Chapter 7

Once more, people crammed into the town church to listen to Mistress Welda and the newcomers. Once more, townsfolk jostled to get closer to those that spoke on an upraised dais before rows of wooden pews that were now fully occupied. Welda motioned for the crowd to go silent. Qualtan, Glaive, Trunkhoel, and his men stood behind her as she began to petition the assemblage.

“My people! We have endured yet another night of evil, but as we have before, we have proven ourselves worthy of Cuthbert! We lost livestock, we lost horses, but we did not lose our families or our friends! Those that came here to help us deserve thanks for that.”

Those in attendance rapped their knuckles on the pews, creating a rumbling chorus of approval.

“We have endured, but now we strike back to end this threat once and for all. I have been in council with our newfound friends and we now share our plans with you.” Welda stepped back, motioning for the others to take full stage.

Trunkhoel pointed to the audience. “How many of you have hunted game? Hmmm? How many?” He looked around the room. “Raise your hands if you have!”

Hands from the crowd lifted haltingly.

“How many of you have fished in the streams of the Gladed Forest? Come now, let me see!”

Additional hands went upwards.

“Good, good! If you have hunted for meat, for sport, then you have the means to end this plague of yours!” Glaive eyed Qualtan with a knowing smile. “What of herding cattle? Who has done that who sits here? Go on, tell me!” More hands were raised, as excitement grew. “My men protected you from the shadow of the night that struck you one day ago. Now, you will take your place with us! Tell me, how do you herd your sheep or cattle? How do you hound your game?” Trunkhoel looked out angrily among the faces that stared back. “Well? Are there not tongues here? Use them! Tell me!”

Eventually, one elderly carpenter stood nervously. “Milord, I used to hunt as a lad for a lord’s pleasure whilst living on his lands with my family. The lord’s men would chase and hound a stag, calling out with hunting horns to warn others of the party that lay ahead of us in order to narrow the field the beast ran in and close in. We would lead the panicking stag to a selected place where we would trap and kill it.”

Trunkhoel clapped his hands. “Well done, well done, and what about domestic beasts, eh? How do you lead them back to your lands, or bring back those that go astray?”

Another person rose, a young man with a dirtied face. “Milord, we use dogs to chase back our strays and ride on horseback to either side to lead our animals home.”

“Exactly! Well done, again! See here … attend to me now!” Trunkhoel gestured for all to rise. “These creatures we face are to be treated the same, no more, no less! They are beasts—wild, mad, unthinking beasts! Do not think of them as the undead or as cursed souls come to punish you! They are beasts! And we will trap them as beasts! We will place barriers in Cuthbert to direct them as beasts!”

“Aye!” yelled some of the townsfolk.

“Yes, and we will create more fences, and more walls, to guide them in closer as beasts!”

More of the townsfolk began to cheer.

“We will build more walls around the center of town, and we will herd them there and we will trap them there!”

The crowd began to roar in approval.

“And what shall we do then? You tell me!” Trunkhoel cried out.

“Burn them!! Kill them!” responded the onlookers.

“Burn them!! Kill them!” repeated Trunkhoel, whipping the crowd into frenzy, as his men joined in the chorus of voices chanting the phrase over and over.

Welda looked towards Qualtan who nodded with approval.

Work began almost immediately. Areas that were open from the direction the ghuls came from were cluttered and blocked off, to make one specific path unavoidable. Groups of volunteers tore down barns or traveled to the Gladed Forest to strip and bring wood. Qualtan spent his mornings training townsfolk, both men and women, on how to direct and strike with a sword. With the help of Cuthbert’s semi-blacksmith, a small man whose job was to fix and mold horseshoes, they made makeshift weapons from metal tools and farm implements. Crude walls were raised and rough barricades were put into place. Another night of chaos ensued, as the ghuls returned, and then another, but this time, the townsfolk began to feel a growing surge of quiet confidence and patient defiance. Obstructions that the ghuls damaged were quickly restored the following day, and fear of the ghuls’ next attack began to turn into excited expectation. Qualtan had approached Trunkhoel with his own thoughts about the purpose of the ghuls’ nocturnal visits, but Trunkhoel merely laughed at the suggestion.

“Ghuls kill and destroy, for that is their nature. They are rabid beasts that hate everything because of their cursed existence. Worry more about those buffoons you attempt to train, and my men and I will take care of the rest!”

Days later, Qualtan and Glaive rode hotly through Cuthbert, following the path the townspeople’s’ efforts had created. Their horses veered left, then right, kicking up clouds of dirt. Around them simple fortifications sealed off access to other avenues. Many of the workers observed their race from platforms built high above. Glaive’s steed reared up as he nearly crashed into a sudden barrier, allowing Qualtan to rush past him. Dead ends forced them to turn tail and follow a pre-planned route that eventually led them to the center of town. Around them, a hastily built entrapment prevented escape.

“Now, you fools! Pull, damn you!” Trunkhoel yelled aloud as grunting men shoved and tugged a wooden fence into place, sealing off entry into the trap. Qualtan and Glaive leapt off their frothing horses as observers cheered.

“Hah! I win!” Glaive boasted.

“I think not! You were just behind me!” Qualtan retorted, reaching for a water-filled bucket waiting at the center’s well which he offered to his horse.

The moveable fence was removed, and a crowd joined them. Trunkhoel slapped his hands angrily as he berated the fence movers.

“Slow, too slow! We are catching ghuls, not turtles! They will be on you like leeches! Do it again, and faster this time!” he barked.

