so he slowly and silently stepped to the door, expecting a charge.  Every patron in the establishment hunkered under a table, and the barkeep was kneeling down behind his counter.  Gipson checked his surroundings in his routine manner.  Seventeen bodies under tables, three against the wall, one behind the counter, three windows, two against the back wall, one along this wall, open!  

“Seville,” Gipson mouthed, “Close.”

The rogue understood and flipped the shades of the window shut, but didn't reach up to lock them.  Apparently the attackers had been waiting for that sign, for the instant it happened the front door was smashed open and three bodies came running through, the first two falling just as quickly as Gipson had sliced them as they came.  The dark Mr. Smythe entered last with a long sword drawn, but he survived for all of two parries before the knight had swiftly strafed sideways and run the man through the lower back.  Smythe seemed to hiccup once, and then cough, then his eyes glazed and he fell.  Gipson stood momentarily breathing heavily, rotating his head to see every direction, and then he looked out the broken doorframe to find backup but saw none.  He was already back inside and checking the vital signs of the bodies before the others thought to get up.  It was so fast.

“Hah!” Gipson said, pleased, “Three moves!  I expected more from the old rascal.  Didn't expect a fogey like me to hear the pull of a bow from fifty feet I'd wager.  Hard learned lessons!”

The knight laughed and started piling the bodies.  

“Was that entirely necessary?” said Edrick after he stood and brushed down his robe.

“Necessary?” asked Gipson, confused.

“With your skills, you could have subdued them just as easily.”

“I don't think they were trying to subdue us, Edrick,” responded the knight.

“That's no reason to … to just kill them.”  The apprentice clergyman spoke loudly.

“And what reason had I otherwise?  Is defense not a reason?” asked Gipson, now with an almost dumfounded look on his square face.

“What reason had you not to kill someone?!” shot back the clergyman, aghast.

“Don't get me wrong, Edrick, I take no pleasure in it.  But I kind of figured I just saved three lives.”

“At the cost of another three, Master Knight!” Edrick shouted angrily.  “We can't … do that!”

“Defend ourselves from attack?!” the old knight looked offended, as if a personal hobby of his had been dejected by the entire population of Corneria.  

“We can't have a body count!”  For once Edrick was not concerned about those around him, who had all meant to return to their seats but only stood as the two yelled at each other.  The bartender had been moments away from kicking them out before it started.

“I don't understand how you can accuse me for keeping you alive…”

“You mean,” Dr. Sylum said suddenly to quell the others, speaking to Edrick, “You mean as those who carry the orbs.  You mean because we are the Lux.”

He chose an archaic way of saying it in hopes the other patrons would not follow, and they didn't appear to.  To the doctor it seemed only natural to spread that the light warriors, or the Lux, had begun their quest, but realized then how uncomfortable Edrick or even Seville might have felt of this, so he decided to keep it low.  Between not being believed and potentially being persecuted for their insanity, it probably wasn't best to bring it up on a regular basis anyways, at least not until after the rescue of the princess.  The thought cast a dim feeling on Sylum as he spoke.  Fame would have to wait.

“I mean that, yes,” continued Edrick, “But I shouldn't have to mean anything, should 'not murdering people' not stand on its own?”

Seville spoke, “Edrick, I know how you feel, but it was defense of an unprovoked attack.  We should…”

“I would hardly call it unprovoked, Seville,” said the priest bitterly, “One crime leads only to another.”  

“Beg your pardon,” broke in the bartender, clearly having had enough, “But I think it's time for you fellas to leave, and take out your garbage with you.”

Gipson glanced at him with a stern grimace and then turned back to the others who seemed unwilling to look at each other at the moment.

“Besides, Domino could be around.  He works out of Jrist,” Edrick said, surprisingly shocked and angered.

“Yeah, a report of this is the last thing we need,” said Seville, trying his best not to make it an attack on Gipson's actions.  He motioned to the others that they should start to leave.  

“We go, then, we'll find a place to stop along the road.”  To that the others seemed agreed.

The night road was silent but for the uneven, albeit weak, wisps of wind low along the ground.  They walked further apart than usual, with Gipson far in the lead.  Nobody even considered mindless talk to keep spirits high; at the time they simply had no spirits at all.  Edrick was filled with sick feelings he barely knew, if at all.  Three men murdered just before his eyes, by a close acquaintance, a friend even.  Of all things he had thought of in the quiet solitude of his normal demeanor, the taking of lives had somehow not occurred to him.  The light warriors were not meant to deal death, he was sure of it.  They were life savers, not takers.  

As usual Seville and Dr. Sylum thought along the same lines, both being of general disinterest in either case.  They both cared about not getting caught, not whether or not the event went down.  But Seville had one peculiar realization as he watched Gipson tear through the three men with such graceful precision.  He thought that if the time came, he could do it, and would.

Herrik Gipson was mainly confused, but felt distant from the group now, detached from it by the sharp words of the priest.  He didn't feel that he'd done anything wrong; only protected those he'd come to care for.  The scolding almost gave him a physical sensation, like a plasmatic substance had been released through his whole body and was running up and down his spine, making him weak.  He knew what he felt.  It was criticism for something he'd always done for praise.  Until he finally fell asleep that night under cold stars and beside meandering fire, he felt for the first time since long ago in a small classroom the bitterness of shame.  But when sleep did come it bid him no welcome.

Chapter 8 ~ The Love Below Pt. 2

The great cat-like beast marked the boundaries of its cage by walking in incessant, hungry circles, always staring out with its grim yellow eyes.  It was monstrously large for a cat, even for a tiger, whose shape it most distinctly resembled, and all muscle, as any of its ferocious lunges into the metal bars made clear.  They were bending just slightly.  Along with its extraordinary size the tiger had two front canine teeth over six inches long, with both inner ridges and points as sharp as any forged blade.  But perhaps most amazing of all was the creature's fur, not that it was too fine or bushy, the pelt would not be a waste but not suitably luxurious either, but that it was an incredibly peculiar hue of dark purple, with deep black spots running laterally over the back and hind legs.  In the night the tiger would blend well enough with the shades of jungle canopy, but under the sunlight one could not ignore the brilliant violet sheen of its coat.  Black panthers had been seen often enough hunting on the edges of the Onrac forest, but never a beast of this color, indeed, never this beast.  The purple tiger halted its spiraling march momentarily to press its face up into the bars and stand high on its back legs, letting out a guttural hiss.  A hefty metallic clang answered its paws as they collided down with the surface, but the beast did not return to circling.  With another hiss it shot its right arm, bearing wide the five inch-long claws, out through the bars and slashed into the grass, reaching as far as it could.  And sitting not a foot away, close enough that the slinging dirt and grass splashed onto his feet, was Herrik Gipson.  He shook the dirt off his right foot, not even looking up.

