Slower Than Molasses, Part 2: Reconnaissance

Limerence grunted and groaned and struggled as we coerced him across the wet, petal-dappled grass.  Agapa had found an absurdly tall dandelion poking out of the earth and, having removed the flowery bit at the top, had converted it into a makeshift rope and wrapped it twice around Limerence.  Presently, she tugged the cookie out from the western edge of the almond orchard as a man might tug along a reluctant poodle--or a Labrador, or any other kind of dog.  I confess that my understanding of dog breeds is quite limited.

"Come now, Lim!" Agapa grumbled at him as she stepped onto the sidewalk.  "You are making this more toilsome than it needs to be!"

"My job was to bring confusion," retorted the bound cookie, "not to make your life easier."

"Your life will be much easier if you cooperate!"

"Is that a threat?"

Agapa let the question hang in the air, and at length it became obvious that she would not answer--which, in my professional opinion, was far more foreboding than any answer she could have conjured.  Dave hopped out of the muddied grass and onto the sidewalk, and I followed right behind him, serving as our company's rearguard.  It was not until then that I noticed my whisk was still held firmly between the ends of my arms, the crumbs of my enemies--soggy beneath the evening drizzle--specked across its metallic surface.  I flicked the crumbs onto the concrete and strapped my makeshift mace onto my back.

Cars were scarce on this side of Main Street so late in the day, and the inclement weather made them scarcer.  The park, which had been filled earlier with obnoxious shrieking children and their elders, appeared as though it had been abandoned for half a century.  I could no longer tell where the sun was.  The clouds were so heavy and prevalent that not a shred of blue could be seen; this created a darkness uncharacteristic of the early evening, and indeed the darkness was so thick that I could hardly make out the hill to which Ginger and Klaus had headed in the late afternoon.

After a glance and a nod from Agapa, we stepped onto the asphalt and headed northeast with all possible haste.  The intermittent sprinkling was an annoyance that left our normally crisp features soft and soggy, and that made the going slower; but on the positive side, we were not in danger of being seen, as no human above the age of eleven (assuming that said human is in his right mind) enjoys standing in the cold rain.  In less than two minutes we had made it across the street and into the foliage ringing the park, but we appeared to be no closer to our destination.  Still the hill loomed faint and almost imperceptible on the horizon.

"This is a fool's errand," muttered Limerence.  "Ginger parted the almond orchard well over an hour ago.  King Shol and his army are already long gone by now--and with both of your friends in tow, most likely."

I stepped through the foliage and pressed the oaf against a sturdy root. "We said nothing of King Shol.  How do you know of him?"

"Did I say 'King Shol'?" asked the cookie with a wicked grin.  "I think you must have misheard me."

"Dave," said Agapa, tightening her grip on her foe's leash, "have you any information for us?"

Dave stepped forward, and I could see that he was trembling beneath Limerence's challenging gaze.  "I--well, yes, although I was one of the less-informed members of our group.  We know of King Shol and his desire to rule the vale's mice with an iron paw.  We also know that he has long sought your friend, Klaus."

"How came you by this information?"

Dave winced, as though he were reliving a now painful memory.  "The night we left Mr. Theo's house, we felt compelled to fly over to Cowtown, which borders Sprinkleton on the east; it was like a voice was calling us to forsake our creator, who had made us imperfect, and to find the one who would complete us.  It was not long before we found Tanas, the son of Mr. Theo."

Hearing the name of my former master never got easier, and hearing that he was alive and well made matters even worse.  I released Limerence and turned to Dave.  "Ginger was right, then.  You and your ilk did see Tanas."

"A bit slow, are we?" Limerence teased.  "Did I not say that it was Tanas who gave us our commission?"

"He filled us in on a wealth of information in a short time," Dave shared.  "He slighted his father, calling him a tyrant and an abuser of his influence and power.  He gave us an update as to the whereabouts of his few remaining loyal followers, and explained that two gingerbread cookies named Sugar and Clove served as their leaders and were presently securing an alliance with King Shol the mouse.  Then he gave us our commission, telling us that were we to find much success, we would be a great help to the efforts of our brethren in the vale.  He pulled Limerence aside and spoke to him privately...and that was it."

"You're telling me that the Christmas cookies and King Shol are brothers in arms?" I asked, unable to hide my gasp.

"Some of the cookies lack arms.  But yes, metaphorically."

I exchanged a glance with Agapa, and the leader of the Cupid cookies sulked.  "I believe we now have an answer to a stinging question, do we not?" she said, a despondency in her voice.  "Molasses, it was a mystery why King Shol's spies breached the Colony Behind the Cabinets and freed the captive cookies.  Perhaps Sugar and Clove had an inkling as to where Klaus and his mice were hiding, and in exchange for that intel, King Shol freed their allies."

"Exactly what I was thinking," I replied.  I turned my attention again to our captive.  "So tell us, Limerence...have we rightly uncovered this conspiracy?"

The cookie scoffed.  "I am obligated to tell you nothing, and indeed, I have said enough already."

"We'll see about that."

Dave's eyes appeared gravely concerned.  "My friends, it's very likely that the surviving Cupid cookies will find Sugar and Clove and ensure that they're part of this...unholy alliance.  I just want you to know what we're up against."

I could not have stopped the sigh that escaped my mouth if I had tried.  "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.  I think we've discussed this enough for now.  It's time to get going."

Within the hour we had arrived at the crest of the hill, and over to the east we could see the entirety of the back yard in which King Shol had vowed to meet Klaus.  The territory around us was a confused mix of browns and greys and greens, the result of bushes and mud and grass and rain commingling.  We found a bush that stood as high as a tree, spiky and voluminous, and opted to take shelter under its branches.  From there we could see the yard and the base of the hill in three directions, and I felt a sense of confidence that nothing would catch us by surprise.  Dave and I sat down at once (one benefit of being soggy is that it allows us to bend in ways that are normally a challenge, and sitting suddenly becomes more plausible), and Limerence plopped down a second later.  There was a weariness emanating from Agapa, but I could see that she had no intention of being idle; she remained on her feet, clutching to her captive's reins tighter than ever.

Even from this distance, it was clear that the back yard was devoid of all life.  No host of mice was spread across the patio or along the fence line or among the blades of grass, and there was no sign of Klaus or my sister.  I tried not to expect the worst.  Perhaps the army had seized Klaus and released his friends, and Ginger was presently following them at a distance--or perhaps my sister had been too afraid to draw near to the yard and, like us, was hiding in a bush and studying her surroundings.  It was unlikely that she was atop the hill, however.  Limerence had whined so loudly as Agapa had dragged him across the hilltop that a family of frogs and one wandering deer had been spooked and fled from the area; if Ginger had been nearby, surely she would have heard the commotion and joined us.

