Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater by Brent Michael Kelley     Omnium Gatherum Los Angeles CA Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater Ebook Edition 1.0  Copyright © 2011 Brent Michael Kelley Cover Illustration Copyright © 2011 Matthew Baker   All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher. omniumgatherumedia.com This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This is for my beautiful wife Keri, who toils in the mines all day so I can sit at home typing with a dog on my lap. Your patience, support, and feedback have made this book possible. Thanks to my publisher, Kate Jonez, for liking my story enough to print it and for helping me hammer it into something others might like to read. Thanks to my friends and family for their encouragement and inspiration. To the chums who critiqued my story early on, thank you for your honest thoughts about my work. You’ll be hearing from me again on the next one. And thanks to Jeremy C. Shipp. Without your writing workshop, this story would still be a pile of confusing gibberish collecting digital dust on my hard drive. Chapter 1  The Darkness Sleeps. The flame shrinks as a widow weeps. Shadows planted long ago find rich soil in which to grow. A travel'r comes from days long gone. Troubles dark are soon to dawn. Heads shout to make their voices heard, but cannot comprehend the word. Chuggie stood beneath the dead tree, glaring up at the chain tangled in its branches. He swayed on the bare hilltop, travel-weary and intoxicated. He hollered with his gravelly voice. He kicked the tree with his road-worn boots. He pulled the chain with all his might and wished he had someone else's luck. In The Mag's remote Mid-North, Stagwater nestled in the elbow of the Staghorn River. A protective wall wrapped around the city like a horseshoe, meeting the rushing river at two points on Stagwater's east side. A grand bridge stretched over the water, a thick-timbered testament to the city's ambition. Smoke rose from tall stacks throughout the city. The stink of it spread far and wide. Just west of Stagwater, Chuggie paced angrily beneath the tree. "Listen here, deadwood. You're gonna give it on back, or I'll chop you into kindling, set your ass on fire, and piss on your ashes!" Chuggie's voice slurred a bit, as usual. He swayed, drunkenly, and kicked the tree. His kick did no good, however. Above him, just beyond jumping range, his anchor hung at the end of a chain. The branches held the chain like knotty talons. The other end of the chain linked directly into his rib cage, leaving both Chuggie and the anchor bound to the tree. He'd tried everything he could think of by this point. He'd pulled on the chain, sworn at the tree, poked the anchor with a stick, even pulled on the chain some more. Nothing had worked. The way the chain twisted in the branches made Chuggie think of torture, made him feel claustrophobic. He smoked and glared at the tree, as he paced back and forth on his chain like a dog.  Shaped like a woman, the anchor was the only lady in Chuggie's life. He would not stand for her captivity. "You let her go, nobody gets hurt, tree." The breeze lifted some branches in a shrug of indifference. As anchors went, she possessed a singular beauty. Years of use had left her pitted and scarred. Any original detail was long lost, but not her smooth curves. In water, her arms would dig into the seabed to better anchor a boat. On land, it seemed, their only function was to make noise at all the wrong moments. And they damn sure weren't helping her climb out of the tree. Chuggie's upturned face was built for scowling, and it did so effortlessly no matter his mood. His elongated skull curved back from his face as if blown by some angry wind. Five horns protruded from it: one from his forehead, two more on each side. He wore a skull cap with horn-holes cut into it. He appeared to have an odd-shaped hat, not an odd-shaped skull with horns growing from it. As a whole, Chuggie's image was more of a drunken drifter than the primordial embodiment of drought. This he preferred. A bee was to blame for this heinous tangling of the chain. Oh, how Chuggie hated the vile sting of a bee. The tiny brutes had no qualms about invading one's flesh. Bees, hornets, and wasps all hated Chuggie as much as he did them. As if sensing what he was, they seemed compelled to sting. If Chuggie had his way, all bees and their kin would be arrested, tried as bees, and executed for their crimes. Depending on his mood, he could be persuaded to show mercy and allow them to live out their lives in prison. But there could be no leniency for this day's offender. Chuggie had been violated and victimized by some cowardly monster wearing yellow and black. He'd been stung â€" nay, raped â€" directly between his shoulder blades. The tiny villain, attempting to escape justice, then flew up to a branch in the tree. There on the branch, the bee taunted Chuggie, laughed at his misfortune. In a rage, Chuggie had sought vengeance on his attacker. Disinclined to let the bee die on its own terms, he'd thrown the anchor. Whether the anchor had hit or missed the bee was unclear, but the chain had gotten tangled. The tangle worsened the more Chuggie pulled. The bee, by then most likely dead, was all but forgotten. With his eyes glued to the anchor, Chuggie paced faster. "Lemme tell you this, tree. I'm about two seconds away from â€"." THWAP! Chuggie stopped speaking abruptly as he fell on his face. His own luggage had tripped him, although it could scarcely be called 'luggage.' A better description would be 'used burlap feed sack stuffed with junk.' Dolls, knife handles, keys to buildings that didn't exist anymore. Junk. He hoped in his travels he might be able to trade some of it for something useful. Maybe even money. Sooner or later, he'd need some of that. He had his junk, his anchor with chain, and his pair of worn out boots. Not much else. He was just a stumbling, mumbling drunk in a world full of monsters that looked the way regular people used to. Chuggie looked heavenward. The gray skies wounded him. Sunshine in any season filled him with hope, and he would dance under a thunderstorm as long as it lasted. But when the sky went that uniform, miserable gray, it got hard to imagine a place in the world where the sun could be shining. The gloom made him remember who he was: Brother Drought. As old as the world, he had no function but destruction. In that respect, Chuggie wasn't alone, but he wished he was. His ancient siblings â€" Disease, Fire, and Flood â€" were out there somewhere, no doubt compounding the melancholy. As the walking incarnation of Drought, he could drain entire bodies of water, suck the clouds from the sky, even tear the moisture from the body of a living creature. Chuggie had great power inside. Power that could devastate entire regions. Power that, once unleashed, he could not control. On this gray autumn day he stood on a hill just west of Stagwater, and he was very, very drunk.  ⊠⊠⊠ In the center of Stagwater, below the Municipal Building, in sub-basement B-3, a convict spasmed on a stainless steel table. His shaved, shivering body wriggled uselessly against his restraints, and his breath came in short, panicked gasps. A wooden block, wrenched tightly into his mouth, muffled his pleas and screams. His eyes, wide and wild, darted about in frenzied panic beneath the buzzing lights. A trickle of blood ran from his right ear. Screws, pins, and tubes entered his flesh at dozens of points, all chosen to maximize suffering. Conduits snaked off his body and into clicking and humming machines about the room. The conduits all fed into a coffin-shaped box in the corner â€" the collector. Out of the collector, a yellow hose ran up into the ceiling. "Are all the implements in place?" a deep voice boomed from the speaker box on the wall. "Nearly," answered Kagen Kale, the torturgist. He raised the table to accommodate his height by pumping the foot lever. As he applied the last attachments, a tiny spurt of blood splashed onto his all-white surgical garb. "There we are. Commencing the torturgy of offender ten-six-three. This torturgy is performed solely in the interest of the city-state, as mandated by civil law." Kale recited the required words without thinking about them. His mouth went dry with the familiar thrill of torturgy. "Proceed," said the voice from the speaker. The convict bucked against his restraints as pain blasted into his body at every pressure point and nerve center. He was no longer able to move, as every muscle and tendon in his body tightened. His skin flushed deep red. Horrible, hoggish squeals came from behind the wood block in his mouth. It was starting to get good, but the convict should have been a bit further along. Checking gauges, Kale found the reason. A needle on the blue gauge teetered between three and four. Kale wanted it to be at least a seven.  "The levels are low." Kale locked eyes with the convict. "Advancing chemical options to threshold." The convict's eyes grew wide as though he was begging for mercy. Kale licked his grinning lips beneath his surgical mask. "Carefully," advised the speaker. "Keep him there as long as possible." As if Kale needed to be told! His throat tightened. "I know what I'm doing." He made sure Haste could hear the annoyance in his voice. The fat bastard's interruptions were as useless as Haste himself. A new breed of squeal, hoarse and desperate, escaped from the convict as gears tightened, bones cracked, and chemicals pumped into his veins. Waves of suffering cascaded into the coffin-shaped collector. Inside, burning opium pine combined with the harnessed agony. The yellow hose sucked up the resulting vapor like a straw stabbed into a man's soul. Kale finished preparations on the condemned man and turned the operation over to his assistants. His own surgical clothes he pulled off as he walked, revealing a suit of brown and gray with brass buttons and self-awarded insignia pins. He marched out of the room and up the stairs to the third floor. Kale pushed open a door with stags in water carved into its polished surface, and entered the office. His eyes fell on the yellow hose emerging from the baseboard, then followed it across the floor. It fed into an object resembling a candy machine with pressure gauges. Inside the machine's glass bubble, a purple cloud gave off purple light like paint swirling in water. A portly man â€" Haste or the Haste, depending on his audience â€" lay back on a sofa, the position reserved for the leader. Another yellow hose ran out of the object that was not a candy machine and connected with a small mask. Haste took tentative sample breaths of vapor through it as he reclined on the couch. The mask covered only his nose and mouth and pressed into the jiggling fat of his face. Satin straps hung from the mask like limp spider legs. Ronymous Fitch sat on a stool next to Haste's sofa. His black robe marked him as a religious devotee, but the satin fabric with gold piping indicated he had more wealth than the average religious idiot. Around his neck hung a senfen, a pendant depicting the stylized head of a nana-glef. The nana-glef's gold form with onyx eyes indicated that Fitch belonged to the Grella Fentin church. He held the senfen gently, stroking it with his thumb. Kale sat in a metal chair directly below a taxidermied river stag. He gazed up at the big-antlered beast. It was an admirable stag, and it deserved better than to hang in the office of a doughy slob like Haste. The man had never hunted a wild animal in his life. Haste spoke into his voice recorder. "Punishment of offender ten-six-three grants access to the Pheonal trance on this day, the Eighth of Autumnok. The Pheonal trance is deemed necessary to ensure the ongoing safety of Stagwater as stated by municipal law. Today, a convict sentenced to death is utilized for the good of the city-state. His crimes will be absolved in the eyes of the law at session's end." Haste strapped the mask to his face, sat back, and breathed deeply. Down below, the convict gave his dying soul-shriek, catapulting Haste's mind into the depths of the trance. As he closed his eyes, the purple cloud in the glass next to him turned to black. Long moments passed. The sound of Haste's deep breathing filled the room. Haste's arms stretched out, and his fingers clutched at nothing. Ever so quietly, Haste began to mumble. "Chainedâ€Åš bad daysâ€Åš not many liveâ€Åš caveâ€Åš bringing destructionâ€Åš never more lost." Fitch took up his ledger and pen, and jotted notes as Haste repeated the phrase over and over. Then the hallucinating fat man fell silent and became nearly motionless for several minutes. At last, with considerable lack of coordination, he pulled the mask away from his face. Kale helped the sweaty oaf cross the room to the massive leather chair behind his desk. Once sitting, Haste put shaky pen to paper. "Bringing destruction?" Fitch asked. His eyes flashed with the passion of a religious zealot as he squeezed the senfen. The gold of the pendant lit his narrow, beady-eyed face from below. "Quiet, idiot! Let him concentrate," said Kale. "Never more lostâ€Åš" Haste mumbled again. He drew shapes and wrote impressions, filling pages with shaky scribbles. He stopped and turned his gaze to the flame of a candle on his desk. Rubbing his temples, he said, "Some things will make any man fearful. The death of a loved one. The destruction of his home. The erasure of all he has worked and fought for." Haste paused, as if watching the candle flicker as he breathed on it. "A traveler is coming to Stagwater. He is marked by a chain about him. I saw a crown of five horns, likely metaphorical. He must not be allowed to enter our gates." Haste noticed the recorder still rolling and gestured for Fitch to switch it off. "When?" Kale asked. "Soon. I saw the intruder trying to baffle our plans. Vigilance! We must stay in control of Stagwater. We know how to best take care of it." Haste dabbed sweat off his forehead and blew his nose. Haste truly believed he was Stagwater's future. Kale could have laughed at the idiotic notion.  "If we act swiftly," Haste said, "we can rid ourselves of this problem before the situation worsens. I believe the intruder will arrive from the west. Someone must take my dispatch to the western watchtower. Instruct the guardsmen that this traveler must not be allowed entry." Haste lifted a glass of water with his shaking hand and drained it, spilling just a bit down his chest. "Send the stranger north. Bewitch him if necessary. That should be the end of our little problem. Even so, we will double the guard, including the riverside. I could not decipher exactly how this man would work his mischief, only that trouble trots at his heels. This weed will not take root. I prefer bloody hands to ruined plans." "Give me the dispatch," said Kale. He had better things to do, but he didn't want Fitch involved in martial matters. Haste rubbed his eyes and spoke again, "Steel Jacks can't know about this. This does not concern them, and we don't need their meddling." Kale rolled his eyes. Who knew better than he did to keep Steel Jacks in the dark? Haste had only risen to Chief Magistrate through clever slogans and deep pockets, not effective leadership. Kale's days of taking the fat man's orders would be over soon enough. He rose to leave. Fitch looked down at his senfen. "The death of a loved one? The destruction of your home?" he asked. "Which did you see?" He fanned Haste's face with his ledger. Kale could have slapped the sycophant. Haste's florid skin grew a shade paler. "My friend," said Haste, "I saw it all."  ⊠⊠⊠ Kale stomped up the tight spiraling staircase within the western tower. The sound of his feet on the metal steps usually pleased him, but his ears still rang with the sound of Haste and Fitch sniveling at each other. He emerged from the stairwell and found the black-and-red-clad guardsmen laughing as they looked through their telescopes. "To work!" barked Kale. The men's eyes grew wide as they snapped to attention and gave him a stiff salute. Kale thought he detected a slight tremble in the hand of the shorter of the two. He'd never admit it, but he quite enjoyed watching peons cringe and tremble. "Who's commanding this shift? I have a security dispatch. High priority." Captain Rorid, a man with tired eyes and gray hair at his temples, stepped forward and accepted the written orders. Kale watched him read. His lip twitched impatiently. "A horned traveler wearing a chain?" asked Rorid, with a half-smile on his lips as he looked up from the paper. "We have one of those right out there." He offered Kale his telescope. Kale looked through the eyepiece and saw a ragged, dirty drifter. The bum yanked furiously at a chain stuck in the tree above him. The stranger alternated his yanking with pacing and apparent shouting at the tree. Kale could just make out the horns jutting from his hat. Kale looked back and forth from the drifter to the chuckling guard captain. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side. A potentially dangerous interloper stood not far from the city, and these guardsmen would take matters seriously. "Send him north," Kale snapped, casting a final glance at the stranger. He stomped off to tell Haste the news.  ⊠⊠⊠ Captain Tulliss Rorid waited until Kale disappeared down the stairs. "Priole, you could stand to learn a bit about 'guided compliance'. You and I are going to investigateâ€Åš. But I'm too close to my pension to be scrappin' it up this late in the day. You'll be in charge of that if it comes up."  "Sure," said Priole. The youth's face lit up at the prospect of a brawl. Though strong and well-trained, he'd seldom been in a real dust up. His face bore no scars. "From the look of him, he shouldn't be too hard to deal with." Rorid stretched, twisting his back left and right. "But if he has to be dealt with, I'm happy to do it." Guardsman Kletter Priole had no need for stretches. Tall and well-muscled, Priole represented the prototypical guardsman, whose youthful vigor kept him ready for action at any moment. If only he had more respect for the chain of command. "Listen," Rorid said, "orders are that if he attacks, we can arrest him. That's only if he attacks. We aren't the only ones who watch the horizon. We have enough problems with the Steel Jacks. Who knows? He could be one of theirs. We bewitch him and send him north, then we're clean of anything that happens to the bastard." It had been years since Rorid had last bewitched someone. The idea of robbing another's free will sat poorly with him. Truthfully, he was a bit rusty when it came to conjury, but those were his orders, and Captain Tulliss Rorid always followed orders. Most importantly, he wanted Priole to witness him carrying out orders he didn't agree with â€" one of many lessons this kid needed to learn. One eager for combat, the other for diplomacy with a bit of bewitchment, Rorid and Priole left the guard tower and mounted their wargoats. Off they went to meet the man of so much interest to their superiors.  ⊠⊠⊠ "Chained up to this old, dead treeâ€Åš I'm chained up to this old, dead treeâ€Åš Ain't nobody comin' gonna rescue meâ€Åš I'm chained up to this old, dead tree," Chuggie sang. He kept the beat with kicks to the tree trunk. "It's because o' some bastard beeâ€Åš that I'm pris'ner of this goddamn treeâ€Åš Revenge'll be mine if it's the last sight I seeâ€Åš Let's get revenge on that bastard bee!" he barked. He would have continued, but east of his position a couple specks had come out of the city. The specks, certainly men, were moving his way. He felt sure they were coming to investigate him. A mile or two away, approaching steadily – he guessed he had less than half an hour before they rode out the entire distance, climbed the rocky hill, and started in on him. Trees and scrub dotted the landscape between. Here a creek, there a ridge. Stepped fields, all harvested by this time of year, formed concentric crescents about Stagwater. And the road zigzagged through it all, bellying under Chuggie and off into the dry, old forest at his back. That road appeared unused, unwanted, neglected. Chuggie felt sympathy for it. He knew exactly how it felt. Mag Mell was a big world. The Mag was all one continent that looked like a hand gripping a ball. God's hand, some said. Chuggie preferred the rolling waves of the Mell, and not only because he liked water. There are not so many people to meet at sea. He sat against the tree, watching the men approach. He scratched his chin, although it did not itch. These men would have questions for him. Wherever he went, they always asked the same questions. Who are you? Where are you coming from? Where are you going? What is your business? What are you carrying? "Who am I?" Chuggie mused. "I'm walkin' drought that'll drink the river dry by mornin' an' everything else by tomorrow night! But, also, my name's Chuggie, and I'm what you might call a travelin' man." "Where do I come from? Well, that's a tricky question. I guess I was created along with the world, grown like wheat in the primordial mud beside my brother and sisters. Most recently, I come from a cave far, far to the north. Been layin' real low for the last few decades, or however long it was. Why've I been layin' low?  Because I fit in like a crow among kittens. Folks tend to give me a hard time wherever I go." "Where am I going? Glad you asked me that, friend. I'm headin' south and east, as far as can be got before winter. I've had enough of bein' cold, y'see." "My business there? Well, I thought I'd buy me a boat. See, that's all I really want. Jus' buy me a boat and sail it on the sea." "Carrying? I got this whole bag of fine merchandise here. Let me jus' spread this out, and you can take a look. Let me know when you see somethin' you gotta have. You boys are helping me get untangled from this tree, so I'm gonna cut you all kinds o' deals. Special prices on my best gear." He conversed with himself in this way until the men were within earshot. Then he got to his feet, brushed himself off, and gave a few more tugs on the chain.  ⊠⊠⊠ The two guardsmen leaned forward on their goats as they neared the hilltop. Heavy straps harnessed the animals' heads, pulling their chins down toward their chests and preventing the long goat horns from stabbing a rider in the face. They also tilted the head forward in a pose Rorid found to be quite noble. The ride from town had been thankfully quiet. Rorid found Priole difficult to tolerate one on one. The young man expressed his unwillingness to learn at every opportunity. He got on Rorid's nerves and gave the impression Rorid's feeling was mutual. "Let me do the talking," Rorid said in a low voice. "I'll let you do the punching if punching needs done." "Fine, sir." Priole smirked and squeezed his hands into fists. "Stay to my left and a couple steps back." "I know, sir." "If he swings at me, you mind how I dodge. Can't both be getting knocked over by a single blow." "Yes, sir, I know." Rorid took note of Priole's defiant, patronizing tone. The rookie needed an attitude adjustment. Close to the top of the hill they dismounted. A short ways off, the stranger staggered and waved at them. He looked either drunk or crazy, probably both. Rorid walked in front brandishing nothing but the gloves he'd taken off. In his right palm he hid the compass he planned to use to bewitch the stranger. Priole, just behind and to the left, rested a hand on the hilt of his hooksword. "Hello, sirs," called the drunk. "Come to help me out of my predicament, have you?" "What is your name, stranger?" Rorid stopped several feet away from the slurring outlander. "Well, I'm Norchug Mot Losiat. They just call me Chuggie, though." Rorid lifted the hand with the compass to his mouth, pretended to cough into it, and repeated, "Norchug Mot Losiat." The compass buzzed in his hand. This would be easier than he thought, but it didn't seem entirely right. "Aw, jus' call me Chuggie." "Where are you headed, Mr. Mot Losiat?" Rorid looked at the anchor and the chain. "Headed southeast. Tryin' to get as far that way as I can before the cold winter."  "So, Stagwater isn't your destination?" Rorid pointed a thumb toward the city. "Jus' passin' through. Thought maybe I'd get me a pair o' new boots in your fine town there," Chuggie said. "Where are you coming from?" Rorid took a step forward. "I came down from the northwest. Gettin' too damn cold up there. Figured it was time for a change o' climate. An' here we are. So whaddya say you boys â€"." "What's in that bag there?" Rorid stepped closer. Was this guy really up to something, or just a sad luck drunk? Priole circled out to the side, ready to fight at the drop of a hat. "You know, I'm glad you asked me that. Let me just spread this stuff out." Chuggie went about emptying the bag, smoothing it on the ground, and arranging the junk on top of it. "We got some fine merchandise here, boys! You see something you like, you say so. I'll give you a good price on everything you see. Young fella, you scamper up this tree an' get that chain loose, you can have your pick o' the lot." "Crazy drunk," Priole said to his captain. "Eh?" Chuggie turned. "Come on now, hey? You guys look like you have an eye for quality. You ever seen â€"." "Listen!" Rorid interrupted. "We don't want any of this shit. Pack it up. Start walking north. Give Stagwater a wide berth when you resume east. Then, when you're sure she's well behind you, go wherever you want." "Why don't I just go straight through town an' out the other side? Maybe leave a little commerce in my wake?" "Because we have all the drunken vagrants we need." Rorid pointed a frustrated finger at Chuggie. "Hmm. How 'bout if I pay you fellas off, eh? Take another look at the inventory." Chuggie flourished his arm over his merchandise. "We won't be bribed with garbage. If you approach our city, it'll be in chains." Rorid eyeballed the spread out junk, looking for weapons. He didn't see anything dangerous. It was all just sad. "Rightâ€Åš so why don't I just go south here? Seems quickest, right?" Chuggie wiggled his fingers in a walking gesture toward the south. Rorid pretended to cough into the compass hand again. "Northâ€Åš It's north for you." Chuggie cocked his head and squinted his eyes at Rorid. "To the south you've got cliffs and swamps and no way across the river. A man would have to be very sober to pass through that way. People who go down there end up breaking their legs or snapping their spines. Likely end up dying a lingering death in the muck." Rorid looked at the southern terrain as he spoke. His eye passed over the rolling hills separated by tamarack swamps, and he envied the simplicity of the forest. Life would be a whole lot easier living in a cabin in the woods. Chuggie's eyes followed Rorid's gaze, until a crow landed in a tree and the old drunk got distracted. "North, on the other hand, is flat. There's the old trade road up there." Rorid squatted in front of Chuggie and drew a crude map in the dirt. "Stagwater is here, the trade road is up here, the river goes like this, and the old bridge is here. A man can cross it fine, as long as he's traveling like you without a team of goats or a wagon." He snapped his fingers at the drunk to regain his attention. "If you keep going north, you can't miss the old road. There's game up there. Plenty of wild potatoes, turnips, berries. The north route gets you across the river by mid-morning tomorrow. The south route, you'd be lucky to see the river by tomorrow night, and you still wouldn't have a place to cross." "Why not let me just pass through town in peace, here?" Chuggie asked. Rorid stood and gave his back a twisting stretch. "Honestly? Because you've been acting strange on this hill all day. We've seen you. You seem like you're up to something." "That's right, I'm up to getting this fuggin' chain unstuck from this fuggin' tree." "We're being damn kind telling you about the bridge to the north. We could have sent you south to fall off a cliff or drown in the swamps. This is as friendly as we're willing to be." He pointed to the forest. "Your other choice is to go back the way you came." Chuggie thought it over for a moment. "Sure, you gotta do what you think is best. Me, I can't go back the way I came. Gotta keep headin' south and east. Guess I'll take that road north o' here and get on that bridge. If I can ever get my chain down from that tree there." The drunk yanked on the chain good and hard. Overhead a branch cracked. Some twigs fell from the tree and landed on him.  "Well, think about leaving it behind. Come morning, it won't be our smiling faces riding out to collect you. It'll be Steel Jacks, and they aren't as friendly as us." Rorid let his words sink in for a moment. Feeling a twinge of guilt, Rorid pulled a flask from his boot. He tossed it to the drunk, then led the younger guardsman back to their goats. "Good riddance," Priole said. Rorid paused before mounting up and glanced back over his shoulder. In all likelihood, he had just sent the stranger to die. The right and wrong of it tugged at his conscience. In the end, orders were orders. Liking them or not made no difference.  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie sat under the tree thinking about the exchange. He wasn't welcome anywhere. Shouldn't be, he supposed, given what he was. He stretched out on his back beneath the anchor and found that he couldn't keep his eyes open. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep. If he did, he might sleep away the whole night, exhausted as he was from constant walking. He was apt to be woken in the morning by Steel Jacks, which could mean a number of things. None good. The big metal bastards always took a particular interest in Chuggie. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he felt compelled to walk north. To keep walking north. North was the only direction for Chuggie. If he could get his eyes open and get to his feet, he'd go so far north the only direction left would be south. He dozed. As the breeze picked up, the limbs of the tree moved above him. The chain slowly worked its way out of the branches until â€". THWAP! The anchor bashed into Chuggie's stomach like a kick from a mule. He balled up, moaning. Some minutes later he pieced together what had happened, wound the chain around his torso, and got ready to leave. The anchor blow, on top of his brief meeting with Stagwater's guardsmen, had him feeling surly and sour. He thought again about skirting the city to the north. He certainly still wanted to, but he couldn't remember why. He'd had that logy feeling one got from a bewitching, but the blow from the anchor cleared it right out of his head. Such silliness. He'd leave all right, but not to the north. The guardsman hadn't thought he could pass to the south, even though the terrain looked identical in both directions. And to hell with a bridge. He could swim just fine. South he'd go, if for no other reason than spite. Still, he knew they were watching him. If authorities saw him going south, problems could arise. Chuggie sat back down under the tree to smoke and brood until nightfall. Darkness would be along soon enough. Chapter 2  Kale pushed through the door of the Stagwater Children's Home. The old library had been converted years ago to handle the ever-growing number of orphans in Stagwater. Kale made straight for the office of Headmaster Banden. Thankfully, the halls were silent and the lights dim. Sleeping orphans were far more tolerable. Children didn't do all that horrible sniveling when they were asleep. Without knocking, Kale barged into Banden's office. Banden sprung to his feet and greeted his guest. "Ah, Mr. Kale! So good to see you." "I'm sure," Kale said. "You have another 'package' for me?" "Yes, yes," Banden replied. "Let's walk. The other children have been put to bed, but this one is undoubtedly up and moving around." "He's a troublemaker?" Kale asked. "A bit of one," Banden said. The headmaster and Kale walked down the hall, and descended the stairs to the basement bedchamber. Walking behind Banden, Kale imagined slipping his hands around the man's neck and shaking him until he was a lump on the floor. He hated being led anywhere. Kale looked through the one-way glass. Beds ran along the walls, leaving an aisle down the center. Moonlight shone down from small windows near the ceiling. As Banden had warned, all the children were in bed but one. "There he is," Banden said, pointing. The little boy stared up at the glass as if he could see the men on the other side. One small hand touched his mask. The undersized runt would work perfectly. "Why is he out of bed?" Kale narrowed his eyes as he looked at the orphan. A child with no respect for authority deserved to be punished.  "He's defiant. The sooner you take him the better." "Looks like you could use some improvement in your disciplinary methods." Kale scowled. "He's trying to take his mask off." "He won't get it off this time." Banden met Kale's gaze briefly. "Is he a true orphan? Or are his parents locked up?" "That kid is a Carnie. Authorities arrested his mother when the carnival first arrived. She was one of the first to get locked up. Nobody knows who his father is." "How old is he?" "Must be around seven."  "Does he remember his mother?" "Not so far as I can tell." Banden shook his head. "She's long gone anyway, if she was one of the first." Kale stroked his chin as he studied the little boy. "At least we've found a use for the littleâ€Åšorphan." He didn't consider children to be real people. Tiny monsters, perhaps, but not people. Those without discipline needed fixing or discarding. "We're all grateful for that, for the tortugy, I mean. Those orphans should be thankful that they can do their part." Banden pulled an imaginary mask over his face. "Capturing suffering in a bottle is tricky business. Using it for conjury is even trickier," Kale said, nodding. "Children's suffering is by far the most potent. They should be proud that they can contribute." Of course, the wretched creatures didn't care about higher service. Just one more flaw in their miserable characters. "For the good of Stagwater," Banden agreed. "Credit where it's due. You're a genius at creating those torturgy masks," Kale admitted. "Permanently shifting the bone structureâ€Åš" "Many find their appearance so repulsive they will wear the mask for the rest of their lives," Banden grinned, the pride showing on his face. The headmaster slid open a slot in the door and shouted, "Olin Stone! Get yourself in bed, and you stay there! If I see you up again, everyone gets punished." He slammed the slot closed. The boy leapt into a bed shared with two other children. "When do you want to take him?" Banden asked. "I'll be glad to be rid of that one."  "Soon. I still have to make preparations." Kale peered into the bedchamber at the child huddled on the bed. Those stinking brats deserved everything they got. If he had his way, all children of Stagwater would be wearing torturgy masks, not just the orphans. Soon.  ⊠⊠⊠ When finally, the sun fell down over the horizon and darkness flooded the little hilltop, Chuggie hoisted up his gear and started south. He spat in the direction of Stagwater as he descended the slope of the hill. Above, he counted three moons. Some nights there were none. Some nights he'd seen the sky nearly filled with them, but that was long ago. Scholars, philosophers, and wizards had long debated the Mystery of the Moons. As hard as they tried, no one ever did make sense of them. They never found a pattern, or agreed on a theory. Not conjury, nor science, nor a combination of the two could solve the riddle. Chuggie, unconcerned with omens, didn't bother to puzzle over the meaning of the three moons tonight. They illuminated the clouds, and he was glad to have what light they could offer. His tote bag, slung over his shoulder, snagged constantly on briars and brambles as he stomped through the forest. His boots, falling apart as they were, helped him trip on every unseen root, rock, and hole. Small branches lashed his face and knuckles. The bare trees all resembled monster faces and demon hands. As the wind wailed through their limbs, they bit and clawed at the clouds, also shaped like monster faces. After passing a few hours in this fashion, Chuggie found himself trudging knee deep in stinking swamp water. "For the love o' piss," he grumbled. He put his hand over his boat anchor and spoke to her. "You know, lady, when nothin' goes right an' you're lost in the woods, you can always trust in one thing: people are bastards, and things can always get worse. Hmm, that's two things." He paused to catch his breath, leaning up against a twisted old tree. He'd stirred up some kind of vapor, and it rose from the swamp like lazy green smoke. Eventually, he trudged on into the mire. He tried to keep his possessions dry, but failed consistently. A single nightbird perched on a branch and tilted its head as if listening. "Who said you could poke me in the eye, you goat sniffin' frog fugger?" Chuggie asked a branch. The trees paid no mind. "Slime tits!" Chuggie barked as he sunk knee deep in muck. The monster-faced clouds changed into horrible new hellbeasts and then changed some more. Chuggie sloshed back onto dry land. A steep hill rose before him. He scrambled through briars and brambles as he climbed. Beyond the thorns, the hill turned skyward and became a sheer cliff. "Stupid fuggin' idea right here," he said. Looking up, he lost his balance, and steadied himself by grabbing a branch. He unwound his chain and used his anchor as a grappling hook. Each time he heaved it overhead, he crouched, protecting his head and neck. Sometimes it