Herrik was busy chewing a crude wooden lead pencil between his front teeth, deeply in thought.  He wore khaki clothing, light traveling clothes that ironically he preferred when he didn't have to go anywhere, and for the day his glowing red hair was let hang lazily down, as he kept it when it he didn't have to see anybody.  Along with the pencil he had only a thick journal, with pages bent and folded with wear.  It was open to a mostly empty page opposite a page filled with a sketch of the caged tiger.  Written across the top in Herrik's professional hand, as he called it, was the word Sabertooth.  He seemed to take no heed of the snarling creature's attacks and growls, but only sat like tree stump, lost in his thoughts.  Eventually he concluded on something to say and wrote down in the journal, rather small and sheepishly,

Only eats meat.

He wasn't very good at this part of things.  Passionately he could orate every idiosyncrasy of any animal he'd met, listing volumes of facts from average height and weight to attack patterns and habitat, and had become very good at testing for this information when it was not obvious, for instance by offering vegetation to such beasts as the sabertooths, quickly to realize they'd have no taste of it.  But he didn't have the patience for written words, or for sketches for that matter, since his realization of the tiger on the page was lucky if it could be called a vague example.  All things get better with time he thought to himself whenever he thought about it at all, which was every time he set out to catalogue his thoughts in writing, but in two years of practice there had been no improvement.  It just didn't come to him like hunting the creatures did.  He recognized this only with sleepless frustration.  Annoyed with himself, he slashed through his previous marks and added a new, equally unimportant thought,

Only eats meat.  Larger than most tigers.

But Herrik only had to look at those words for a moment before they too were crossed out, the young monster hunter shaking his head in disbelief at his difficulties at what should come so easily.  Then finding himself disgusted with everything he'd written down he tore out the page and put the tip of his pencil to the clean one below.  Might as well start with the name, he thought.

“Magnificent creature!” said a gentle voice behind him, and with his lips instantly curling into a smile, Herrik turned around to find a short, stocky man in work pants and a white buttoned shirt looking down at him.  The man had a face covered with milk-white hair, beard and mustache and countless whiskers, and he wore a flat-top hat with a narrow brim and gray ribbon tied around it.  He held a long and wide leather flap used for rolling maps under his right arm.  “It really is, Herrik, an astonishing find.”

“Professor Maddox, I hoped you'd come by,” Herrik said as he stood and shook the old man's hand.  “It's more astonishing than you know.  The fur, you notice the color of the fur?”

The professor raised his hand as if to make the young man yield, “Herrik, my lad, there's something I want to talk about.”

“There's always something you want to talk about, it can wait, it can wait.”  Herrik was smiling very intently now, and though he had only the one smile he really knew how to use, it injected itself like an infection into any who saw it.  He moved closer to the cage and rounded about to give a demonstration.

“But I really would like to discuss this while the time suits us,” the professor said.

“The fur, professor, surely you find the color out of the ordinary.”

“Well yes, but…” the professor instantly flustered in the face of Herrik's zeal, hard-bitten by his own love of science.

“And had I found him somewhere in the Onrac forest, or even as far off as the Cardian Islands I might have agreed with you, but to find this marvelous beast I had to search the hidden places of the world,” Herrik said, to which the professor sighed and let his yielding hands slouch to his sides.

“Hidden places, Herrik?”

“Absolutely.  I'll admit I was finally beaten over by the myths of a great monster dwelling in the north lake that feeds the falls and runs into the Onrac River.  So I hiked along its path, with a canoe of course, for the trip back, but when I came to the mountain wall it was too steep to climb.  But I found something better.  A cave, behind the great waterfall, and the walls of this cave run with dark purple stone, identical to the sabertooth's fur.”

“So,” concluded the professor, not showing signs of surprise, “What would seem nature's folly is truthfully its miracle.  Time and again we've discovered this together, lad.  I think we should…”

“Oh, but that's not the half of it, professor,” Herrik shouted energetically.  “Watch, watch!”

Herrik ran over to his journal lying on the ground, shook it up in the air, and scooped up the small flat mirror that fell out.  When he stood upright he spun his head in towards Professor Maddox and gave a boyish grin, to which the professor only shook his head acceptingly.  And then Herrik called out:

“Hey!  Hey!” and the giant, fanged tiger perked its ears and stopped circling once more.  It scrunched its eyes menacingly, filled with hatred.  Herrik looked up quickly and found the sun, and then he held the mirror low and cast the white rays into the cage over the face of the sabertooth.  The purple cat looked confused for a moment, but then it blinked tightly and turned away, annoyed.  

“What did you notice about the eyes, professor?”

“What was I supposed to notice, Herrik?” questioned the professor right back, eager to finish this up and get to his topic which he felt quite dire.  Herrik realized this, but didn't show that he cared.

“The eyes didn't reflect the light.”

“Sun's bright today.”

“Professor, cat eyes glow in the dark and they shimmer under bright light.  Every one I've ever dealt with has been that way, check the journal if you like.”  The professor did not check the journal.  “So why, professor, why would this cat, and a cave dweller at that, not require darkvision or at least low-light vision?”

Against all the responsible powers in his body Professor Maddox could not ignore the question, it stuck him as precisely as would a blade, and he rummaged through his tired brain for the answer, returning with nothing but mystery.  

“It is a strange scenario,” said the professor.

“I thought so too,” Herrik responded, happy to have found the man's interest, “but the answer, now that's really amazing!  Come on, come on!”  

Herrik tugged hard at the professor's arm, and caught off his balance, the professor hopped over on his left leg and dropped the leather flap, which fell into the soft dirt with an impressive thud.  

“What?  Have you got every map from the college in there?” Herrik said mindlessly as he pulled the old man behind a slab of wood that was propped up just by, long and wide enough to completely cover them from view.  The red-haired monster hunter quickly sparked up a flame in a pile of roughage that had clearly already been prepared and once it began to climb he threw a long stone over it.