After a few minutes of waiting and watching, we made down the eastern slope and used a supporting board--stretching from the hill to the fence--to gain entry to the back yard.  We entered the borders of an exotic bush and used it as cover in case our enemies were planning an ambush.  Thankfully, after a careful assessment of the yard and surrounding fence line, we concluded that we were not being watched, and so we inched out from the eastern side of the bush and toward the patio.  The light of day was failing, but the homeowners had turned on a light that illuminated the concrete slab lying beneath the pergola to the east.  On the edge of the concrete nearest us, I spotted three animal cracker boxes standing in an upright position.

"Boxes generally don't do that on their own," I pointed out.  "Someone was here."

"Indeed," said Agapa.  "Look! The boxes were given windows, likely so that their captives could breathe.  More telling is the fecal matter seen in several areas on the ground--left behind by some of the less continent mice, no doubt."

"Then they were here," I replied with an internal frown.  There was no sign of Ginger, not a single crumb.  "There are three boxes, one apiece for Horace, Arthur, and Ingrid."

"And their former captors left some time ago, it appears."

We reached the edge of the concrete, and I waved one arm over the patio.  "We should fan out and look for further signs; perhaps we can determine the direction that the mice took when they left the yard."

There is no telling how long we remained in that yard, studying every blade of grass, every centimeter of concrete, and every splinter of fence.  Eventually we decided that it was too difficult for us to get the lay of the land (nightfall had come by then), so we passed the evening within the boundaries of the exotic bush.  There we heard nothing out of the ordinary throughout the night (although to my shame, I must confess that I did doze off for a few hours, and my companions informed me when I awoke that I had shaken the ground with my snoring), and before we knew it, the sun was rising in the east and the birds were filling the air with their morning songs.  We waited until we heard the homeowners start up their car and drive off before we ventured out again and continued scouring the area.  It turned out that daylight did not improve our fortune in any way; tracks could not be followed over concrete, after all, and not even Agapa with her heightened senses could deduce anything other than the fact that the mice had been present there the previous day.  A fury and a discomfort filled me.  Not only were we without any indication as to the whereabouts of Ginger and Klaus, but because we had spent the night in one place, we had allowed the army to march on to their desire.  They could have been in another state by then--maybe even Kansas! 

Despite our distress and misfortune, we spent the next few days roaming around northeastern Sprinkleton, retracing our steps, and hoping that our friends had left behind some hint of their whereabouts.  Maybe Ginger had been willing to part with one of her candy buttons, or maybe Klaus had allowed the edge of his paring knife to rive the mud and leave behind a trail that would point to their location.  But alas! for we were eventually exhausted by our efforts and were no closer to learning the truth than we had been the day of our arrival at the back yard.  A discussion began to arise among us that the best recourse would be to return home and regroup.  I was the least amenable to this idea.  Ginger had risked her very life at Christmastime to ensure that I not walk the destructive path on which Tanas--and my own desires--had set me, and the least I could do was stay behind and refuse to give up on her.  Her willingness to obey Mr. Theo in the face of potential rejection and death warranted a similar response from me.  I made my thoughts known to the group.

"Returning to Mount Oniz is not a resignation," answered Agapa.  "We possess more resources there, which may better aid us in finding our friends."

"But--but what if, in our absence, we miss an important clue? Or what if Ginger is nearby, and she sees me, and cries out?"

"What a fool you are, Molasses," grumbled Limerence.  "There is no clue; King Shol and his allies would have been most watchful while they whisked away your friends.  Not to mention that we are nowhere near King Shol's prison."

"You are a buffoon and a scoundrel, Lim!" roared Dave.  "You mean to tell us that you know where Ginger and Klaus are being kept?"

"Oh yes, of course! I've known the whole time." Limerence's smile mocked us all.  "Unfortunately for the three of you, it's something you'll never know."

~THE END OF PART 2~

~"Slower Than Molasses, Part 3: Setback" set to release 5/1/24~

To see where the "Ginger & Klaus" series began, please check out the first and second books on Amazon:

--Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure

--Ginger & Klaus: Of Mice and Love

To see where the "Slower Than Molasses" series started, check out part 1 here:

--Slower Than Molasses, Part 1: War

Slower than Molasses, Part 1: War

 "You haven't sold me on why Ginger isn't back yet," Eggy the diminutive gingerbread cookie demanded, her voice so loud that the resulting sound wave caused the nearby pond to ripple.  "It's been months now, Molasses! Months! I mean, what would Mr. Theo think if he heard that you still haven't found your sister?"

It was a good question, judging by the nods that came from Reinhard the reindeer, Frostina the snowwoman, and Fennel the gingerbread man.  The four were perched on a rock along the pebbled beach beside the pond, their eyes unfriendly.  I couldn't help but feel that they were my jury and would be my executioners if I failed to provide satisfactory justification for my failures.  It was an unreasonable thought, I knew.  These cookies were Mr. Theo's chosen--his remnant!--and my friends...weren't they? They would never actually hurt me...right? Without thinking, I betrayed my discomfort by shifting dirt around along the ground in a circle.  My former sins came back to me in an instant, and I wondered if the pang of them would ever truly leave, and if I was deemed untrustworthy because of my past.  Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel, I could imagine the cookies thinking.  He failed to obey his maker in the past, and he fails him still.

"Are you just going to stand there in silence?" asked Frostina.  If she had possessed arms, I'm certain she would have placed them...well, wherever a snowwoman's hips might be.

"I--" I could not tell if the sorrow or the lack of confidence were a larger impediment to me.  My sister was missing, and that reality pained me every day.  But I also wondered if my accusers would consider my account adequate.  "I--" Still the words would not come.  I probably would have been standing there all day, wordlessly, if I hadn't remembered how Mr. Theo forgave and redeemed me and treated me as though I had never betrayed him in the first place.  His love for me would not be taken away, even if all my efforts to find my sister were fruitless, and even if my peers scorned me for my failures.  I locked eyes with Eggy.  "It's shameful that you would place the burden on me alone to find my sister.  Every bit of intel I have points to the likelihood that both she and Klaus were abducted by an army.  How am I to confront an army? And another thing--you forget that nothing escapes our maker's attention.  How dare you limit his knowledge, and how dare you assume that his affection would be withdrawn from me because of momentary failings!"

Eggy almost recoiled at the words.  Rightfully so.  I didn't hear from her again for an hour.