“Patience! Our little game tested out the path. It’s secure. We’ll practice this through and through,” Qualtan said, annoyed at Trunkhoel’s bellicose fashion.

Trunkhoel’s blazing eyes bore into Qualtan’s. “If you don’t mind, ‘milord’…” Trunkhoel started with a sarcastic tone, “…I will handle this as I see fit, and do it my way!”

“As you wish,” Qualtan beamed as he left the enclosure with Glaive in tow.

“You two will come to swords soon enough. Hopefully, before I do,” Glaive said.

“You were marvelous!” Deliah said, rushing up to Qualtan. “And you too, Glaive,” she added.

“Of course WE were,” Glaive said, to the laughter of all.

Deliah ran her fingers through Qualtan’s brown hair, dislodging dust and dirt accumulated from the contest.

“Will it work?” she inquired to both.

“It should,” Glaive sighed, looking back at the walls. “Ghuls can jump pretty high, though.”

“Which is why we had the platforms built—the sentries placed above will have torches and sharpened spears to push them back down,” Qualtan said, pointing around them. “The dangerous part will be once we have them.”

“What will happen then?” Deliah asked.

Qualtan and Glaive exchanged glances of concern.

“Fire and oil,” Glaive said gravely.

Deliah seemed to consider this, frowning.

Seeing her concern, Qualtan immediately changed subjects.

“Where is your mother? I thought she would have been here for our test.”

Deliah brightened. “Mother is in her prayer room this afternoon, praying for our good fortune in this affair!”

“Can we go see her? I need to speak to her.” The thought of ghuls searching for something beyond living flesh had not left Qualtan. Indeed, the more he considered it, the more it troubled him. What could they possibly be looking for, if that was the case? Or more importantly, who had sent them on such a mission?

“Mother does not like to be interrupted during her prayers. It is very important that she be left alone.”

“It will only be a moment.”

Deliah shrugged, unsure of disturbing her mother. Still, she had come to fully trust Qualtan and joined him in hand as they walked back to her tower.

“Look there!” Deliah cried out, pointing to the top of a peaked cottage rooftop. A great, black-bodied bird sat there, its red head peering down at them. “I’ve never seen a bird like that before!”

Qualtan squinted in the sunlight, attempting to identify the creature. As if sensing their interest, the bird squawked happily and with a sudden flutter of movement, flew off into the sky.

“A good omen!” Deliah said. “Birds always bring luck.”

Qualtan watched as its form disappeared. “Yes. My uncle has told me such.”

Within the confines of Deliah’s home, Qualtan was led by her to a basement door just out of the way, nestled in a stone corridor. Trying the handle, Qualtan realized it was locked. He looked to Deliah for an explanation, but she merely shrugged.

“Mother prefers privacy when she prays, especially when my sisters and I are about. It’s best not to bother her,” Deliah said.

“I need to ask her something of importance.” Qualtan knocked on the door. There was no reply. He repeated the action, attempting two more tries, each with greater urgency. At his final attempt, the door unlatched from behind and squeaked open.

Mistress Welda looked rather surprised upon seeing the intruder. She immediately focused on her daughter. “Did I not say I was not to be disturbed during my meditations?!”

“It’s not her fault. I insisted, Mistress Welda. I need to speak to you.” Flickering lights from behind Welda showed a stairwell that went deeper below the tower. Welda positioned herself to block his view, closing the door quickly.

“My daily administrations for the High Lord and my father are an important ritual to us here in Cuthbert. It is near sacrilege for any to interrupt me, for it renews me as well as the township. Did Deliah not tell you this?”

“She did, and I meant no disrespect. I need to speak to you about a matter most urgent,” Qualtan insisted.

Welda looked over Qualtan and lowered her guard. “As an outsider, you do not understand. But I can see you meant no harm. What is so important? Did the test not fare well?” she asked.

“The test fared well. There is only one way into the township now—all other access has been closed down. The plan shall work.”

“Should work, if all goes well,” Welda added. “What do you seek me for, then?”

Qualtan’s face sobered. “During one of the ghuls’ attacks from before, I noticed they broke and damaged all they could find, from overturning tables and barrels to pulling out shelves and tool mountings.”

Welda agreed. “They are vile things! They destroy all that is found precious by others.”

“These habits seem more inclined towards looking for something beyond prey.”

Welda gave a start. “Looking for something?” she laughed gently. “They are the curse of the undead. They do not look for anything, except to kill.”

“Even so, don’t you find that unusual? Why waste time rummaging through empty barns and sheds instead of where they know humans lay in wait?” Qualtan pressed.

Welda seemed bored by the conversation. “Because they are evil and care for nothing more. Is this why you needed me so badly?”

“Is there anything of value in Cuthbert that could attract them? Or whoever has brought them here? Anything at all?”

Welda’s face grew tighter with restrained impatience. “We have no gold, nothing of material wealth. We are farmers, carpenters, and workers. We have nothing that would attract the evils of the world, I am proud to say. Nothing save the blessed lands we tend. Would some evil creature send ghuls to hunt for cabbages?”

Deliah agreed. “Mother is right. We have no treasure here.”

Qualtan narrowed his eyes, scowling with thought. “The magic of the fields…”

“…is a blessing of blighted land and nothing more,” Welda interrupted. “Why attack us, then, hmm? Why attack Cuthbert itself, when they could merely sneak into the fields at night and steal whatever carrots they choose? The fields lay untouched!”