“Let's give things a few seconds to die down,” he said.  “Now, this works better at night but you should find this suitable enough.”  The professor only widened his hands in a gesture of agreement, acknowledging the futility of trying to stop things now that the young boy had really gotten into it.  

“Ready,” said Herrik.  He grabbed a short-handled, wide-bladed shovel that was laid down next to the plank and held the blade up above the top of the wood.  He bounced it a little, and swayed it back and forth, never letting much more than the top of the handle breech over the rim of the plank, but there was no apparent reason for it.  By the time he brought the shovel down, the professor had gone to itching his plump, sunburned nose and wearing a face of confusion.

“Nothing right?” Herrik asked rhetorically, “Well, how about this?”

Then Herrik lifted his hand above the rim of the wooden plank and spread out his fingers, and then proceeded to bounce and sway it around just as he had the blade of the shovel.  The professor wanted to find a sterner way to indicate his confusion, but then the sabertooth in its cage about ten yards away started to growl, beginning with an upset hiss.  It spit and yelped a few times and finally settled for growling from its chest, and then the silence fell once more, and likely it had returned to frustrated pacing.  Herrik looked at the professor intently, knowing just what he would say, but wanting to hear it first.

“So the instinctual animal can recognize foe from … gardening tool.  I wish you would just tell me…”

“Not quite, professor, not quite.  Now watch.”  

Herrik grabbed the long stone, which actually represented a shovel in its basic dimensions, out of the fire with a thick cloth and, as he had everything else, held it above the lip of the wooden barrier.  Within instants, the angered sabertooth set to his snarling once more.  

“It's heat, professor!  It sees heat!  Even in the middle of summer a canyon breeze would mist the cave I found cool to the skin, and no manner of camouflage from any prey could hide it from a hunter that sees body heat.”

Professor Maddox was suddenly struck with a sad feeling, one of severed attachment and abandonment that he had trouble curbing.  He did not allow it to show.  He tried to voice affirmation.

“It's,” and he paused for effect, shaking his head, “It's a remarkable discovery, Herrik.  Really remarkable!”  Herrik laughed brightly.

“Thanks!”  Herrik jumped to his feet, pressed out the small fire, and walked over towards the cage, ignoring the tiger's attempts at slashing him.  The professor stood and then picked up the heavy leather flap he dropped.  He stood for a moment watching the young man, just a month over twenty, as he walked around the cage, speaking random things.  The sour feeling within was so difficult to decipher.  He understood at least his affections for the boy, the father-like affections the entire town had developed for the strange red-haired kid that could master any beast.  It was such a terrible burden watching him go.  Then, feeling almost sick with a sudden urge to out with his concern, the whole reason he'd come, the professor approached.  

“I plan to see if the curator will let me have one of the monstrous iguanas...” Herrik was saying, “...from the reptile exhibit to test its sight with a cold-blooded creature.  Maybe its sense of smell is also…”

“Herrik, what day is it?” asked the professor with definite force.

“Huh?” was all the Herrik gave back, but he did stop and look.

“What day is today?  The date?” Professor Maddox asked again, standing still and trying to be tall.

“You come all the way out here to ask me that?” Herrik said jokingly.  “Let's see, I left on the seventh, so ...” He counted days off on his fingers.

“The thirteenth,” he finally said.

“Fifteenth, Herrik.  It's the fifteenth.”  The professor remained still, and the young man cocked his head slightly, half-confused, half-looking for the point.  “You were out for two days; doc didn't think you were going to make it this time.”

“Out for two days?”

“Do you remember, Herrik?  Do you remember bringing that monster into town with only an inch of life left?  Do you remember collapsing just before the tavern fountain?  Anything?”

Herrik was startled and uneasy.  He walked over to the professor slowly, bewildered.

“Collapsed?” he questioned distantly.

“That creature, the tiger, must've put up a fight, more than even you could handle.”

“But I don't feel injured.”  Herrik was looking around not only his body but the grounds, as if he was scanning for a charging enemy.  Out for two days?  It was completely blank.  The vast expanse of the Onrac field suddenly felt small, and he paranoid.

“Yes, yes, but you never do.  Time and again you've proven to us your threshold for pain, and poor Doctor Thane could make his life's work of your incredible resiliency, but I must again urge your caution.  Whether you feel it or not this dangerous lifestyle of yours has repercussions.  Life threatening ones.”

“I ... I don't remember any of it.”  

“We'll let that speak for itself.”  The professor patted the young man on the back, who then knelt down by his journal and became stationary.  When the professor knelt down beside Herrik, wincing at his painful joints, he was heartbroken by the incredible look of loss drawn on Herrik's face.  It certainly appeared that more than two days had just been stolen from the lad.  He ruffled his beard in his hand and thought of what he could say.

“Look, Herrik my boy, your contributions to this institution, to this entire city, have been and continue to be incredible. You have a gift, and more raw talent for what you do than anybody I've ever heard of.  But more important, Herrik, than these stunning creatures you bring to the institute, is you.  Onrac would rather have you than animals to fill up its zoo and bring tourists.  Your coming was mysterious to us, but now your presence is too endeared to be broken by the claws of some beast.  This thing you do.  People rally around you for it, your drawing power is unquestionable.  Don't let it be the end of you.”

Herrik felt both obliged and grievous, almost drawn to tears.  He ran his hands through his long, red hair a few times and remained silent on is kneeling legs.  He didn't want to hear what he was afraid the professor was really trying to say.

“You mean for me to stop?” he asked lowly, his voice depressingly sullen.  And to this Professor Maddox found a warm and friendly smile.

“No, my boy, of course not.  I don't make your decisions.  I was just worried, that's all.  Caution is what I mean.”  The professor stood and patted Herrik once more on the back.  He stretched his old spine with a groan.  “Why, that'd be like taking your life away myself.  You're a bright kid, and filled with an uncommon zest for life.  The joy you put into everything you do revives this old man's heart, but the love below, Herrik, the love below is in your animals.  We all know it, and we want you to remember that though it be love, it's not worth dying over, not when the reward is better.  So caution, that's all I came to say.”