"It's just not adding up, Molasses," said Fennel, his smooth baritone rounding out the light trills of the birds in the trees all around us.  "I'm not saying that you're lying to us, but maybe you just haven't shared the full story.  All you've told us is that you were separated from Ginger and Klaus by the Cupid cookies, that you believe them to have been abducted by some mice, and that you can't find them anywhere.  There must be more to the tale."

"There is," I admitted.  "Much more."

"Then tell us! We need to hear it--all of it!--from the beginning.  Then we'll determine what must be done, if anything."

"The entire tale, from the beginning." I took a deep breath.  "Okay.  Some of this is known to the other cookies, but I guess it's time to let you in on what has happened.  I'll tell you the story from the moment Ginger and Klaus left the almond orchard.  Hopefully that will show you why I have been so slow, and why I need help in seeking out Ginger's location."

Valentine's Day had ended nearly four months ago, but I could remember it like it was yesterday.  Limerence and his allies had explained to us that they desired to confound every creature in the valley, filling each creature with unholy affections for another; Ginger had already been struck the eve prior, and she had been acting odd all day, setting her "love" upon a mouse.  I suppose I should be thankful that she did not make a shrub the object of her affections, for that, too, is a living thing! But I feared that both I and my friends would succumb to the same vice if we were to be struck by the arrows of the twisted Cupid cookies.  And so I ordered Ginger to head to the top of the nearby hill--the vantage point from which we had intended to enter the back yard where Klaus's friends were being held--with our rodent ally.  She protested, but she found the necessary motivation when Agapa broke the silence by using one of her arrows to destroy an enemy cookie.  I joined the fray immediately thereafter, and I watched with gladness as my sister scuttled away.  

If not for Agapa's skill and a timely turn of the weather, the battle would have been lost.  It was a hard, glorious skirmish, the likes of which are lauded in history books and displayed in film.  Arrows flew all around us, and I thought it miraculous that I was able to sidestep one after another.  Agapa fared even better, using her wings and agility to flitter here and there as needed.  We were able to take down four or five of the cookies at the beginning due to their pure shock over our skills and speed; after that, it became challenging for either side to neutralize a target.  (To be fair, I think that our adversaries were taking caution not to release their arrows at full strength, for they wished to corrupt us rather than kill us.) So there we were for perhaps half an hour, stalemated, with no end in sight.  Only two more of our enemies were felled--I jumped out from behind a rock and smashed one to bits, and Agapa struck down one clumsy cookie who collided with his companion midair.  I should not feel ashamed to say so, but there were many moments when I would have found myself at the mercy of the twisted arrows were it not for Agapa's quick thinking.

The sky was darkening when something in the weather changed.  It is known that, at times, as the clouds are thick over Sprinklevale and the night is near, powerful winds hurdle down the slopes of Mount Oniz and ruffle the valley below.  Such an event occurred as though it were divinely decreed, and the branches of the almond trees--on which all of the cookies were planted at that moment--shook with tremendous force.  Our foes fell to the earth like stones, and even before their fall was ended I came upon them.  Without hesitation I destroyed four of them, and I would have continued had I not remembered the mercy that Ginger and Klaus--and Mr. Theo--had shown me.  So I placed the end of my whisk in the cold, wet grass and looked upon my seated enemies.

"Tanas has warped your minds," I informed them.  "I was in your same position not long ago.  What I learned is that Tanas promises much but can deliver nothing.  He promises power, but you are weakened.  He promises independence, but instead he separates you from your maker.  He promises liberty, but you receive shackles.  And the tragic fact is that you are blind to all this until your eyes are opened."

Nothing.  No response.  Just a host of blank stares, most of which were aimed at the trees or the clouds or anything that was not me.  

"It may irk you to heed the words of Molasses," Agapa addressed them, "but it is the truth.  From creative joyfulness you sprang forth from the mind of our maker, and it should be your will to obey and please him; but so easily have you been ensnared by the envious son of Mr. Theo.  I would weep for you, dear ones, had I the ability."

"What's so wrong about what we're doing?" asked one of the cookies.  "Isn't romantic love the most precious thing on earth? That's what Tanas told us."

"Don't humor them, Dave!" Limerence shouted.  "Don't even give them the time of day!"

Ah, so at least one of them is listening, I thought to myself.  I stepped forward and said, "Romantic love is beautiful, as long as its object is proper.  It is not beautiful in general, but only insofar as it obeys Mr. Theo's moral law.  And Tanas...well, that rogue has been warring against his father, and everything that his father stands for, since before any of us were alive.  His order was for you to do the very thing that is contrary to Mr. Theo's commands.  Mr. Theo is good.  Tanas is not.  So be careful not to be persuaded that everything you have been told is for your benefit and the benefit of Sprinklevale."

Dave looked devastated, the same way Ginger looked when she stared into a mirror and insisted that she had gained weight.  He shifted where he sat.  "This--this is terrible! What am I to do?"

"Forsake your ways and return to Mr. Theo," answered Agapa.  "You will find that his mercy is bountiful, if you come to him with true contrition."

"Mr. Theo is a tyrant and a fraud," Limerence told Dave.  "Don't you forget that he is the enemy!"

"But--but he made us," replied Dave.  "He made us, and he cared for us, and we turned away from him and listened to Tanas, whose motives were...questionable.  Lim, I think Tanas is the enemy."

"Blasphemy!" Limerence's fury was so heated that I thought he might become twice-baked.  "I will hear no more of these heresies.  Cupid cookies--my allies--let us leave this place!"

There were still too many winged foes for us to contain, so as they began to lift off into the air, I had to think quickly.  Limerence was their leader and seemed to possess more information about Tanas, the Cookies of Tanas, and the general goings-on of the vale.  The other troops swiftly proceeded to fly away, but in half a second I had leapt onto Limerence and impeded his ascent.  Agapa was busy firing arrows at our retreating foes, but Dave noticed my struggle and flapped his way over to us.  He clutched onto Limerence's wings, and the next thing I knew, the two of us had the corrupt Cupid cookie pinned to the mud.  His wings fluttered with a great frenzy, but this proved only to bring him harm, pressing him deep into a self-made quagmire.  It took nearly a full minute for him to realize there was nothing to be done; he was stuck, and there was no escape.   He relaxed his wings, but I could still sense a tension in every crumb of his body.

"One more enemy felled in the retreat, but no more," announced Agapa with frustration.  "Surely the survivors will be a menace to us in the future."

"We did what we could," I responded, pushing Limerence's face against a pebble.  "Thankfully, our efforts were not in vain."

"Indeed.  The leader of the fallen Cupid cookies...and a new friend, perhaps?"