Qualtan sighed. “Perhaps you are right then. I merely wanted to make sure.”

“Yes, well, I hope I have put your thoughts to rest. If only it was as easy as that! It is we that they are after. That is why you are here. That is why my people work so hard for you and the others. They know what is important here, and what is at stake, as should you: their very lives,” she said, staring at Qualtan before quickly retiring.

Qualtan watched her shuffle away. “She is angry with me,” he said. Deliah rolled her eyes. “As well she should be! She is not used to being challenged.”

“That was not my intent. I just needed to know for sure.”

“Are you sure then?” Deliah asked.

A sudden scream interrupted Qualtan’s response. A second scream echoed the first as Qualtan looked at Deliah and rushed out. “Ghuls!” Deliah yelled, prompting her shocked mother to reappear.

Outside, scores of people were already running towards their precious fields. Qualtan joined them.

“What is it?” he asked. Surely it could not be ghuls, he thought, as it is still midday.

“We do not know!” answered one man. “It came from the fields!!” yelled another.

Trunkhoel took notice of the sudden activity, catching a glimpse of Qualtan racing ahead of the crowd. “What strikes at us now?” demanded one of his men.

“Bah! Whatever it is, we can’t have that fool knight-to-be attempting to steal the credit! Let’s go, lads!” Trunkhoel commanded, waving his other followers to join him.

Qualtan’s strength and speed allowed him to pass ahead of the laboring men and women who ran towards the shouting. Reaching a raised hill edge, he peered down and with astounded shock, saw what had caused the alarm.

There were two of them, a mated pair. One swooped in the sky, keeping close to the other that bounded through the fields. Their bodies were tannish/yellow; leonine, but their hind legs and quarters were like those of an armored reptile. Wings like bats whipped fiercely along their upper shoulders. Their faces were almost humanoid, hidden in a great furry mane. Their eyes were slitted and catlike, and their mouths were large, showing multiple rows of sharp teeth. Instead of a lion’s tail they carried a segmented weapon that ended in a knobby cluster of spiky protuberances.

“Martichoras!” Qualtan whispered to himself. Ravenous creatures that lived in high mountains, they terrorized any hapless shepherd and his flock that grazed too near their hunting grounds. The townsfolk caught up to where he stood, and halted to re-assess their confidence upon meeting what lay before them.

The male of the pair frolicked about, tearing at trees and gorging on burst fruit. Yet its face was covered with blood as well as nectar. One gardener lay unmoving in an open gouge of earth where the martichora had originally attacked. Its female took notice of the viewers and growled alarm. Its mate looked up and issued a violent roar, warning the others to stay back.

“Look!!” one of the townsfolk said, pointing excitedly towards the open area now occupied by the martichora. There was a second body, with an extended arm weakly moving.

Trunkhoel at last appeared, grinding to a halt at the scene. “By the Devil himself!” he exclaimed. “Quickly, we need you others to go back and get nets! Qualtan, you need to…” Qualtan merely snarled in return, and sprung forward.

“Wait, you fool!” Trunkhoel called out, as Glaive appeared. Seeing the situation he pushed himself past Trunkhoel after Qualtan. “Stop! You will both be killed, you show-ups!” Trunkhoel warned with rage.

“What’s the plan?” Glaive cried out as he ran behind Qualtan.

Qualtan looked back briefly. “Get the villager to safety!” he cried back, pointing to the still moving man, who lay to one side of the still feeding martichora.

“Easy enough,” Glaive sighed.

The martichora took notice of the charging human, and immediately positioned itself for defense. Another bellow of warning did little to stop the approacher, so its tail quickly rose in a threatening manner. A barrage of spikes were released with a tremble from the tail’s head, but Qualtan’s sword created an enchanted shield that allowed him to safely resist the bombardment. He took a mighty leap forward, lunging into the sky and landing on the side of the great beast, impaling its shoulder with his blade. The martichora cried out, writhing in pain, and slapped his attacker away with a great hooked paw. Qualtan renewed his attack, crashing back against the creature, ignoring the dripping of blood to his side caused by the claw that rended through his armor. He grabbed one of the creature’s wings and snapped it with a large pop, preventing its escape. It howled in pain, and struck back, charging Qualtan into the ground. As they wrestled, Glaive edged closer to the monster’s still living victim. Trunkhoel observed the tableau and decided it was time to join. “Go, you sluggards!” he said, pushing his men before him to enter the melee. They hesitated, briefly looking at one another, until a final threat from their leader convinced them of their cooperation. Following his men safely from behind, Trunkhoel yelled out a charge.

The second beast saw their advance, and quickly flew towards them. A volley of spikes soon followed, and while some of Trunkhoel’s men withstood behind their shields, others that had no such protection either fell into the large stalks around them to avoid the attack or were struck down in pain.

Qualtan held back the great mouth of double-rowed teeth as the martichora attempted to maul its latest meal. With a quick knuckled blow, he struck its all too human nose and it recoiled wildly. He summoned his sword back from the creature’s shoulder, inflicting further damage as it tore free and returned to his hand. Again the martichora charged, and again a mix of both pommel and fist struck it back.

The other martichora swept through Trunkhoel’s men, knocking them about. A spear found a home in the creature’s side and a thrown dagger found another. In the confusion, Glaive found the downed men. He confirmed the first was no longer alive for he found no pulse. He then quickly pulled away the second to safety.