The young man kneeling on the soft grass now looked as if he himself had just been revived and given a golden world to rule.  He brought out that perfect smile of his and beamed it out to the old man standing above him.

“I will, professor, I will,” he said, and was then struck with a desire to flip through his long journal.  All those many adventures and bested monsters, still there to last, not going away.  He sailed through every encounter with vivid memory, and for the moment didn't even get down on himself when he saw the jagged, hasty lines of his amateur sketches.  He realized one instant that he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more proud of his work, and he forgot the foreboding gap covering the past two days of his memory.  He felt bulletproof.  It was more than a few minutes before he realized the professor had not gone, had not even budged, actually.  He looked up.

“I wish you would let us pay you,” the professor said.

“Not that again!  My answer's always been no.  We both know that I don't need money.”

“But we need to give you money.  It would make everybody more comfortable, to alleviate some of the liability, I think.”

“But at that point it would be a job, professor,” Herrik said, standing and throwing down his journal and pencil.  “And a job just isn't how I feel about it.  The love below, right?  It's in the animals.  What could money do?  Besides, I get my rewards, something better than gold.”

“I know, my boy, I know.  You do it for us, and that's commendable, but why not can we do something for you in return?”  The professor had done his best to maintain a calm, fatherly, and scholarly voice.  He outstretched his hands to punctuate his words.

“My dear professor, for ten years now you've been all I know of a father,” Herrik placed both hands on the shorter man's shoulders and looked in deeply, “You can trust me as you would a son.  You do so much more for me than I do for you.  You do more than enough.”

Without waiting for a facial response, Herrik released and turned back to the sabertooth cage, wanting to place his eyes elsewhere.

“I will not take pay for the animals.  The love below.”

“Well, you are going to take something,” the professor pulled out front the leather flap he'd been carrying and started to untie the middle fasten, “And this is non-negotiable.”

“Oh, what's that?” asked Herrik, smirking.  He came back around and faced the old man square.  

Professor Maddox loosed the flap, and swung it open, revealing in its folds a vibrant, shimmering blade.  A longsword, the handle was of intricately carved steel, finished with spirals of blue silver, and the two sides of the hilt were fashioned like dragon heads, the artisan smith accounting for every nook and scale.  Metal fire wreathed from their mouths and coursed down the handle to the base where they burst in an octagonal flare of spikes.  And the blade itself was a dim and somehow calming aqua, as if to look upon the steel was to look upon tranquility itself.  The pulsing aura of the sword ran watery lines over Herrik's face, like the shadows of a dormant sea.  And ornately etched along the blade was a name in the glyphs of the ancient language.  

“This is Drâco, sword of dragons.  The ancient creatures know no greater fear than a blade such as this, but its power goes beyond the winged ones.  The might in this sword casts a terror in nature itself when in the wrong hands, but in your hands, will be a just ally.  Take it, and master it.”

Herrik, already having formed his love of blades for many years past, felt his knees weaken to the brink of buckling as he took the sword by tip and hilt.  His breaths became like heavy sighs, his eyes as bright as if he were cast into a star.

“How ... how did you get this?”  His voice weak and stammered with awe-found shock.

“A story for another time, Herrik.  Put those thoughts aside.  Use it now.  Drâco will be your servant.”  The professor summoned from his wise age the full power of eloquence.  He stepped backwards with arms spread wide to the side, creating a reach of space before the Dragon Sword's new bearer.  “Swing!”

Herrik took the thick hilt, unsure of the random pattern of bulbous blue swirls down the shaft, but instantly it felt as if the handle molded to his hand, fitting his contour naturally, and the sword became light, almost floating in his grasp save for the very tip which seemed to yearn forward and down.  Drâco wished to swing itself.  Lost in his amazement, Herrik sliced the blade gracefully through the air and felt yet another wave of serenity wash from head to toe, skin to bone, as he heard the delicate song of the vibrating blade.

He took the blade through every formation he knew, beyond impressed at the unique but unquestionably perfect balance of the sword's weight.  But a few moves into it he realized that the whistle of the blade was not controlled by how swiftly he swung, but that it was actually singing, the sincere, soft melody of an ancient lullaby.  Two thousand years into the past that song had been sung by the mothers of the world's descendants and now once again with glory graced the good earth with vitality.  The young monster hunter of Onrac swung that sword until he giggled with delight, until he was singing loudly along with the soaring melody like a boisterous drunk.  So ridiculous it seemed from a distance that even the professor laughed heartily.  At long last, Herrik finally came down.

“Beyond words, professor, it is truly beyond coherent words.”  He took it again by tip and hilt and held it up to the professor as if showing off a discovery.  “Though, I must admit it is curious that you advise me towards caution and then give me a sword with which to slay dragons.”

“Just be sure to slay the dragon instead of trying to capture it, Herrik.  That's the caution.  I'm quite sure that a blade so fine will keep you safe, whatever choice you make, as long as your choice be for good.”

“Well, in that you can always trust me.”

“As I always have, my boy,” said the professor with one final double pat on the back.  “As I always have.”

Then Herrik went back to his forms, moving in close to the caged tiger and laughing at the creature's dazed, frightful reaction to the blade.  And only yards away, watching with the mien of a goodly king, the old professor revered his knight.

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

By the time noon had come on the third day, with the sun perched in the gray sky amongst heavy funereal clouds, it seemed the countryside had set its will against the light warriors.  The combination of the balmy air, feeling of a sickly moisture as if the morning dew never drifted to the grass, and the quiet, torpid character of the adventurers had tarried their progress to a near crawl.  Coming into the northern country they were leaving the relatively lush grounds of inner-Corneria, and so they had found no place better than the dusty roadside to make camp.  Sleep was difficult and unsteady for all, and under the bitter memory of the tavern the night before, the day's road gave no absolve.  The only warranted condition of travel was the silence, a shadowy vow among them, they starved for no conversation; doubtless a key element in the waning rate of their march, with no one attempting to boost them forward, no talk of spirit.  Once the sun hung at three o'clock and the swamp-like, mushy heat of day was unbearable, the promise of an open tavern and a soft bed somewhere in the city of Jrist seemed just a dream.      