Dave appeared to brighten at that.  "Y--Yes! Please! I mean--I would like to join you, if that's okay.  I'm not sure where else to go.  I could head back to Mount Oniz on my own, but I fear the cookies there may not trust me unless I have someone to speak for me.  I will need your help with that."

I nodded at him.  "You'll get it, when the time comes...friend."

Agapa gestured toward our new captive.  "What are we to do with Lim?"

"Well, he's going to come with us, too, as we look for my sister.  And he's going to tell us everything we need to know." 

~THE END OF PART 1~

~"Slower Than Molasses, Part 2: Reconnaissance" set to release 4/1/24~

To see where this series began, please check out "Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure" on Amazon! https://a.co/d/2PkSr6p

To see the story immediately preceding this blog post, please take a look at "Ginger & Klaus: Of Mice and Love" on Amazon! https://a.co/d/2gQFZf1

February Flash Fiction: Rivlo and the Attack on Armus Village

Rivlo was too young to understand much of anything, but he understood fear.  At least, he had always thought he understood fear.  Now that the creatures had burst into town--their skin slick, their tails sharp, and their swords sharper--he realized that there were levels of fear, and he was terrified.  He could see them skulking about outside his hide-covered bedroom window, some of them forcing their way into homes and seeking out the inhabitants within, and others pursuing the retreating villagers until they were out of sight.  There were a couple of times when he saw a man or woman trip in their flight, and one of the ugly fiends came upon them and lifted a thirsty blade--but he refused to witness the outcome, shutting his eyes and clapping his hands over his ears.  He knew those people were dead now; there was no need to confirm it.  The attackers desired extermination, not friendship.

But why did the Armian people have to suffer? They had kept to themselves for the past one hundred years, at least, most of them working as patrolmen in the northern Shadow Hills, or as fishermen, or as farmers.  Rivlo's neighbors were all friendly, honest people.  Even the mayor, whom half the town seemed to hate and the other half seemed to love, was a nice man who had never had much interest in connecting Armus with the rest of the world.  This attack seemed so very random.  Random and sudden.  The valley beyond town was expansive and sprinkled with individual farms; if the fiends wanted land or property so badly, there was plenty to be had in every direction.  So why Armus Village, and why now? It was just one more thing Rivlo's young mind could not comprehend.

His father, mother, and younger sister were there in his bedroom with him.  They had dragged the kitchen table into the room (they were now hiding under it) and had used a second table to keep the door closed.  It would be of little use, Rivlo knew.  The blades of the enemies were held by strong arms and were capable of breaking down doors in just a few hits.  Even if they were somehow thwarted by the table, it was probable that they would produce some kind of fire-wreathed weapon to set the house ablaze.  He could already smell the smoke of other homes that had met such a fate.

He ignored the whispered demands of his parents to join them beneath the table, and he peered out his window at a tavern off to the right.  The sound of shouting came from within the building; it was a mixture of garbled voices, and he could not make out a single word.  There was a woman, or maybe it was just a girl, protesting and arguing and threatening.  The voices--belonging to the evil creatures, no doubt--retorted with must have been jeering and teasing.  He did not know what the girl was saying, but in her voice was a fiery courage that filled him with strength.  If he did not know any better, he would say that her voice was laced with magic, like one of those sorceresses he had heard about in the old stories.  Or maybe she was just that brave.

The loud bang at the front door knocked him free of his trance.  The beasts had reached his house at last.  In half a minute they would wreck through the living room, and a few seconds later they would be outside the bedroom door.  He looked across the room at his family, and the terror filled him again, a terror that should have driven him over the floorboards and into his mother's arms.  But he had gone from a trance to a stasis.  If he made even the slightest move, a floorboard could creak and alert the creatures to his location.  He felt ashamed.  If only he had possessed the courage of that girl in the tavern.  If only he could rush out into the living room and bark out orders for his foes to turn away and find someone else to bother.  But his fear was reaching his limit, and he knew he could do nothing.  He would just remain where he was, and he would be quiet, and he would not even breathe, and he would pray for his family to be spared from the toll of the numbered dead.

It was a series of bangs, now.  They were kicking and striking the door.  He was not a fighter.  His father was a good man but could wield nothing besides a pitchfork.  His mother was stout but not prepared to defend her family from a troop of deadly animals.  There would be no hope for them if the enemies made it inside.  Was this the last time he would see his family alive? Would his bloodline be ended in a matter of seconds? Had he already taken his final breath?

There was an explosion outside, and he risked making a turn to see what had happened.  It was the tavern.  Something had smashed into one corner of the building, spraying wood and bricks everywhere.  Time did not stand still the way people often described it, but what had once been a successful business almost instantly became a ruin.  As the dust settled, he could see a young woman--who had probably been standing inside the other half of the building--rushing with all possible speed over the pile of rubble.  He had seen her around town before but could not remember her name; she was the daughter of the odd woman whom everyone gossiped about, a fair girl with freckles and dirty-blonde hair.  She had made it to the end of the rubble pile when one of the fiends revealed himself not twenty feet behind her.  His head could be seen poking out above the dust and smoke, and his eyes were facing her back.  Then Rivlo saw the creature pull out a bow and nock an arrow.  The girl turned toward her foe, slowly.  She may have been the one speaking and arguing confidently earlier, but now there was a sorrow, a defeat in her eyes.  She knew what all the villagers had come to know: that there was no chance for mercy, that conversation was out of the question, and that death was the only possible outcome.

A young man no older than the girl suddenly dashed into view, his footfalls upon the grass so quiet that he remained hidden from all but the girl and Rivlo.  In half a second a bow was in his hands, and he aimed it not at the girl but at the creature.  Rivlo was not sure how the boy planned on taking down his target.  There was still a haze of dust and smoke, and there was the sound of townspeople screaming and the din of collapsing homes and the pat-pat of heavy boots swarming the ground nearby.  He would be amazed if even a trained soldier could focus in such chaos.  But before the fiend could fell the girl, the boy released an arrow between two leaning pieces of wall, through the dust, and into the head of his enemy.  The force of the strike knocked the creature to the side, causing its arrow to fire uselessly into a wall to the girl's left.

The group of fiends that had very likely been another kick or two from downing Rivlo's front door headed toward the commotion.  What they encountered were not two frightened teenagers, but two warriors prepared to defend their town.  The girl lifted a sword from a corpse and used it to slay two of the approaching enemies, and the boy dropped the third with another arrow.

It was a long time before Rivlo learned the names of the two warriors who had saved his life.  It was due to their efforts that he and his family were among the few survivors of the Attack on Armus Village.

Behind the Scenes: The Making of "Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure"

I thought it would be a fun exercise to share with my readers just what went into the making of my new novelette that I self-published on Amazon: "Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure." This brief article will detail how the story came together as well as other storylines or ideas I explored when coming up with the plot.  Needless to say there are significant spoilers ahead!