landed harmlessly nearby. Other times it bashed into his shoulder or back. When it eventually caught hold of a tree, he climbed the chain. The tree he snagged grew from what had once been a road cut into the side of the cliff. Chuggie welcomed the flat, dry ground, even though weeds had overgrown it. As he lay there taking a moment's rest, he looked north. He couldn't see Stagwater itself, but the city's lights gave an orange glow to the clouds above it. The cliff road led away from the town. Chuggie was glad of it. The swamp gases joined the clouds above, painting them bright, poisonous green. The swamp itself was a black void to his left. Not wanting to fall back down the cliff, Chuggie fashioned himself a walking stick from a sapling. He followed the road until he noticed something shiny just in front of him. He paused to study it, cocking his head left and right. A small silver bell hovered in the air. As he leaned forward, it rose. He leaned back, and it descended. Forward, up, back, down. It only took a few minutes of this for Chuggie to realize the bell was on a string. When he looked around, he noticed other glinting bells hovering in the black. "Now why would somebody string bells across the trail?" he asked himself. "Why would I string bells across a trail?" For an instant, his eyes were more alert than intoxicated. "A warning system." Looking behind him, Chuggie saw he was deep into the web of strings and bells. Dumb luck had gotten him this far, but he doubted it would get him back the way he came. He looked back and forth. More than half of the bells were behind him. His best bet was to keep moving forward. The wind picked up, and all the bells tinkled. He pushed through while the pushing was good. Moonlit clouds like lumpy lanterns illuminated his surroundings. The road opened up into a clearing â€" no, a yard. Near the cliff's edge, a small, rickety house stood silhouetted against the green clouds. Green-gray smoke, more green than gray, oozed out of the bent chimney. A glowing yellowish, nope, greenish light shone at the edges of the door and through cracks in the wall. So much green. Chuggie decided to give the house a wide berth. A haphazard fence ran along his right side. It looked like it was built from salvaged lumber and sticks. What kind of weather it could keep out, he didn't know. He kept a hand on the fence and an eye on the door as he made his way. A creature growled inside the little house. The low, angry sound made Chuggie's neck hairs stand up. Something hard and bony grabbed Chuggie's right shoulder. Thinking another tree had snagged him, he turned with his mouth all set to curse at it. Instead, he found himself face to face with a grinning scarecrow. It clutched at him, but Chuggie slipped away. He stumbled on a pumpkin vine and toppled backwards. The scarecrow grabbed his chain. The door to the shack flew open. A growl rumbled through the air. Silhouetted in the green light, something fiendish, ferocious, and wild stomped toward him. Chuggie heaved at his chain. The scarecrow gave some ground, but it didn't let go. As Chuggie fought to get away, he saw an army of scarecrows, rocking in the wind as they crept closer and closer. As he struggled to get away, the wind howled like it was part of the fight. Or was that the creature from the house? He couldn't be sure. In his state, it was all a loud, dark blur, spinning around under three poison-green moons. As hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to get to his feet. The snarling, shadowy, monster was almost upon him. The thing crouched just beyond arm's reach, huffing with fury, but it didn't pounce. "Who?" it growled. Before Chuggie could answer, wooden hands covered in straw grabbed him. He tried to break free, but their grip was too tight. The scarecrow hands lifted him up and forced him to look at the crouching figure. "I saidâ€Åš who?" it shrieked. He heard madness in its voice. "Ahâ€Åš no harm, no harm. I'm jus' lost an' tired. Name's Chuggie, an' I'm only tryin' to pass on through." He groaned as the scarecrows wrenched his shoulders. If someone had worse luck than Chuggie, he wanted to meet them. Wait, no he didn't. "You're from that town!" wailed the shadow. "Carrying that bag just like aâ€Åš aâ€Åš thief! City thief!" It shrieked its fury into the gusting wind. "No! They turned me away. That's how I come to be here." The shadow leaned closer to him, and Chuggie could make out the features of a very old woman. "You lying to me? You lying to old Shola?" She tilted her head to the side. "Ain't you that boy that's so thirsty?" Chuggie blinked and blinked again. "How do you know that?" he managed to ask. Whatever this creature was, it knew he was thirsty. The idea made his head swim. He wanted to be far away. Instead, the scarecrows gripped him tighter and tighter like they were never gonna let go. Her bony shoulders bounced with her dry, wooden chuckle. She shuffled over to him and got her face right close to his. At a nod of her head, the scarecrows released Chuggie. She stepped back and held out a bony hand, but he doubted very much she could help him get up. "Come." She turned and made her painstaking way toward the house. He climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. Chuggie got himself a closer look at the wooden men all around him. Their expressions wavered between dead and insane in the green moonlight. As Chuggie glanced at the ancient woman, his hand went instinctively to his anchor. He trusted none of them.  ⊠⊠⊠ "Failedâ€Åš" Haste mumbled. "Help me sit up." "What did you see?" Kale asked. He enjoyed these late night sessions. Haste clearly didn't have the energy for them. Seeing the man run himself ragged and sputter out was almost as much fun as backhanding his cleaning lady. "The travelerâ€Åš the guardsmen failed. Help me to my desk." Haste breathed heavily. Sweat dribbled down his face and soaked his silk shirt as Kale guided him to his chair. The fat man scribbled frantically, filling page after page. He took care not to smudge the ink with his sweaty hands. "What's all that?" Kale leaned over to look. He doubted Haste's vision had turned up anything useful. "Wait." Haste covered his writing with his arm. He tucked his notes under his blotter out of Kale's view and took out a new sheet of paper. He wrote with heavy unsteady strokes then pushed the paper across his desk to Kale. Kale looked down at the page. The handwriting looked like a brain-damaged six-year-old scrawled it. Kale snatched up the paper and read with a perfunctory nod. He rose to leave. "I think it's time I saw the old man, my friend," Haste said. "Why is that?" Kale narrowed his eyes in disgust as he looked at the sweaty Chief Magistrate in his plush, expensive, chair. Lazy bastard. His lavish lifestyle made even his leadership sloppy. The man had no concept of discipline. And now, too fat and slug-like to find his own answers, he wanted the guidance of Arden Voss, his old mentor. Leave it to Haste to take the path of least resistance. Haste's voice wavered. "The things I seeâ€ÅšI get the impression that this is old trouble coming back around." Kale clenched his teeth. He saw the path forward â€" clearly â€" it didn't involve Haste. "I'll arrange it."  