At last, Qualtan’s foe attempted to fly, but its lone wing was unable to carry its girth. Flopping back to the ground, it swerved around and launched a final run at its attacker. Qualtan stood his ground and as that great maw ripped wide to engulf him, he thrust his sword into that toothy mass, striking through to the creature’s brain and stopping it dead. The martichora gurgled its last, slumping over him. Covered by the fallen beast, Qualtan rolled it to one side, removing his blood-covered sword. The other combatants had not been as fortunate. Having been wounded several times, the other creature seemed ready to depart. One of Trunkhoel’s men, Orthello, he of the many scars and great ax, snuck past the martichora’s defense and with his mighty weapon chopped off the deadly head of its tail. Crying out angrily, the martichora whirled about. With one swooping claw, it struck through both ax and shield. Satisfied, it grabbed hold of him and began to fly off.

“Orthello! No!” Trunkhoel shouted helplessly.

Qualtan heard the cry, and saw the beast as it began to rise towards the sky. He took in his surroundings, the large stalks of grain and fruit, the giant bushels of vegetables and flowers. Qualtan spied a small shed of tools and took towards it. With a mighty spring, he landed atop the shed, as agile as any ghul, and with a leap bounced from its top, his sword held above his head as if he was a giant spear. He struck home, his sword biting deep into the escaping martichora’s chest. It shrieked in surprise, as Qualtan yanked his sword free. The impact jarred the martichora and it released its prey, dropping Orthello into a cushioned mat of flattened stalks. Qualtan sprung from the wounded beast and hurtled downward, landing safely onto the ground. The injured martichora continued on its course, flying weakly and bellowing in rage as it sought relief from its wounds and easier prey.

Qualtan gently picked up the wounded man. Orthello was still alive and his eyes opened with appreciation at the man who now carried him. Trunkhoel and his men quickly surrounded them, taking their brother mercenary from his arms. Trunkhoel stared in disbelief at Qualtan who, gasping, bloodied, and torn from the claws and raking teeth of the martichoras, still stood tall. Glaive congratulated him, offering support as Qualtan gratefully leaned onto him for assistance.

Deliah sat in awe of Qualtan’s healing ability as she dressed his wounds. The great claws had torn through the side of his golden chest plate, biting into his flesh. Yet only hours after the assault, the wounds, once open, were now slowly sealing shut. She cleaned them with skill, as Qualtan winced from the herbal lotions she placed on him.

“Your wounds show little of what injury you sustained!” she exclaimed, twisting bloodied cloths into a bowl of aromatic water.

“A gift from my uncle … and my father.” Qualtan grimaced. “Although I think I need to be more wary next time.”

“You attacked those creatures head on like a maddened bull. Lucky your head wasn’t chewed off,” Glaive said, inspecting his torn armor.

“He saved those poor men!” Deliah said.

“Glaive is right, though. My father paid dearly for relying too much on his strength of arms. It’s easy to grow overly confident with this,” he said, stretching his arm, and then quickly retracting it from sudden pain.

Trunkhoel suddenly appeared in the doorway to Qualtan’s room, staring nervously at first. Qualtan looked up, sensing the intrusion. Trunkhoel remained rooted to the entranceway, looking about.

“Well?” Glaive asked, annoyed.

Trunkhoel ignored him, walking up to where Qualtan sat. “You saved my man.”

“He saved TWO men,” Glaive added.

“WE did,” Qualtan corrected.

Trunkhoel had been reluctantly impressed by Qualtan’s actions. He had fought courageously, selflessly, without restraint. Trunkhoel had to admit that perhaps he needed to re-assess his earlier appraisal of the young knight-to-be, and he hated that.

“I’ve come to offer you my thanks. It was a brave thing you did. You risked being carried off yourself.” Trunkhoel looked at Qualtan evenly.

“There is no need…”

Trunkhoel interrupted him. “Need enough. I’ve said my piece. Rest well … Qualtan.” With that, Trunkhoel turned to leave.

“Martichoras don’t hunt this far from their aerial fastness. There are no mountains for leagues upon leagues from here,” Glaive said loudly. Trunkhoel paused.

“It makes no sense, does it, Trunkhoel?” Qualtan added. “Why would such creatures travel so far to come here?”

“Beasties such as they grow more fearful the further they fly from their beloved cliffs and crags. Nothing would bring them so far away from their security. Not sheep, nor creatures of herd. Not even humans or the crops they harvest,” Glaive said.

Trunkhoel thought for a moment, turning to look sharply at the two.

“You are both mad. Martichoras hunt. They probably needed to go so far to find worthy prey. Think me some addle-brained bumpkin? If there was treasure of some sort here, I would be the first to demand my share of it for my services. You waste your time in seeking to trick me!” Trunkhoel said, leaving them with added haste.

Deliah looked at Qualtan and Glaive who snickered softly at Trunkhoel’s retreat. “My mother did not lie to you,” she said curtly. “Why do you think we hold something from you?”

“Deliah, it’s not that. It’s only…”

Qualtan was quickly cut off.

“Just because outsiders use lies and deceit all the time does not mean that we are the same!” she cried.

Qualtan took Deliah by the hands. “I’m not saying your mother lies or anyone in Cuthbert lies. There is something wrong here. Ghuls have come searching for something here, I am sure of it. Martichoras that travel farther than any would to come here, don’t you see? Why would they come to Cuthbert? Why?” Qualtan asked.