To make this even more fun, let's do this in bullet points instead of prose.  I'll begin with some questions I have either asked myself or wondered if readers pondered:

• Why a gingerbread woman and a mouse of all the possible combinations?
•  This actually came down to a matter of practicality.  The illustrator of the book, Jessica Hines, happens to work with me in a financial office, and we began discussing the idea of doing a story together in September of 2023.  The first question that came to me was, "What sorts of characters would kind of align with Jes's experience and interests?" She had been successful in publishing a couple of coloring books about beansprouts, and her characters were very cute.  So I knew that in the story we would be working on together, the characters needed to be cute, drawable characters.  I wanted the story to be ready by Christmas, and a gingerbread cookie was fitting for the season.  The idea of the cookie befriending a mouse came to me a moment later.  Don't ask me why!
• Why were Ginger and Molasses brother and sister rather than husband and wife? After all, aren't they supposed to evoke the image of "Adam and Eve"? 
• I did consider making them husband and wife, but because Eve is no more the "villain" than Adam in history, it would not have made sense for Molasses to be Ginger's husband. (And remember, Molasses is Ginger's main villain in the story.) I do not believe it would have felt "true" if Ginger were meant to represent Eve seeking to stop her wayward husband, Adam.  As I wrote the story, I only saw similarities of Ginger and Molasses to Adam and Eve insofar as they were the first of Mr. Theo's creations to have the "breath of life" and in that they succumbed to the temptation of the evil one.
• Why didn't Ginger have a sister instead of a brother, or why weren't their roles reversed? 
• This was an easy one for me.  In the novel that I am still working to get published, "The Hero of Farlenas: A House Divided," the elder brother is pitted against the younger brother.  The elder brother has more of the moral compass and the younger is wayward.  I didn't want the first "Ginger & Klaus" story to be "The Hero of Farlenas" with a new sisterly coating of paint.  Having two sisters would be a very similar story to my novel with two brothers.  And I knew it would be worthwhile for the lead character to have a female perspective on things, since "The Hero of Farlenas" is told solely from male perspectives.
• How did the characters get their names? 
• "Ginger" is a female name and seemed an obvious choice for a gingerbread woman, and "Klaus" rhymes with "mouse." When I told Jes that I was considering giving Ginger a brother and wasn't sure what his name would be, she said, "It would be funny if his name was Molasses! Because you use molasses when you make gingerbread cookies." I chose "Mr. Theo" because "theos" is "God" in Greek, and I chose "Tanas" as an anagram for "Satan." "Horace," "Ingrid," and "Arthur" got their names simply because I wanted the mice to feel as though they were of an older and more respectful or honorable generation.

Let's continue with some fun facts about the story:

• Originally, there was no plan for a battle to take place in chapter four.  My most basic outline for the story was that Ginger would look for her brother, find a mouse companion to help her in the search, and that she would find and confront Molasses.  There were two main reasons this changed.  Firstly, I am very sensitive to pacing and character development, and I felt that there would not be enough time to develop Klaus's character or his friendship with Ginger if I skipped straight from their meeting to the confrontation with Molasses.  Secondly, and this again is a practical reason: the chart on Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing site showed a printing discount for a longer book.  Since I am prone to writing longer stories, anyway, that gave me the excuse I needed to lengthen it.  
• The scene with the reindeer cookie and the letter came to me quite suddenly.  I knew that there needed to be a fourth chapter before the confrontation with Molasses, and I was beginning to think that "Ginger & Klaus" would be a series rather than a standalone title.  Also, I wanted to paint a picture of the fact that within every human being is sin, and having more cookies in the story with the "wicked rosemary scent" helped me paint that picture.
• I flirted with the idea that maybe Ginger would fail in her task of convincing Molasses to turn from his evil ways.  However, this was quickly abandoned for two reasons, and both had to do with J.R.R. Tolkien.  Firstly, I didn't want the end of Ginger's discussion with Molasses to conclude with a "the ring is mine" moment.  I envisioned Molasses taking his arm out of his satchel and casting the poisonous powder on the cookies, and I felt it would have been too similar to Frodo's claiming of the ring.  Secondly, J.R.R. was a firm believer in the "eucatastrophe," which was his word, to put it all too briefly, for a happy ending.  The goal of the story was to rescue Molasses and stop him from committing his evil deeds.  To have Ginger fail at that would have given the story an unhappy ending.  I also thought that kids might be drawn to this story, and I wanted to show them that good will win in the end, and that change is possible--but only through God.
• Finally, and perhaps most hilariously, I seriously considered having Klaus fight Molasses in the final chapter.  I thought that Molasses, upon finding that Ginger had survived the battle outside the house, would go berserk, and that Klaus would dash forward and tackle Molasses.  The reason I did not go with this was that chapter four already had physical action, and now it was time for the dialogue to be the action.  Molasses would not be won over by violence, but by hearing about his sinful condition and his need to be changed by Mr. Theo.  Furthermore, the idea of having Molasses be an ally rather than an enemy in future stories opened up the door to so many more possibilities.

Announcement: Novelette Published on Amazon...and Other News

Great news! I have self-published a short book on Amazon! Could this be the beginning of a new series?

Ginger & Klaus: A Christmas Adventure https://a.co/d/03IUj8A

Additionally, earlier this year, I completed a year-long edit of a novel called "The Hero of Farlenas: A House Divided." I have been sending it out to literary agents and am hoping to hear back soon.

I will try to post some occasional stories on here as they come to mind and as I find the time. Thank you to any readers who still check my site from time to time!

Short Fiction: The Corruption of Ilivor

For five hundred years he had served both as the unofficial regent and military strategist of Oltheil.  The roles had not been bequeathed to him by a former ruler or by Crel the Wizard; he had assumed the positions when no one else would.  His brothers had always been a little more timid, a little humbler, a little quieter—but he had never feared the need to be outspoken or to exercise authority when it was required.  Thus, he had been responsible for commissioning the construction of Oltheil as a city whose sole purpose was the protection of the pyrmum; he had demanded citywide fealty to the Greater Gods, down to the last man, and had charged Virrod with the daily lifting of songs of praise before the people; he had led mages into battle across the nearby plains and fields to ward off approaching rublins and imps.  Although he had always respected his brothers enough to request their approval of his decisions (and in the eyes of the citizens, the three men were co-leaders), eventually they had come to defer to his judgment, and very rarely had they ever dissented.  Possessing the support of the ones he loved had ever served as additional motivation to do what needed to be done.