Darrin Sylum led them, if for no other reason than it felt as if someone needed to be in front and none of the others was willing.  But regardless, once there he became territorial of the position, he wanted to be there.  Whenever they arrived at the distant Commerce City, he wanted to arrive first, if even by a few meager steps.  And pacing those steps next behind him were the young two, Seville and Edrick, whom in the face of such strange feelings realized that paramount was there friendship.  If something had been severed between Edrick and the Knight of the Coast over the events at the tavern, and Seville couldn't discern if it had, that something Seville would also have to question.  He liked the knight, how could you not?  But when times were down, even facing all his knowledge of the clergyman's bumbling disposition, he trusted Edrick.  They two were something special in this whole mess, Seville thought.  It was happening because of Professor Sylum, and because of Herrik Gipson it would succeed, but plain old Edrick and Seville would go down in the history books.  Somehow they were the ones that mattered.  

Opposite his usual placement, Gipson trailed, and by more than a usual share of tracks.  The spires of his scarlet hair, the only thing that didn't seem to age, were allowed to hang low, unconsciously fitting his low demeanor.  So many things on his mind it seemed, but actually it was one thing that was spread over so many parts of his life.  So few masked as so many, but so real and comfortable and safe.  He'd fight it if he could or wanted to, fighting was all he knew how to do, but eventually, no matter the battle, things were going to change.  The priest, Edrick, or Good Edrick, as Gipson found himself calling the lad in his mind, had just as well shot an arrow through him, but he was happy to receive it.  Things have to change one day.  He thought of how hard life would be for him in the future, and he gripped the handle of a dull silver and blue sword sheathed around his belt, as one might put his hands in his pockets.

Only the recession of the dark clouds just in time to allow the horizon to display its final chromatic flurry of reds and purples gifted the warriors enough cheer to continue when evening came.  The pace even quickened a little, finding they had plenty of energy for the circumstances and each of them secretly desiring at least some good effort for the day.  As the sunset settled into its fieriest hues, the light warriors even let out a group sigh, wondrously happy to see the large city of Jrist lying humbly on the horizon.  So they would make it after all, within the next hour if their newly freshened step held.  But, there was one more delay before the first leg of the Lux Aeterna was done.

A strange echoic popping sound surrounded them.  They each perked their ears and scanned the circle of their vision, uncertain of whether it came from the western forest or eastern sea.  The sound was pronouncedly crisp, but dark and heavy at the same time like an ogre clapping his claps, only sporadic, quick and slow, overlapping bursts.  The four men pooled together.

“What is that?” Edrick stammered, worried.

“The sound is foreign to me,” said Gipson, and that couldn't be a good thing.  As they stood the sound continued its random occurrences, but the volume neither rose nor fell.  It was just a distant, stationary sound.

“Master Gipson?” Seville said imploringly, to which the knight looked all around again and then became burdensomely still, feeling the movement of sound.  His demeanor was trance-like, near meditation.  But then just as quickly his eyes snapped open, and holding a sword firmly by the hilt, he said “This way!” and started jogging north along the line of the forest.

The distance was not so far as the culprit noise made it seem.  Careening inward around an abrupt turn west along with the border of the wood, they were nearly plunged into a circular assembly of covered wagons, five from Gipson's immediate count.  Slowing and approaching the wide, wagon-enwrapped disc of grass all but the knight was jumping jerkily to each recurring pop, which at this distance was like a medium-pitched boom.  They sight before them as they passed between two of the wagons set them aback with mystery and wonderment.  

Five traveling peddlers, by their clothes, and a half dozen in day clothes, likely from Jrist, stood in a natural enough gathering but all faced in the same direction, looking out through a wide gap of space that opened on the first woody pillars of the forest.  The two front men, both salesmen, lifted long, narrow contraptions up and held them firm to their shoulders, letting the long mouth of the things point to the trees.  There was a loud call of “Ready!!!” and instantly followed the shattering crack of noise.  Puffs of white smoke released from the cylindrical ends of the odd devices, and jagged splinters burst radially out from the tree trunks, all fast as magic!  So fast that a second shot came before the four light warriors had the least registered what happened.  After the third display of smoke, destruction, and alarm, the presumed residents of Jrist jumped into happy applause, talking now like a reverent mob.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” the light warriors heard as they moved in closer, “This is gonna change the world!”

“Change the world?” asked Gipson, skeptically.  

The salesmen and townsmen wheeled around in surprise and though the people of Jrist stepped back and squinted questioningly, the peddlers instantly went into their act.

“That's what you heard, sir,” said a man in festive, magenta cloth, clearly now the leader of them, “And hardly could a truer thing be spoken.”

The salesman waved two of his helpers over; they brought the machines.  The Jrist-folk continued displaying their distrust of traveler's, but also showed in interest in hearing the pitch once more.  It must really be a fantastic product if it can draw people out of a town near evening.  

“The roots of our marvelous product began to grow three hundred years ago, a time pitting the fearless brawn of mighty Corneria against Elvish villains from the south.  'Twas the time for which we hold the festival occurring in the capital this very hour.  Unfortunately, the battle was turned sour by the Elves' dastardly weapon, the cannon.  And fortunately, times have moved passed that, but all is not safe.”  The salesman was filled with hand motions like a magician feinting the audience before his spell.  “Once sewn fields have now fallen into ruin, prosperous sea merchants find themselves landed and grown old as the waves rage with peril, and the king himself has a daughter stolen away.  The world had become ensnared by chaos, and only those strong and prepared will survive to see the good times returned.”

He stopped there for a pause to let such dire words sink in; Gipson noted dully enough that the tradesman had enthralled the townsfolk once more.

“We, good gentlemen travelers, provide that preparation, and though it may seem late in the coming, it is well early enough that yourselves are not yet considered late.”

“Why do salespeople always talk funny?” Seville thought to himself and shifted his weight.  

“What do you sell?” asked Sylum, an endless buff for new things, but when he spoke Gipson sighed very quietly and walked around his companions so as to be in the back, vehemently disinterested.  Since the knight had been disinterested in everything that day, the group, beyond Seville of course, read no implication off the action and eagerly awaited the salesman's response.

“Perhaps a demonstration will best prove our case, hm?” said the man in magenta cloth, waving to the others.

“We saw your demonstration walking over,” Gipson said.

“Ah, but only so close can you respect the ease of the thing.  Presenting the Version One Single-Shot Hunting Rifle, or as we like to throw around the campfire, the Hand Cannon, and from loading to firing is less than twenty seconds.”