“I am not a liar, and neither is my mother! You speak riddles that make no sense. We are not like the rest of you!” she said, rising to leave.

“Deliah! Please! I know you do not lie. I am not saying that you do.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Qualtan did not know what to say. After all, he truly didn’t know the answer. Deliah looked at him, imploring with her eyes, then turned to Glaive who merely shrugged, looking away.

“We just feel that something is very wrong here. So wrong, that perhaps your mother is not aware of it.”

“My mother is aware of everything in Cuthbert,” Deliah said proudly. “We have lived our entire lives here. Mother would know if something was amiss, more so than you.” As she left the room, Deliah threw a final dirtied cloth into a bowl of water, wetting Qualtan slightly with its splash.

“We are not doing too well with our theories, are we?” Glaive said as he bit into a dislodged piece of Qualtan’s golden armor to test if was truly made from that valuable metal.

Qualtan sighed, rolling his hands through his hair. “Am I wrong in this, Glaive? Is this just foolishness on my part?”

“Who knows? Whether it is or not, it doesn’t matter for now, anyway. Best we focus on the task at hand, and delve into this deeper mystery later … if we can.”

“You sound serious.”

“That I am.”

“To ensure these people are freed from harm at last?”

“To ensure we get out of here alive!”

Qualtan shook his head in disappointment.

“I still hold you responsible for my being here,” Glaive said, completing his inspection of Qualtan’s armor.

“A burden I am well aware of.”

Glaive stood over Qualtan, his features softening. He placed a hand on Qualtan’s shoulder in an unusual display of gentleness. “You’re a good man, Qual. Of that there is no doubt. Even good enough for an orcne to admire, and that’s no small thing!”

Qualtan laughed. “You do me honor. Is that a crack in your veneer that I see forming?”

“Hmph! Just a little,” Glaive replied.

The next few days were busy as the last inspections of the newly risen fortifications were made. A silent observance was cast for the hapless farmer who had died at the talons of the martichoras. The cries of his family were not lost upon Qualtan and the others who watched with grim solemnity. Anxious volunteers were chosen to join each of Trunkhoel’s men on both platforms above and hiding spots below to prevent any ghuls from escape once the trap was sprung. Others readied stacks of lumber for torch and flame. Welda was happily impressed by the effort, and made daily rounds to congratulate and offer praise. There was a growing enthusiasm, as fear was replaced with the thrill of redemption. The ghuls would find no victims this time.

On the last evening before the attack would come, the townsfolk of Cuthbert held humble celebration. Drink and food was shared openly, the worry of night no longer to be seen. Emboldened, men and women played with their sharpened tools-made-weapons, boldly exclaiming what would happen to any ghul that was unfortunate enough to be caught.

“Most of them don’t even know how to fight, let alone carry a sword,” Glaive stated in between gulps of homemade beer.

“Give the fools this. They will need it,” Trunkhoel said, walking up to Glaive and throwing his sword to one side of a bench with a loud crash as he joined him. Observing the dancing and music, the mercenary leader turned to the half-orc who had attempted to ignore him.

“I have been meaning to ask you. You two, how did you meet? Not to make a point of it, but I don’t see where the likes of him and you would find common paths to travel.”

“What, a thief and a knight?”

Trunkhoel nodded, adding, “As well as a human and a half-orc, besides.”

Glaive smiled inwardly. “Oh, let’s just say you see a lot of strange things happen in Woodworm.”

Trunkhoel leaned in closer. “So what’s the payoff? For you, I mean? You’ve a quick wit about you, as well as a quick hand. I could use you. Don’t get me wrong, I have to admit, but I’ve opened my eyes to your friend. I’ve seen so-called knights or heroes or what have you before; they were as corrupt and debased as the rest of us. Your friend risked his life to rescue one of my men, and he may be one of those rare folk—a man of actual honor. I’ve given him my respect for that day. But what is that to you, eh? You’ll make few coins going his way.”

Glaive finished his drink and quickly rose. “Coins aren’t what I have in mind,” he said stiffly.

“Ah, unless you have designs to pinch some noble pockets when and if you get to Turinthia. Hah! Is that your plan then? My hat is off to you! You’ll be in the right place for it with your craft. Your friend’s strong enough and noble enough, but a little too stupid about things like you and me!”

Glaive still faced away from Trunkhoel. “Things like you and me?” Glaive replied.

Trunkhoel laughed, raising his own foaming mug to his lips. “Aye! You know it. He’s a simple enough lad. I should have hitched a ride like you did and made things easier for myself!”

Glaive turned around and with effortless motion shot a bolt through the mug that Trunkhoel held close to his face. Spluttering from the spill of beer on his face, Trunkhoel reached for his sword but stopped instantly as another bolt was fired between his sword’s base and his own grasping fingers, striking so close, Trunkhoel’s hand froze, trembling with fearful expectation.

Glaive aimed his firing gauntlet at Trunkhoel who stared at him with angry fear. Glaive lowered his arm, smiling at the puffing man-at-hire, who quickly inspected the fingers of his one reaching hand with that of his other, making sure no damage had actually been done.

“Don’t insult me. You are nothing like me. Do it again, and my next shot will not miss.” Glaive walked away, to the cursing and swearing of Trunkhoel behind him, who kissed each fingertip of his sword hand, happy that none were absent.