But Virrod is gone, he thought, and it is likely that Xizsk and I are taking our last breaths.  He glanced at his brother as they stepped out into the harsh sunlight that blanketed Oltheil.  Many of the stone buildings that had once dwarfed the average man thrice over were reduced to piles of bricks.  Homes that had once housed families were presently private battlegrounds.  The grassy paths wending through the city, once mottled with multicolored flowers, were littered with the bloodied bodies of humans and scaldrons.  He dared not permit his eyes to linger long on any single individual, but his stomach turned when he caught a glimpse of a dead man who had recently fathered a child, of a fallen elderly woman who had served the community by handing out delectable meals, of a slain hunter who had recently passed from youth to adulthood.  All had been killed without discrimination, whether they had been fighting or fleeing.

The eternal punishment of the Gods awaited the fiends who had enacted such crimes against humanity, Ilivor knew, but he also believed that exceptionally wicked deeds should be met with justice in this life.  There was no great judicial court such as that in Svilgaard present to address the scaldrons and their misdeeds, but he was present, and if no one else was able to bring judgment upon the wicked, that was a role he must fill.  He tightened his fingers around his curved green-brown staff and climbed atop a broken pillar to examine the sprawling city.  Some of the citizens had managed to scurry away from the carnage, and of those who had remained behind to defend their homes, few remained alive.  There was no hope of their survival now.  It would be better to fall quickly at the hand of a friend than slowly at the hand of a scaldron.

“Is it time, brother?” Xizsk asked him with wild eyes.

“It is time,” he answered, keeping his countenance as emotionless as possible.

“All of them, Ilivor?”

He nodded.  “All of them.  Leave none alive.”

Xizsk released a long sigh before squinting, placing both hands on his own staff, and dashing several feet through the air in the blink of an eye; the next half-second, he was standing at the crest of his own broken pillar and summoning his power.  The air around the man turned grey-white, a manifestation of the purity of his motives mixed with the unavoidable stained will that had hounded humanity ever since the sin of Argetheil.  He had always secretly envied his brother’s general sense of innocence and purity of thought.  As he began to summon his own power, he was reminded that his motives had never been as clean—and even now, as the air around him turned white with streaks of black and purple, he knew that his heart was longing for vengeance over justice.

“I love you, dear brother,” he called out to Xizsk.

The man was unable to reply, for before he could unleash his spell, he warped over to the top of a building and just barely avoided a scaldron’s arrow.  It was then that Ilivor realized someone was barking orders; yes, it was Rulisce herself, the goddess fallen from grace, who was demanding that her scaldron adherents take down the wizard.  Her eyes met with Ilivor’s, but she did not tell the creatures to attack him.  It was a curious fact, but he did not have the time to dwell on it.  He sensed the power rising from within, filling his chest, his head, his fingers.  Xizsk should have completed his own spell but was far too occupied evading the barrage of arrows that, thankfully, only managed to find themselves buried in the grass or deflected by stone.  Ilivor took his eyes off his brother and allowed his magic to surge forward, out into what had been a beautiful and thriving city just hours before.  A blast of white and grey and blackish-purple passed through the remains of buildings harmlessly but tore through flesh like shears through wool.  Scaldrons and humans alike were killed instantly; if he could estimate an exact figure, it was perhaps eighty or ninety, humans being the minority.  He fell to one knee, exhausted and frustrated that his spell had not reached Rulisce or the ring of a dozen or so guards that surrounded her, but grateful that there were fewer scaldrons in the world.

Just then, Xizsk unleashed his own spell.  The blast swept across the land and killed ten, fifteen, maybe twenty scaldrons and three men.  But before the spell could continue, an arrow penetrated the wizard’s left shoulder and knocked him from the corner of the building on which he had been standing.  He plummeted to the grass nearby.  Ilivor tried to crawl the distance between himself and his dear friend, but his energy had not yet returned, and he could do nothing but clutch onto a shapeless piece of rubble for support.  He was forced to watch as the remaining scaldrons closed in on the poor wizard; thankfully, the man still had some power in reserve, for he slew more than a couple of the fiends with a small barrage of white-grey orbs.  Those who had avoided the second spell began to sprint toward their enemy, but they had not gotten far before a voice rang out across the battlefield.

“Leave him!” shouted Rulisce, who now sounded much nearer.  “He is mine.”

The scaldrons obeyed without hesitation, quitting their mad dash and parting to make way for the goddess.  She walked into view, her robes billowing behind her, the frayed cloth blacker than the darkest pitch.  There was no weapon in her hand, but Ilivor knew that she did not need one.  Xizsk lobbed a few projectiles her way; she sidestepped them with ease, her remaining divine power granting her greater speed than most mortals.  A few seconds more and Xizsk was spent, the pain from the arrow likely hampering his ability to use any magic of a pure nature.  He could, of course, tap into that pain and use it to fuel a darker magic—but was obedience to the Greater Gods not demanded even in the direst moments? What use was lifelong faithfulness if, in the end, one were to curse the Gods with his final act?

Soon Rulisce was standing over the wizard and looking down at him with some sense of amusement on her face.  “You fought bravely, Xizsk,” she told him, “but it was futile.  I will claim that which I seek, be it today, tomorrow, or a hundred years from now.  This is something you must know.  I have been empowered by Argetheil himself, one before whom even the almighty Crel could not stand.  With the gift I have been given, I will upend every stone until I find the keys that will unlock the door to the secret place where the Gods have cast him down.  You have long possessed one of those keys; now you will tell me where it is.”

Xizsk gritted his teeth, one hand touching his wounded shoulder.  Somehow, he laughed.  “It will be a great honor to deny you this important information, even in the face of my own mortality, that I might attain a better resurrection.  You may slay my body, but I will then be with my Fathers for all eternity.”

“That eternity will be briefer than you think,” Rulisce challenged him.  “For once Argetheil returns to this land, nothing will be safe—not even the very throne room of the Greater Gods.  He will assault and destroy everything that is precious to them.”

The wizard continued to laugh.  “Oh my, how you have been deceived.  Rulisce, your master has lied to you! Only the Gods are all-powerful.  Argetheil may have darkness in his heart, and with that darkness a most dreadful power, but he has no greater power than that which the Gods have allowed.  They are sovereign, and they would not decree that their child depose them.  You and your ilk may find victory from time to time, but at the end, it is the Gods and their faithful followers who will find true victory.”

She shook her head.  “Your faith has made you blind and naïve, Xizsk.”

“And yet the pyrma have eluded your grasp these many centuries.  If that is not evidence enough that you are on the losing side, Rulisce, then I know not what is.”