Next to the pitcher, the demonstrator cocked open the long shaft of the rifle and fed in a cylindrical iron pellet with a bead on the end, and then closed the thing back up.  He pulled back a switch near the trigger.

“Ready, sir!” he called dramatically, as if it were some military display.

“Pull, and fire at will!”

The man thrust the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed into the trees, found his mark, and shot.  At this distance the report of the rifle was ear-splitting, everyone but the salesman and Gipson flinched.  Once the smoke had risen slightly into the air and begun to dissipate the man in magenta turned back.

“Marvelous accuracy, marvelous power.  You could take down an elephant, or even an Anklo-beast with only two shots, maybe one if your sights are true.  All you need is the gun itself, a stock of ammo, and one of our patented cleaning kits , and in your hometown you will forever be acknowledged as Master Hunter.  And in dark times like these, when the enemy comes, you will show them power unlike what they have ever seen.  Now who could say they've no interest in such amazing science.”

“Twenty seconds?!” Gipson broke in with a condescending sneer, “I could have loosed four arrows in that time, man.”

“Indeed, your skills with the bow may be very considerable, but the arm of our rifle reaches far beyond the arm of any man and his archaic weapon.  Consider this, if you would…”

The leader waved once more to his partners, and one of them quickly loaded his rifle and faced off the opposite direction through another gap in the caravans.  He lifted the rifle to the ready position and aimed it at what seemed a tall metal canister set against the backdrop of sea.  There were five of the canisters, all in a row with the first on the left knocked over.

“They are filled with superheated water.  When the bullet strikes, it will pierce through and vent out a jet of steam, that will be proof of success.”  The salesman looked rather hard at Gipson, almost a challenge.  “That mark is two-hundred and fifty feet away.”

The riflemen took time setting his aim, employing the most minor of adjustments, taking long enough that the spectators started noticing sounds like birds and the movement of the winds.  But finally, the man depressed the trigger, the booming pop came, smoke misted up into the air, and the second canister from the left sprayed steam out from its midsection and was thus propelled back.  The Jrist-folk instantly went into applause, and the lead peddler gave a content look to Gipson.

“Imagine that kind of range on the battlefield, sir traveler.”

“Why imagine what I've already seen?” Gipson responded, taking down his bow and pulling out an arrow.

“Your mad, man,” said the salesman.

“As is relying on powder that could burst in your face, step aside.”

The rifleman gave Gipson his room, and the grand red knight readied his shot.  It seemed he was taking the same care as the demonstrator, since the resonant snap of the bowstring did not come as quickly as in Gipson's usual style.  But he seemed more in thought than in a mind of target practice, and the predicted coarse of the arrow did not flux.  Ending a quiet moment holding everybody on a leash, Gipson lowered the bow and arrow, still looking to the distance.  A ridiculous shot of course, but knowing this man, Seville had little doubt of success, so he decided to break in.

“Too difficult for you, Master Gipson?” he joked, and got an even better laugh within when he heard one of the further salesman whisper to his partner “Did he say Gipson?”  The knight turned.

“Never, for me, Seville.  Too easy, that's all.”  And then the knight used his smile for the first time all day and pulled out two more arrows.  

Feeding them strongly between all fingers but his thumb, Gipson once more aimed his bow, now loaded with three arrows, off towards the canisters.  He made the pull quick, set the coarse, and released, as if he were aiming only twenty feet away.  Then came that majestic flight through the air, and the complimentary drama, the tongue-holding, breath-stopping awe of anticipation.  Something these rifles lacked.

“My god,” said the man in the festive clothing, “It looks that they will go over.”

“Not quite,” Gipson retorted.  

The lances of sky started a quick descent, and as they fell every set of eyes in view was for that moment tethered to the success of the shot.  Then they struck, and from the top of each standing canister came a feather-white up-shooting geyser of steam, so perfectly from the top that the pressure forced them down into the earth, but did not tip them either way.  

“You did not knock them over?!” shouted one of the peddlers.

“No, no, I felt the game needed some challenge,” Gipson answered, “So I just nicked off the caps.”

“Splendid, Master Gipson, splendid!!!” Seville shouted happily.

A joyful commotion rose up among the townspeople.  The clapped and hollered, and one young woman even called for an autograph.  The peddlers, however, were tense and paranoid, humbled.  They looked between each other, looking for one who could divert the shame, but none of them had a strategy.  The man in magenta especially seemed to melt back into the others and disappear from sight.  

“And therefore, sir tradesman, we will have to decline your offer for today.  I'm all the cannon we'll need,” Gipson said, and there started to walk out, almost as if to avoid the voluminous applause of admiration from the Jrist-folk.  Even if one of the other light warriors had truly wanted a gun, it wasn't doing to buy now.  They each gave a victorious smirk, and quickly followed after the extraordinary bowman.  

When they caught up to his rabbit-like stride and tried to speak to him, anything from questions to simple congratulations, he gave meek answers and seemed little interested.  In fact, you'd almost think he was sad about the entire event, given the dark and empty stare that lead him forward.  They were confused by it; Edrick even was frightened by it.  He did not slow until the city was upon them, but then only tried to find an inn.  Whatever reason for the sudden haste, the light warriors at least felt that some of their loyalties had been re-sewn even if only weakly so.  They somewhat proudly followed the mysterious but great Herrik Gipson, master of all.

An ethereal halo of purple was all that remained of the sunset, and the night's crickets had begun their serenade, but another melody hung on the air, quiet and motherly.  It was a calming progression of notes, serene and almost tender, sounding as if it were sung by some lady of the lake.  Like a siren song, it drew the tired Seville out from the edge-of-town inn, and he followed the sweet crescendos and vibratos to the grass-line just before the beach.  There he found Herrik Gipson sitting alone with his legs crossed and a book pulled before him.  Also he swayed a dim watery sword out before him, as gentle as it might sway in a breeze.  The weakly pulsing haze of aqua shining off the sword gave him just enough light to see.  Seville stopped a moment, considering going away, but since he had come within a hundred feet, the knight already knew he was there.

“Come, come,” Gipson said without turning towards, and Seville was greatly relieved to hear the friend in his voice.  He walked up quickly to where the knight sat, pressed scattered fragments of reed to the side, and sat next to him.  He noticed that the book before Gipson was one of the full-sized monsters manuals.  As he got comfortable, Gipson slammed shut the book and scooted it under him.