Qualtan stood before Mistress Welda’s praying chamber, staring at the door. It was locked, of course, and did not open to Qualtan’s attempt. For a moment, Qualtan thought of pushing through the door, but realized he had no justification for it, especially as he was a guest in her house. Still, questions abounded in his head, until a soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Qualtan,” Deliah whispered. Surprised, Qualtan turned about, to see Deliah standing nervously with a small, dripping candle. She wore a sleeping garment of soft cloth that stopped just past her knees. Her hair was long and wild, draped past her shoulders in disarray.

“I can’t fall asleep,” she said.

“I thought you were not speaking to me,” Qualtan replied.

“Were you looking for my mother again?” Deliah asked.

Qualtan moved away. “It can wait until tomorrow.” He went to a small breach in the covered windows and sat staring outside.

“I am no longer angry with you. I could not be, for all you have done for us,” she said, following him.

“The revelers return to their homes; the final night,” Qualtan said.

She stood for a time, observing him. At last she sighed. “I’m sorry. You were merely seeking answers.”

Qualtan looked up to her, smiling warmly, and motioned for her to join his side. “You were defending your mother. I would have done the same. I am sorry as well. I am rather new to this sort of thing. I feel like a fool as often as I want to feel like a hero.”

Deliah’s face filled with gratitude as she tip-toed next to him.

“Blow out your candle,” Qualtan said. “The moon shines bright enough for tonight.” Deliah obliged.

“Besides, should any ghuls attack tonight,” he added, “there is no need to attract them.” He stared through the timber cracks.

“It is a nightmare living like this. If only they would stop and go away,” she said as she sat next to Qualtan.

“Don’t worry. That is why we are here, is it not? I will not lie to you; I have never faced ghuls before. I have only just newly left my own home on my way to Turinthia. But our plans are sound. If my uncle was here, he would agree that you will soon be safe.”

“I know you are right. My mother is sure, and so I should be. It seems so quiet now,” she said. “What do you see?”

“Nothing. All is still outside.”

“Can I see?” Deliah asked.

Qualtan nodded, making room for her to peer out. Deliah’s lithe form was supple as she stretched out next to him. Qualtan breathed in deeply the fragrance of her hair as she looked through the cracks, her body close to his.

“Yes. There is nothing out there,” she said. She stared out, unmoving, breathing from her mouth, expectantly. This time, there was no doubt, no hesitation. Qualtan brought his face closer to the side of hers, gently kissing her neck. She brushed her long hair to one side, exposing her neck further. Qualtan kissed her neck again, and she sighed. She turned about to face him and their lips touched. Her arms wrapped around his neck, unwilling to release him. Their kisses grew deeper. At last, before their passions could overcome them, Deliah pushed herself back.

“Wait. My mother could return and find us,” she said. She squirmed free from his grasp and took his hand into her own. Smiling mischievously, she led him outside towards the tower’s shed. Qualtan paused. “No. This could be dangerous, Deliah. If ghuls are about…”

Deliah laughed, loud enough for Qualtan to motion her to silence. “I’ll be safe with you,” she said, pulling free of his hand and rushing off before him. Qualtan stood unsure for a moment, and then decided he could not leave her alone in either event. He followed her into the barn.

“Deliah!” Qualtan said.

Giggling, she climbed onto a ladder that led to an upper platform where hay was stored. He clambered after her. She danced around and then fell into a large stack of hay, soft as a pillow. At night every creak and rattle seemed magnified, and Qualtan paused, standing over her as he looked about. Sighing impatiently, she reached out for his hands and pulled him atop her.

“What is this?” Qualtan asked. They sat in the darkness, an array of moonbeams penetrating the small slots in the barn’s ceiling. Qualtan held Deliah in his arms, her head nestled under his. He traced the outline of her arms with his fingers, stopping at a large symbol that was drawn on the back of her left shoulder. She smiled, drawing closer to his chest. “My mother drew that, a mark that she also carries, as well as my sisters. It is a protective glyph, a mark of our bloodline to Cuthbert himself. We will one day take my mother’s place as shepherds of our people.”

Qualtan scrutinized the design with more interest. Having studied under mages, he was well versed in symbols of warning as well as approach. He did not recall all the figures he had learned; a complete listing of such magical marks took volumes, but the motif of the image did hold certain elements that seemed familiar. A five pointed star, with a small square of nine cells superimposed over it. Each cell contained a letter of magical power. The letters were of a language unknown to Qualtan; most letters of protective energy were written in special code known only to those who created them. The letters could afford protection from specific assaults, such as ill health, certain spells, or to drive away evil spirits.

“A powerful image,” he at last declared.

“Not powerful enough to scare ghuls, alas,” Deliah replied. “I worry about tomorrow.”

“Do not be afraid. All will go well. We have Trunkhoel to protect us, after all.” Deliah giggled at his remark, while Qualtan sat and wondered.

The image of the glyph played in his mind as the following day brought forth a final burst of activity in Cuthbert. Yet another session of blessing and prayers was presented by Welda, and checks and assurances were made. Torches were smothered save but a few. Volunteers hid atop platforms just behind the guarding walls their efforts had placed; others lay in wait at specific points along the sides of the trap. Qualtan, Glaive, Trunkhoel, and Welda sat on a raised dais at the center of town where the path led. Heads bobbed up and down around them from others placed on similar podiums that adorned the circling walls. Silence followed night. Trunkhoel fidgeted excitedly, his face barely visible in the gloom. “This is it, lads! You earn your pay tonight!” he called out. Glaive took notice of Qualtan’s apparent deep concentration.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Qualtan seemed to snap back from his thoughts, smiling gratefully at Glaive.