The woman released a short sigh.  “I have not the patience to deal with you.  Unfortunately, besides making you blind and naïve, your unwavering faithfulness has also made you obstinate.  Let us see if your brother is equally loyal.  I have no use for you, Xizsk; farewell.”

There was not a moment’s protest in the man’s eyes, not even when black needles materialized in the air at Rulisce’s fingertips and rushed into her opponent’s flesh.  The spark that had been Xizsk’s mortal life for many years was gone in an instant, and abruptly it was as though some very real portion of Ilivor’s heart was excised.  There was no animation in the body that had theretofore been his brother, no visible sign of the man he had been; but there was a magical residue clinging to the air, a testament to Xizsk’s great power.  It would linger there for some time, tangible only to arcanes whose minds could apprehend it.  Ilivor’s sorrow was weighty, and the only reason tears did not leave his eyes was that he knew his brother was in a place free from pain and trespass.  He hoped he would also be so hurried into the presence of the Three.

Rulisce, apparently unmoved by the death of such a reverent and influential man, left the body and traipsed over to Ilivor.  She was not actively using magic of any kind, but the immensity of her power became more evident with her every approaching step.  Also evident was her resolve—her resolve, he remembered, to obey a deceiver.  Yes, she was willing to die for that which she believed to be true, although it was a lie; and yet he felt that perhaps he was not willing to die for what he knew to be true.  How could her resolve surpass his own? How could he feel so cowardly within when he knew that the Gods were existent, sovereign, and righteous in all their ways? He gritted his teeth and managed to push himself up to meet the woman’s eyes.  He hoped his cowardice did not spell the doom of the world.

“One of your brothers is dead,” she told him casually.  “I can sense the aftereffects of the other.  He has fled with the pyrmum, has he not?”

Ilivor did not answer.  It was probably the bravest thing he had ever done.

“You are weak,” she said to him.  Once she had reached him, she squatted down and studied his prostrate body.  “You tapped into every last morsel of your power to slay some of my followers, and now you have neither the power nor the steadfastness to resist.  I have an idea of how you may be used for the glory of Argetheil, and it is a fate worse than death.  But I will give you one more opportunity to answer me ere I resort to such an act.”

He did not know what she meant by that, and he did not bother to think it through.  A tear finally rolled down his cheek.  Internally, he began to beg the Gods that his death might be neither painless nor prolonged.  Fear filled his heart to the brim.  He had lived a long and honorable life, for the most part, but he did not want it to end.  Not now, and not here.  Perhaps he could save more people over the long term if he gave Rulisce the information she desired; perhaps she would spare his life and, some years later, he could return to her in vengeance.  Yes, a momentary failure could later lead to a final victory.  He tried to summon the strength to speak, to betray Virrod and his people and the Gods who had redeemed him.

“Very well,” said Rulisce before a word could leave his lips.  “Then a puppet of Argetheil you will be.”

She raised her hands to the height of her shoulders, fingertips facing up, and closed her eyes.  The next moment, a sudden emotion impressed itself in Ilivor’s heart: anger.  How could the Gods, who were allegedly good and in control of all things, force their faithful followers to undergo persecution of this magnitude? Why did terrible things happen to innocent people? Why was it said that the Gods loved their creation when they no longer interacted with it or intervened in the moments that mattered? Why had they never spoken to him in all his years of devoted ministry?

His anger was followed by doubt.  Perhaps they never spoke to him or to their other followers because they had stepped away from their world after forming it (assuming that they were real in the first place; he had never actually seen them, after all).  What evidence was there that the power of him and his brethren had come to them except by their own ability? Why had they been so insistent that the Gods had been the source of their power? It was the Writ—the written Word, apparently delivered to the world through the Gods’ inspiration—that claimed everything came from divine hands.  What good reason was there to believe that the Writ was trustworthy? Had it not been written by mere mortals with their own beliefs, agendas, and flaws? Why should he believe that the Gods were true, and good, and love?

He had felt such anger and doubt in the early days of his faith, he remembered, but he had buried them long ago.  He had never taken the time to answer the difficult questions, and now they were resurfacing centuries later and shipwrecking his faith.  Half a millennium had been squandered in a vain pursuit; if he had allowed himself to see his questions as perfectly justified, perhaps he could have avoided devoting his life to Gods who had clearly never cared for him in the first place.

“And now it is complete,” Rulisce whispered, a small smile touching the edge of her lips.  She stood and beckoned him to rise, as well.  “I must ask again: where is Virrod going?”

He looked at her long and turned his head to the side.  It was strange—just a moment ago he had feared and despised her, but now he felt sympathetic to her cause.  He had spent his entire life thinking she had chosen the wrong path, but he realized that he had simply been uninformed.  She wanted Argetheil to return not so that he might destroy the world; she trusted in Argetheil’s promise to mend the world and its injustices.  She believed he could make flawless that which was flawed, correcting the Gods’ mistakes.  She wanted the divine to be present and visible, not concealed within the spiritual realm.  Her ambitions were good and pure.

“I sent him to Gozzk,” Ilivor answered at length.

“Gozzk?” She placed a hand on her hip.  “And what, pray, lies in that uncivilized country?”

“Nothing, Rulisce.  Xizsk and I commissioned Virrod to head to Gozkk because of its inherent peril; we thought that minotaurs and ogres might dissuade you and your allies from following.  I am sorry for my error.”

Her face remained unperturbed, but her eyes smiled.  “It is quite fine, my brother.  Virrod is a fool if he thinks he can find a haven for the pyrmum before I have caught up to him.  You have done well by revealing the truth to me.”

He bowed as low as he could, hoping to demonstrate the profundity of his penitence.  “I am at your service, dear sister.  But tell me: what now can I do to aid you? How can I be of service to Argetheil?”

“You can begin by helping me find Virrod,” she replied, already marching between the ranks of scaldrons while he trailed her.  “After that, we shall see.  But we are in the process of placing our most capable allies in positions of power across Marnon.  If you serve me well, we can discuss the country in which you might provide the greatest usefulness to the Ambassadors of Argetheil.” 

Flash Fiction: The Fall of Oltheil

          Will he answer our summons? Xizsk asked himself, his wrinkled hand trembling against his staff.  He must, yes? Or is this truly the end?