“Ya know, I don't think it's normal for a sword to sing, you might want to get that checked,” Seville said, and the old man chuckled appreciatively.

“This song,” and he rested a moment, letting a few bars of the melody pass, “This song was sung in the Ancient times, a simple lullaby.  The words, could Drâco sing them, speak of little more than resting beds and gentle stars.  It was nothing to them, you see, just a song, not caring that it might be the most beautiful sound in this world over two-thousand years later.”  

Seville cast interested eyes, but found nothing to say at the moment.  Gipson continued to sway the blade and produce the poignant notes, but he talked openly to the young man sitting next to him, taking his free hand to annunciate further.  

“The ancients, you see, were masters of knowledge and science, always making discoveries, inventing things, but they placed little precedence in ceremony.  Especially, they gave no value to the concept of age.  Well, what an odd concept.  This world relishes, cherishes its old, its old people, its old things, its old traditions.  And here I have the oldest sword in existence singing the oldest song in existence.  Can you even imagine such a thing?  Over two thousand years ago this blade was forged.  And to them, that would be nothing.”

“I hadn't taken you as a lore man.” Seville said.

“No, and you shouldn't, it's really not my field.  But certain things do draw my interest.  Old things, for instance.”

“Well, the world is filled with the past.”  

“But it's more than that, Seville, more than that,” Gipson said and he spun himself towards Seville to speak more forwardly.  He let the sword down to the grass, but the singing continued, for at least a brief moment.  “The world is becoming the past.  Look at it!  The centennial, all those things filling the booths, or that ridiculous display today.  People are creating again, they've begun to discover things anew.”

“The better to the world then.  The ancients are a revered notion.”  Seville was becoming excited by Gipson's oddly placed passion.  The knight was alight with interest, but skewed his words to make them sound more like a warning.

“I suppose so.  But now the old will fade, like the Dragon Sword.  Its powers have waned for many years now, but even tonight I recognize the hue is weaker still.  Things now begin to change.”

Seville contemplated a moment, sad to hear such dark comments from a man he'd come to intimately respect.  At his last words the knight dropped his eyes down into the grass, like a child might when losing interest.  But the down-curved shape of his brow, something he'd never seen from Gipson, was a dire effect on the visage.

“There is more on your mind, Master.”

“Many things, Seville, many things.”  He looked up and traced the faded line of the sunset with his eyes, and then he turned to Seville and looked very deeply in.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked, placing much wait on what Seville felt was a silly question.

“What?”

“How old do you think I am?  Seriously.”

Seville raised both hands to either side and shook his head questioningly.

“I don't know.  I guess I'll go with the professor's choice, forty-five.  Seems close, I suppose.”  To that Gipson laughed out loud, but not meanly, rather, self-approvingly.  It was such a self-fulfilling question.

“I'm sixty-seven.”

“Impossible!”

“I know I don't look it, and in fact, it doesn't even feel that way, but it's the truth.” Gipson never told anybody his age, so what was normally so plain a detail caught Seville back like a strike to the chest.

“There's … there's just no way!”

“Thank you, I know I look good.”  Gipson smiled warmly, “The hair, especially, should have grayed by now.  But my bones are old, and my mind is old.”

“How's that?  You've got crisper reflexes than anyone I've known, and your hearing is beyond challenge.”  

“Hunter's training, Seville, that's all.  And now my training will prove worthless because the new age is going to forget about me.”

Seville, still wracking his brain to discern the old man within the fit knight before him, hated to hear such talk.

“I don't think this age or any age will soon forget the coming of the light warriors, Master Gipson.”

“Light warriors?” Gipson asked distantly, studying the white tides with his eyes, “I'm not so sure about all of this, Seville.  That vibe I had two mornings back is gone now.  We're walking into a trap, I guarantee you.”

Seville suddenly became very frightened, shaking at the portentous thoughts.

“Then we will stop!”

“No, we won't stop.  We will continue, if we have faith in the good doctor.  And I know you have more faith than me.”

“Professor Sylum doesn't know anything about adventures, he gets everything out of books!”

“But he believes what he gets out of those books.  And I'm ready to trust someone with their beliefs.”

“How do you mean?” said Seville, energetic and fearful.  His neck was craned inwards and he hung on every dire word of the knight, but Gipson did not respond immediately.  He let things settle a little.  'How do you mean, Master Gipson?”

“You will have to keep my age a secret from the others, Seville.  That's what I mean.  It's an act.  Everything's an act.”

“Hiding your age, especially in so odd a case, is nothing to lament.”

“But it's all an act.  The sales pitch I do at the festivals for this damned book,” Gipson pulled out the Monsters Manual and threw it away into a high patch of grass, “Or the battle displays.  Those rifle salesmen, just an act for them.  And you Seville, that little display of yours last night was quite the act.  It's all an act.  And it's not gonna last, Seville, it's not gonna last.  Eventually, the act you put on will go out of style, and it hurts!”

Seville was almost brought to tears, and such emotional weakness angered him.  But the great knight's voice was so final, piercing and infinite.

“What has brought this on?”

“Just, everything.  Those contraptions selling over in the field, today.  Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.  But, that's where things are headed.  They will sell; they will become popular, and in a decade nobody will even know what a bow is.  I'm surprised it didn't come sooner.”

“But you reminded at least a dozen people of just what a bow is today.  They won't forget.  The world is not ending, Master Knight.”  Seville grabbed Gipson by the shoulder and spoke loudly, and the knight responded acceptingly.

“Not for all of us!”

“Not for you!  You are the Herrik Gipson, the most renowned hunter of all time.”

“But it came at a price, Seville, it came at a price.”

“What do you mean by these thoughts?!”  Seville was frantic.

“I want to give you advice by them, something I've just figured out for myself today.”

“Advice?”

“You must learn how to change.  Not today if you don't want, I can't chide anyone for taking the easy road, but someday you must learn to change.  So that when the world asks it of you, you can do it.  I always took the easy road, did what I knew to do to make people like me, and just stuck to it for so long.  Never growing.”

“Your road was not easy, it was filled with danger, it's all recorded in your book.  How can you look away from that?  It's vulgar to cast away what people love you for.”