“I am fine, merely more thoughts of the same.”

“Riddles?” Glaive asked.

“Yes. Riddles and more riddles. If my uncle was here, he would surely understand them.”

Glaive stretched out. “If your uncle was here, we wouldn’t be.”

Qualtan laughed. Trunkhoel stared at them nervously. He turned to Welda who sat patiently, with no emotion on her face.

“Well, Mistress? Your day has come.”

Welda nodded. “It is to be hoped.”

“Shouldn’t you be guarding your daughters back home?”

“Deliah protects my two other daughters. She is of age and strong of mind,” Welda replied, staring across towards Qualtan.

“Hah. After this night’s work is done, you’ll owe us more than pennies and soup, I’d wager,” Trunkhoel said, moving about back and forth on the platform.

“Be still!” Glaive remarked, annoyed at Trunkhoel’s constant movements. “Calm your fear in one place!”

“Don’t tell me what to do. You and I still have unfinished business, half-orc!” Trunkhoel snapped, pointing angrily at Glaive.

“Enough!” Welda said.

Qualtan peered out toward the edge of town, looking at the few torches that glowed at various intervals along the walled pathway. Not exactly what he had envisioned upon leaving Littlebig, he thought. Would his non-arrival at Turinthia have already caused concern? It would be many days more after their business was done in Cuthbert before they would appear. What stories to tell, at least! He still felt he was missing something of importance in all of this, some key that would unlock this seeming ambiguity. Yet perhaps the answer would lie in the graveyard they would have to enter after the deeds done this night. Yes, perhaps there the key would be found.

“You and your knight have tried to lord it over ever since you got here!” accused Trunkhoel.

“Ssshhh! You will bring ruin to us all, you fool!” Welda hissed.

“You’re mad!” Glaive said to Trunkhoel.

“I lead my own, and follow none!” Trunkhoel whispered angrily.

Ignoring the banter, Qualtan continued to focus on the wisps of torchlight flames that captivated him so. They reminded him of tiny little souls floating in the sky. As Glaive and Trunkhoel continued to argue, two of the farthest torches flicked off.

“The signal!” Qualtan gasped.

Another pair of torches quickly blinked.

“The signal! They are here!” Qualtan said, loud enough to gain the attention of Welda and the others. The buzzing began. Glaive and Trunkhoel paused in their battle of words as the noisome droning grew closer.

“May the High Lord protect us!” intoned Welda.

The observers upon the platforms watched as a rolling mass of twisted bodies approached. Their stilt-like forearms shoveling, the ghuls jumped, writhed, and squirmed atop one another, scraping and bouncing off the walls and barriers that forced them to travel closely through a directed pathway. Their talons dug into the blockades as they howled in angry surprise, leaping high into the air but falling back, unable to reach high enough to go over the top. A few paused, sniffing at the sky towards the humans hiding behind the fortifications, but quickly continued to follow suit alongside their brothers. Many of those above clamped their hands tightly round their ears at the mad hum made by the ghuls while others whispered words of revenge as they ran down the platform towards the ringed center. There, crudely made arrows and spears were dipped in pots of oil waiting to be lit. The ghuls slapped and pounded, testing some of the barriers as they continued to run herd-like, reaching at last the open area centered by a solidly enclosed watering well.

Trunkhoel stared on in dazed apprehension. The ghuls’ great two-toed feet drew clouds of dirt as they ran, circling the enclosure like mad beasts. They slavered and growled in confusion. Men quickly moved into position, entering the path behind them from hidden doors they had created in the huge fence. They dragged the moveable partition into place, their fearful breaths coming in ragged gasps as the ghuls took no notice in their own panic.

“Now, you fool! Give the order now!” Glaive said, as Trunkhoel meekly looked on.

“There are so many of them…” he said quietly.

“Now! Do it now!” Qualtan yelled out.

The ghuls stopped as one, looking up to where the voice had come from. Immediately, weapons dripping with fatty grease were ignited with flame and the ghuls hissed at the suddenly exposed row of humans high above.

“Fire!” yelled Orthello. Flames rained down towards the crowd of ghuls. Covered bowls, buckets, and barrels filled with oil were thrown down and kindled with burning arrows. The ghuls felt no injury from being struck by sharp weapons but fire was another matter. They shrieked and buzzed loudly, biting and striking one another in an attempt to escape. They battered the walls but they held firm. Others began leaping up onto the enclosure, clawing deeply into the wood. They became easy targets for the defenders on the upper ring to hurl blazing volleys against.

Trunkhoel began to laugh madly at the scene, gleefully hurling spears at the creatures. Two ghuls, despite being wreathed in flames, leapt, clambered, and climbed their way over the wooden beams, jumping onto the walkways behind. Townsmen panicked, fleeing at the sight. One man, a shoemaker by trade, decided to fight. He struck wildly with a sword, managing to hack off a clawed hand by the wrist. A gaping black hole showed where dried brittle tendons hung loosely. Yet the creature showed no discomfort, merely hissing at its opponent. Struck with fear, the man paused, allowing the ghul to grab his neck with its remaining hand. In panic, the shoemaker impaled the ghul through the chest, but again, such a wound did little to a creature already dead. The other ghul, its papery flesh still smoking, kicked out with its large feet, toppling the helpless man, then quickly hopped atop him, biting deeply into his neck.