          The old wizard was braced against the grey wall of what was known as “The Meeting Room,” and across from him stood Ilivor and Virrod, peeking around the corner to behold the battle beyond.  Occasionally one of the two men would dart out into the open and, staff in hand, unleash a cone of ice or immobilizing dust toward any approaching enemies—but then he would quickly retreat again into the safety of the room, loath to join the thick of the fray.  Xizsk, on the other hand, remained stationary as though he were pasted to inside of the stone edifice.  He knew that history would call him a coward, and it would be a lie to say that fact did not bother him.  He and his two allies had served as co-regents over Oltheil for centuries, and the mages who had dwelled in the city had trusted them and clung to their every command.  The three wizards were so highly regarded because they were the progeny of Crel himself; it was believed that they had even inherited some of Crel’s godhood and were the closest any man or woman would come to the divine.  The entire point of the city of Oltheil was to protect that, one of the three prized objects through which the Gods had created the world.  But now that the object was in jeopardy, the city’s leaders were cowering within a fortified building rather than dying beside their loyal subjects.  It was pathetic; there was no other way to look at it.

“How did she amass such forces?” cried Virrod, his brown hair whipping in the wind that billowed through the tunnel.  “Lo! They cover the countryside like ants.  I did not know that so many scaldrons existed in all the world.”

“And yet here they are, before our very eyes,” answered Ilivor.  “Standing here in disbelief will accomplish nothing.  We must conjure a plan, for it appears that our lord Crel has either failed to receive our message or found more important matters to attend to.”

Xizsk breathed in and out, and in again, before summoning the courage to careen over to where his brothers were standing.  He hugged the stone wall and leaned over to glimpse the battlefield.  The image, albeit brief, was a promise of death.  The lean creatures were more plenteous than his brothers had stated.  The flash of skin and metal and blood flowing like rivulets was more than he could handle, and he felt his stomach turning.  Dark pulses threatened to drain the world of all color.

“Even Xizsk grows faint,” said Ilivor, his frown bracketed by his black, braided beard.  “The time is ripe for action.” He exchanged a long stare with Virrod before swiveling around and heading down the hallway.  Along the wall he dragged his fingertips, mumbling in the Weöstrif language as he did so.

“What is he doing?” inquired Xizsk as Virrod reached out to support him.  “He is not going to hand it over, is he?”

Virrod shook his head.  “Never.  Ilivor would never willingly aid in the resurrection of Argetheil.  He has something else in mind.”

The dark-haired wizard stopped at a part of the wall which, to the untrained eye, would appear to be nothing more than smooth stone.  The spell that he muttered was familiar to Xizsk; it allowed one to feel variances in the densities of objects and to pinpoint the weakness in a structure.  Ilivor pressed the false wall inward about a hand’s breadth and reached into the cavity.  What he pulled from within remained hidden from view, but Xizsk knew it well.  His heart burned within him—not anger toward his brother, but rage toward the fiends that desired to see the world plunged into chaos.  They were blind fools, the lot of them, led by the blindest of fools.

“They must not retrieve it!” he shouted, struggling within Virrod’s arms.  “Even if we are to lose our lives in its protection, they must not retrieve it.”

“They will not,” Ilivor answered, crossing the hallway and reuniting with his brothers.  He passed the object to Virrod and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Kinsmen, my proposal is that Virrod take the pyrmum east, beyond Farlenas; it is a perilous route but the one least suspected, and it is unlikely that any would follow without much trouble.  The emblem will not lie hidden for long if it stays here.” He looked back and forth between them.  “Are we agreed?”

Xizsk nodded, but Virrod hesitated.  “But...why me, dear brother?” he asked.  “And what will be my destination?”

“You will head to Gozkk, for even she will pause at the thought of entering that minotaur-infested wasteland.  There you can regroup for a time.” Ilivor offered a tiny but comforting smile.  “And why you? Is it not clear that you are the strongest of our trio, and second in power only to Crel in this world of Marnon? You are capable of more than the two of us combined.  Perhaps the Gods will deal kindly with you in the east and lead you to answer our haunting question: how can the pyrmum be protected now that Oltheil has fallen?”

Virrod appeared concerned, thought Xizsk, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.  He pocketed the emblem within the folds of his robe and breathed out a long sigh.  “Very well.  But will you not come with me? Surely we can bypass the scaldrons and escape together.”

“There are too many,” Xizsk replied, “and already they draw near.  There is no escape—not for us all.”

“Our brother speaks truly,” said Ilivor.  “We have lingered in our safe hall long enough while our people have given their lives.  It is time that we fight, Xizsk and I.  But Virrod, you must flee.  Gods willing, we will wreak havoc enough to catch the eye of the scaldron army while you round their forces and head into the east.”

Tears sprang into Virrod’s eyes, and one fell onto Xizsk’s tattered grey robe.  “I have not known a day apart from you, brethren, and now this may be the last time I view your faces...until I see you again in eternity, that is.”

“We will await you in the throne room of the Three,” Ilivor assured him, “where we will never again experience fear, or pain, or sorrow.  Our long lives will seem naught more than the snap of a finger compared to the unending glory that awaits us.” He turned his head to Xizsk.  “Do you understand what must be done, my brothers?”

“We do,” they answered, both voices riddled with uncertainty.  But have we the strength to do it? wondered Xizsk.

“Very well.  Virrod, you head down the hall and exit the other way; I saw not a soul near the tunnel’s mouth.  Xizsk, with me.  Prepare to access the fullness of your power.”

The fullness of my power, thought Xizsk, marveling.  It is the very thing we have taught our many pupils never to use, for once all energy is expended, doom certainly follows.  If any scaldrons live after we release our spells, we will have no more strength to fight.  He felt tears welling up within his own eyes.  This is it; Crel will not answer our summons.  It is truly the end.

“I will do everything I can to keep safe the emblem of our Fathers,” said Virrod.  “Farewell, then, dear ones—until our next meeting.” He turned away from them and headed off down the curve of the tunnel, robe flailing in the strong cliffside wind, until he disappeared into the darkness.

Xizsk turned to Ilivor, and although his brother had appeared confident before, there was now in his countenance something that questioned the reality of their situation and balked at the likelihood of their mortality.  The same thoughts filled Xizsk’s mind, but he knew not what to say.  He stared intently at the dark-toned skin of Ilivor’s face, probably for the first time in nearly five hundred years, and possibly for the last time.  A barrage of fears assaulted him then: fear of the pain of death, fear of surviving but watching his kinsmen perish, fear that Virrod would be stopped and the order of the world undone.  The overwhelming dread kept his words behind his lips, but his mind was speaking loudly: he thanked Ilivor for his comradery and leadership; he lamented that five hundred years had felt far too brief; he pondered the joy soon to be felt once his soul was ferried into the company of the Three.  Ilivor had known him long enough to read his thoughts through his eyes as one reads a scroll.  The wizard nodded at him and, saying nothing, led him out into the light, out onto the battlefield where the scaldrons were striking down their perennial followers, out into the presence of the cloaked goddess who would more than likely claim their lives.