Gipson chose another moment to rest from the conversation, and once more Seville could tell that the fragile thoughts were aching in the knight's mind, screaming to get out, but he wouldn't let them.  Gipson then turned back towards the shoreline, no longer facing Seville, and pulled out the miniature book tied to his belt.

“My age is not the least comparable to the secret I keep for you, I should tell you a larger one,” Gipson said slowly, with much thought on his choice of words.  “This book, and others like it, the dragon one, the elemental one … I didn't write them.”

“But…”

“You asked me how I ever wrote a book, that night at your godfather's tavern.”

“I didn't mean to insult … or … I was just…” Seville just didn't know what to say.

“And the answer is I didn't.  I have a ghost writer, he's a very good friend named Maddox.”

“But do you lie about the within.”

“No, of course not.  The information is true, just the presentation is false.  Only one thing in here is mine.”  Gipson flipped open the small book and turned to a page.

“What's that?”  Seville found himself more interested in this small piece of information than in the secret he had just learned.  Given a few moments for it to sink in he wasn't that surprised.  Gipson never did strike him as a writer; it never did seem to fit.

“One sketch, and just this one.”

“Sabertooth Tiger?” Seville looked up with a confused brow.

“My favorite monster.”  Gipson tried his best to smile, but it was little more than a weak grin.

“Well, I don't look down upon you for it.  How could I?  You've got over a foot on me.”  And Gipson chuckled to that.

“No, only I look down upon me for it.  It's probably the last chance I had to change my life and do something greater with it, but I didn't because I wasn't ready.  So just learn to change, Seville, and avoid a pain you can't imagine.”  Gipson seemed to be finished this, tired of talking and venting.  But Seville finally had something he could respond to.

“I know pain, Master Gipson.”  Seville lifted his right sleeve and revealed the ghost rot inflicted arm, the sores glowing the odd shade of dim purple they always did in the twilight.  “And if this is any indication, I may have no more time than you to learn.”

Gipson sighed heavily.  Not for a single second on the three days of journey thus far had he forgotten about the rot, even when it seemed the others had.  Only when Sylum gave Seville his dosage of medicine was it ever brought up.

“How is it?” he asked, sounding wise.

“No pain yet.  Professor Sylum's medicine is very good.  But I am still afraid of it.”

“That's good.  It shows your mind is still where it should be.”

“You've been very protective of me.”

“You've been wise enough to allow it.  I can protect you from monsters, but I can't protect you from the world.”

“Change, again?”  Seville asked, slightly wishing the topic would drift away.

“Change.  If we've both no time left, then we will make our last stand together, and my first charge will be to put faith in the professor, after all, we can't prove that he's lead us astray, and the journey is young.”

A sudden warning called back to Seville, and under his breath he said, “I would rather you trust in Edrick.”

“What's that?”

“Oh, nothing … just thinking of bad dreams.”

“Well, stop, you don't want to give yourself another one.”

And there the conversation really did halt for along time.  For at least half an hour they sat and let the stars open their eyelids so they could glow down onto the sparking ocean.  The soothing sound of the waves made them docile, and though the night had contained talk of dire things, they allowed themselves to become comfortable, drifting with the ocean jostle.  The night had assumed it full crystalline grandeur by the time either of them moved, and it was Gipson, who chose to rearm fearsome Drâco and once more fill the air with beauteous song.  The blade seemed to know that the air was quiet, so it dropped its volume as if not to disturb the sleeping life.  If Seville had ever known his mother, he liked to imagine she would have sung such a melody to him in the cradle.  Voice now filled with friendly, humorous fervor, Gipson spoke.

“Ya know, if you can get your mind out of legend, this is the greatest sword in the entire world.”  He smiled.

“Out of legend, Herrik?”  It was often dangerous to call a knight by his first name, but finally it felt right and necessary.  

“Well, the Dragon Sword can only be bested by a legendary sword,” Gipson said to which the young man looked towards intently.  “Excalibur, Sword of the King.  I don't know which king, and since it cannot be forged without a substance no longer on this planet, I'd say it's a safe bet that mine is the best.”

“You're the best for a lot of reasons, knight, I'm sure the sword just goes with package.  But can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Your ghost writer, Maddox?  He's not … ya know … really a ghost is he?”

Gipson discovered anew that smile he used to push heckler's out of a crowd and said, “Come now, you must let an old man keep some of his secrets.”

“But…”

And over the many repetitions of the ancient lullaby the two men, forty-seven years apart, laughed and joked about each of their own adventures.  There for a moment, lost in a past filled with so much happiness, they stopped worrying about change's coming.  Among your friends, there is no time left for the great design of things.

Chapter 9 ~ The Scoop

Though the second largest city on the Cornerian strip, as they called the long narrow gash of land isolated by the two mountains, and a port city at that, the town of Jrist was of a subdued complexion on the fourth morning of the great quest.  Indeed, the urban pallor was that of a ghost town, with only the occasional traveler making his or her way across the empty market.  Certainly, people didn't seem to want to be outside very much.  It wasn't a standard market day, but still the harbor was filled to capacity, the sailors and merchants packed away in waterside stay-houses, none of them peddling as the horizon filled with light as one would expect.  Once brave seamen no longer risked the sea; the waves grew treacherous just a hundred yards from the shore.  The suffocation of the harbor town brought into quick realization the growing pain of Corneria, and likely the world; the land-locked vacuum that not so slowly choked away the life.  Since the surrounding lands weren't filled with farms, Jrist had maintained its spirits a good while longer than the agrarian southerners, but now tempestuous oceans had finally brought them to the current state of things.  A dead market; a sullen people.

Unbeknownst to the great majority of the world though, was the existence of its rescue mission.  When all the world reeked of a new emptiness, the light warriors finally felt the pressure of their quest, the singular perspective they possessed.  It was finally hitting home.  This was their responsibility, whether they asked for it or not.  Regardless of whatever amends were made the day before by at least two of the warriors, their waking hours were filled with dark awareness of the nature of things.  Anger seemed to build out of nowhere.  Mistrust.  Paranoia.  Once again amongst scores of people, if ever they came out of their homes, the light warriors felt tense and defensive, the episode of two nights past still fresh on their memory (and possibly their record).  And in one of the few places where people did know of their great quest, the sacrifice of life's prosperity to the world's survival, the prospects o