“Avast, you fools! Stand your ground!” Glaive yelled, seeing the shoemaker being mauled by the ghul. The others who had fled paused at his words as he rushed forward, leading them back. With large poles they charged, impaling the two ghuls. Before they could smash through the weapons, other townsfolk attacked from behind, hewing their legs and dropping them to their knees. There was little left to twitch or move after the men had completed their grisly work.

Another ghul was able to breach the upper ring, leaping onto a hapless guard and sending both over the edge to fall far below. The man was killed by the impact, his neck snapping as he hit the ground. A second line of defenders threw newly made nets over the ghul to keep it busy as they hacked and chopped the undead thing to bits.

Smoke began to rise, obscuring the fighters on the upper level. Others had to start dousing the sides of the barrier with barrels of water as they began to catch flame.

“This is it, lads! Attack!” blared Trunkhoel.

Immediately, additional doors carved into the walls were opened and men and women charged into the melee, weapons held high. Qualtan jumped from above, landing in the thick of the battle. His sword cleaved through the undead creatures like a great scythe. No blood trickled forth, only black, rotted flesh was exposed as he cut through flailing arms and gaping jaws. A trio of ghuls surrounded one of Trunkhoel’s men whose long pole-arm had been ripped from his grasp. Running through ghuls that he punched and slapped away, Qualtan reached the man and ripped his attackers from him. The ghuls regrouped, but Qualtan released bright illumination from his sword, a light of magical power that caused the ghuls to pause in their renewed attack and growl in pain. Trunkhoel’s man rose to his feet, and taking advantage of the blinded ghuls, struck through one, and then another, before Qualtan ended the last ghul’s undead life. The townsfolk used large poles to impale the ghuls while keeping their deadly claws and teeth as far away as possible, leaving other volunteers to attack from all sides. Yet some lost their lives, for despite the flames and panic, some of the ghuls persisted. They tore through the poles and dived towards their bearers, ripping through leather jackets and soft flesh. The buzzing of the ghuls was accompanied by grunts of exertion and cries of pain. A group of ghuls was able to chase back their attackers who ran for safety toward one of the hidden doors. The ghuls quickly pounced, and after disposing of them, managed to smash down the door. There, the ghuls were met by still more volunteers who caught all of them save one. It cruelly tore into one man’s thigh and rushed past him to escape. An arrow affixed with a rope struck its calf, tripping it to the ground and preventing it from pulling free. Glaive shot a second arrow, impaling its arm. Others held fast on the ropes as Trunkhoel casually crept up to the beast. Licking his lips, he raised a sword as the ghul stared back, shrieking in defiance. Trunkhoel paused, and then cursing the ghul, cleaved its head through.

Smoke was still rising as the sun began to climb towards its seat atop the sky. Many points of the barrier had caught flame and had finally been put out. A gruesome field of charred and torn bodies filled the main center of Cuthbert. The acidic stench laced with already dead flesh overwhelmed the victors. Piles of the still flinching bodies were quickly set to fire. Surviving defenders stood about numbed by the scene, unable to move. Others were gently led home by their loved ones who had come seeking them. Those that had fallen were surrounded by mourners who cried at their loss.

Qualtan squatted on the blackened edge of the center’s well, a stack of shattered ghuls by his feet, observing the tableau before him. The dull light of his eyes was starting to recede and he breathed heavily from the strain of the nighttime battle. Glaive, his own form torn, walked towards him.

“Some of the rooftops caught fire from the ghuls that attempted to escape.”

“Did we catch them all?”

“Who knows? The walls held, for the most part. Perhaps a few got away.” Glaive slumped near Qualtan, inspecting the scratches and claw marks that had made their way through his shirt.

“Well, we won,” Glaive said, satisfied with his self-examination.

Qualtan looked about at the exhausted faces of the fighters, the wounded bodies being carried away, and the dead that would soon be buried. Some just stood idly by, arms hanging limply by their sides. Others stared at the burning, crumbling masses of still moving ghuls and disgustedly dropped their weapons.

Glaive took in the scene, looking back to Qualtan. His arched eyebrows rose high as a sad smile stretched upon his narrow face.

“What did they expect?” he said.

“It’s easy to speak of vengeance and of death, a different thing altogether to experience it. So my uncle has told me,” Qualtan said.

Glaive scratched a long, sharp ear. “Eh, you live, you survive. That’s one of my mottos. These sorts of people, they aren’t used to such things, despite the endless nights of fear. They’ve grown a bit, now, whether they like it or not. Look over there.” The half-orcne pointed to Trunkhoel. The loud, boisterous mercenary seemed lost, his face sad, his shoulders dropped.

“He was like one gone mad, laughing and screaming. I doubt he’s ever truly faced a foe like this before, for all his words.”

“He lost a few men last night.”

“Aye, two, surrounded by ghuls set ablaze that smoldered so brightly they were more dangerous still. They burned to a crisp enveloped by the things. Horrible way to die,” Glaive said, shuddering at the thought. “Brings his crew down to thirteen, counting the poor soul that was pin-cushioned by that martichora. An unlucky number.”

Qualtan stretched his face with sweaty hands, cradling his forehead in them.

“What next?” Glaive asked, already knowing the answer.

“We take this fight to the ghuls’ home in the graveyard. We end it there.”

“If any of these lambs can bring themselves up to fight again. They will probably try to forget last night ever happened.”

Qualtan nodded in agreement.

“And your riddles?” Glaive inquired.

“Let us hope we solve them there.”