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie leaned into the doorway of the tiny house. Going inside seemed like a bad idea. The old woman had stacks and stacks of junk piled high, just waiting to be toppled. He didn't think it would take much to bring the whole place down. "Let's see, it's an old leather caseâ€Åš around here somewhere," said the old woman. She dug through the piles, not noticing that Chuggie was about to collapse in her doorway. "Yeah, maybe we jus' wait for daylight, an' I'll join the search. What, ah, did you say your name was?" Chuggie wobbled, nearly fell headlong into the house, then found his balance again. "My name is Shola. Ah, here it is!" she cackled. She shoved past him. "Sit." She pointed to a rickety chair next to a crude table. "I hope you won' be offended if I happen to forget your name again later. I'm bad with names andâ€Åš damn near falling over. My name's Chuggie," he said loud enough to make his voice heard over the wind. "So you said," she called back. "This wind just won't do." Shola cast a squinty glare at the sky. The air went still. Clouds dispersed, and the three moons shone down. Chuggie barely noticed, however. He struggled to keep his eyes open and was quite busy slapping himself on the cheek and rubbing his eyes. The case rattled as Shola set it on the table. A bright green light bathed her wrinkled face as she opened it, as if the case held a moon of its own. She pulled out a stick of glowing chalk. With it, she diagrammed the moons upon the table. She drew X's for stars and connected everything with an intricate web of lines. She hummed with her hoarse croaking voice as she drew. "That's some fancy chalk," Chuggie said. "If you know where I can get some for myself, I bet I'd get a good price outta that." "Put your hands out," she said. Chuggie stuck his hands out in her direction. "No, palms up, together. Like this." When she had his hands where she wanted them, she emptied a pouch of bones onto his palms. With hands full of green-tinted bones, Chuggie asked, "You a witch, Shola?" If this turned out anything like the last time someone did this to him, Chuggie would wake up in the morning buried up to his neck. She paused and looked at him. He could see her smiling in the moonlight, but he couldn't tell if it was out of amusement or madness. "Sure, I am a witch." She hooted unpleasant laughter. "You may drop the bones." When he did, they fell quite randomly onto her glowing pictograph. Some touched moons, some touched nothing and some fell off the table onto the ground. "My, my," she said. "How interesting." She turned her face up to the night sky, then back to the bones, then up to the sky, and so forth. Green moonlight glinted in her eyes, and an eerie grin touched her lips. On the table, the chalk glowed brighter then dimmed, pulsating as if in time to some phantom heartbeat. "You've been expecting me," he said. Still facing skyward, Shola answered, "Oh, a bit. My scarecrows might have mentioned something about you in passing."  "Scarecrows don't move on their own like that," Chuggie said. "How did they attack me?" Shola calculated his reading. She didn't look up as she spoke. "Oh, you mean that business in the garden?" She shrugged. "I thought you were from Stagwater. Monstrous people in Stagwater. They've been out here before, a long time ago. But then I saw you in the light, and I knew you weren't from there." She threw her head back and smiled a crazy smile, causing Chuggie to flinch. "How'd you know that?" he asked, certain there were bigger questions he should be asking. "They're all ugly," she said, matter-of-factly. "Uglier even than you!" "I'mâ€Åš I'mâ€Åš" Chuggie tried to finish his thought, but couldn't. He stood, walked five paces, and dropped to his knees. He truly felt he had something more to add, so he raised his arm, index finger point up. Then he dropped onto his face. Chapter 3  All night long, a cold layer of autumn's dew settled over Chuggie and soaked his clothes, making him shiver. As the sun rose, bringing a little warmth with it, his fitful dreams subsided, and he felt like he could at last get some sleep. His hostess was up and about, however. She directed a scarecrow in drawing a bucket of rusty water from the well near the garden. She hobbled alongside as the scarecrow placed the bucket next to Chuggie's head. Chuggie lay very still and peered out at Shola through eyes squinted almost shut. His foggy mind couldn't recall where he was, but he knew it couldn't possibly be time to meet the day. She cackled and poked him with a stick, tittering and tormenting him as a morning bird sang on a far off branch. When she finally jabbed him hard enough, he snatched the stick from her. He growled, broke the stick in two, then curled up and tried to go to back to sleep. "No use sleeping, traveler. It's morning, and you've work to do." Shola produced another stick and resumed jabbing Chuggie's ribs. "How 'bout you jus' kill me instead," came Chuggie's muffled voice. "A lil' fire'll do it, jus' make it quick." "We can see to that after you clean up my garden," she said. "There's a bucket of water next to you." Chuggie pushed up to his hands and knees. With great effort and concentration, he peeled his eyes all the way open. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was and how he'd gotten there. He looked at Shola for a long minute as some of the details returned to him. "You're some kinda witch, right?" he slurred. "My name is Shola," said the old woman. "And I came here when they ran me off from that town. That's right. You have you anything to drink out here, Shola?" "I told you, there's a bucket of water next to you." She pointed a bony finger. He lifted the bucket and drained it, dumping only a quarter of it down his chest. "Got anything stronger?" he asked, drying his mouth on his shirt. "Perhaps I do. I made breakfast." She led him back to the table near the cliff edge. The previous night's chalk scribblings had turned black. On top of the table sat a steaming skillet. Potatoes, turnips, mushrooms, and possibly even eggs, were all fried up in a steaming heap and smelling like a king's kitchen. She scooped a massive helping onto a plate for him and a smaller portion onto another for herself. After getting his first real look at her, the old woman's eyes struck him. Her left was bleach white, while her right was a creamy blue. They were both sunk deep in their sockets.  "What's the story with that town north o' here? Why would they push me along?" Chuggie shoveled up a forkful of breakfast into his mouth. "That place is suffering hard times. They're fools led by thugs. What did they say to you?" "Said I was suspicious, and I had to go. They told me to go around town to the north, but I came south." "The north?" Shola cocked her head. "Interesting. What did they say you'd find there?" "That's what I asked 'em. They told me it was easy walking up there with an old bridge to get across the river." Shola looked to the north with a calculating expression. "And you were going to go North like they said?" "I was at first, then I fell asleep. I woke up to this anchor falling outta the tree and smashing me in the stomach." He tapped the anchor. "I'll bet they bewitched you." "That's what I figure." He picked up a nearby stone and threw it over the cliff. "But their bewitching didn't last for long." Chuggie's anger over the attempted bewitching floated away in a sigh. He'd put the city behind him, and there it would stay. He got back to his meal. "So you know this town?" he asked with a mouthful of food.  "I do." "You go there much?" "I never go there." She laid her fork down, apparently no longer interested in her breakfast. "I'm stuck right here. I never leave this place." Her mouth curled into a vicious sneer, making her face look like a shriveled jack-o-lantern.  "Soâ€Åš How long you been here?" He shifted in his seat. Her mad expression gave him a chill. "Thirty years? Seventy? My old mind can't keep track anymore. Many long, lonely years up here on this cliff." Her sneer turned into a weak smile. "Why don't you go? Why not get yourself to some civilization?" "I'mâ€Åš I can't." Shola rubbed her index finger against the blackened chalk on the table. "Seventy years, though. Alone?" Chuggie asked. He sympathized with her lonely plight. Isolation could do strange things – could play cruel tricks on the mind. "I have my scarecrows. They keep me company and take care of me." He couldn't tell if he saw sadness, madness, or both in her eyes. But as they spoke, her features had softened. She no longer looked like such a skeleton in rags. Color returned to her skin, and her wrinkles didn't cut so deep. "Why is it you can't leave this place?" he asked mid-chew. "I was banished, exiled. Here I'm bound." She finished in a whisper, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Great, all he needed was a crying woman on his hands. "Let's hear it," said Chuggie. "What's the story?" "You tell me your story first. What brought you here, my thirsty friend?" Chuggie shoveled the last of the food on his plate into his mouth. He thought as he chewed. "Well, I'm not a regular fella." "No," she said. "You're thrice-cursed and old as the world. That much I learned last night. So what are you, traveler?" "Could say I'm Drought. Y'see, back when the world was made, me an' my sisters an' my brother got the job of destruction. That's the truth of it, if you believe that kind of thing. You got Fire, Flood, Disease, and Drought. Once we were all one, but somehow we split apart. Could be wrong, who knows. We're talking about a long damn time ago." Chuggie fished the tobacco pouch from his satchel, and rolled a smoke as he continued. "Most recently, I was far north. Not sure how long I was there. Like you, I guess. Coulda been a century, could have been a couple of years. Memory gets a little fogged up about that." He lit his cigarette. "Had myself hid in a little cave, y'see. You gotta understand, I get ran out of every place I go. Thought I'd get myself nice an' remote, stay out of trouble. Can't be layin' waste to regions or anything like that. Not anymore." "But you left your cave," she said. "Well, it gets to be cold up north. Freezing and thinking about bad history, that's double misery. So, I was starting to think about moving along when I got found by some ice hunters. They seemed to think I'd make a good slave. They're sorry now, but once trouble finds me, it'll find me again." He puffed smoke rings. "Figured I'd go someplace warm and suffer in comfort. Been making my way southeast over the last couple months. Trying to get out of the north before winter." "What happened to them? What happened to the ice hunters?" Shola leaned closer. "Well, let's just say they're still up there in the tundra. And let's say that their huntin' and slavin' days are over." Chuggie snorted smoke out his nose. "Let's also say they're dried up mummies stacked upside down in a fairly disrespectful manner. And let's say, lastly, it was probably a little over the line how I dealt with 'em." Shola's eyes narrowed, and she gave Chuggie a lop-sided smile. "You regret how you treated them," she said. "I guess I do. When I give in to the Big Thirst, I tend to lose control. I suck up all the water, y'see." Chuggie hung his head. He hated that part of himself, and he'd never be rid of it. "The Big Thirst. Is that why you drink so much?" "It gnaws at my mind constantly. I've found being good'n drunk helps keep it a little quieter. One night, I got fairly tore back and got it into my head to make it permanent." Chuggie shrugged. "You put a curse of permanence on yourself?" Shola hooted. "Thrice cursed," Shola mused. "By your creator, by men, and by yourself."  "I admit, it was a bold move," he smiled. "But I'm a bold man."  ⊠⊠⊠  "Hello, hello!" gushed Dr. Leightfast, the stocky toady who ran River House. "Mr. Haste, Mr. Fitch, Mr. Kale! What a rare pleasure it is to host you gentlemen."  "Fine, fine. Why don't you make yourself useful and see that your residents are in their rooms. We don't need the riff-raff mobbing us. We're here to see Arden Voss, and we'd like to keep it brief." Haste straightened his waistcoat, pretending to brush fuzz off its brocade front. "I see, sir. Please wait here. I'll go see if Arden is available." Leightfast waddled off, dabbing his brow. "This place smells like piss and death," Kale said. "I don't know what you expect to learn from that old man. His mind is gone." Haste screwed his face up as if he'd taken a bite of shit. "He taught me much over the years, and you've benefited as a result. Remember that." "The Arden Voss of yesterday isn't the Arden Voss of today. The man in that room is old, mean, and confused." Kale stood stiff as a soldier. "Nothing he can say is going to be any use to us." Kale could feel the minutes ticking away. Such futile wastes of time were the very essence of Haste's leadership style. But not for long, he told himself. Fitch put his hand on his gold senfen. "He might not be clear headed all the time, but when his mind is sharp there are few sharper. His memory is clear when it comes to his glory days. If we need information about something from the past, he's the one to help us." Fitch bowed when he finished speaking. He always gestured like that to make people think he was a humble, spiritual, man. Kale wasn't falling for that crap. Fitch loved to play at humility, but his fancy robe, with its detail and flourishes, would make any dance-hall girl jealous. The garment likely cost more than a dozen Steel Jack shockspears. The fool spent more money than his church was actually worth trying to look like a saint. Leightfast, whose wheezing entered the room before his body did, returned to the waiting area. "Mr. Voss will see you. He was sleeping, so I'm afraid he is still dressed in bedclothes. Right this way, gentlemen." The doctor stepped out into the hall. Beautiful paintings of still-lifes and landscapes hung in elaborate frames. Beneath them, bouquets erupted from vases atop stately pedestals. The flowers did their best, but couldn't mask the odor of waste. Drooling idiots peeked their heads out to look as Haste, Fitch, and Kale walked down the hall. Kale tucked in his elbows to stay clear of them. Leightfast stopped abruptly in front of door with a plaque engraved with A.V. "Please don't agitate Mr. Voss. He is having a difficult week." "Of course, of course. And we'll meet with him alone." Haste waved Leightfast away. "I'm afraid the rules â€"." "Arden Voss is the former Chief Magistrate of Stagwater, as well as my mentor. We need to speak with him in private." Haste turned before Leightfast could argue. Haste squeezed through the door, followed by Fitch who crowded in behind him. Apparently, the cretins couldn't wait to hear Voss's doddering rants. Barely visible in the dimly lit room, the old man lay on the bed. A thick blanket came up to his armpits, and his skeletal hands folded across his chest. Liver spots covered his head, bald but for wispy streamers of white hair. Haste crossed to the window and flung open the curtains. "Ah, the morning sun." Arden Voss threw his bony arms over his face to block the light. He moaned as if sunlight caused him actual pain. Kale smiled. "What do you want?" Arden Voss's voice rattled in his throat. He coughed in a fit, ejecting a wad of phlegm onto his blanket. "I wanted to pick your brain about something," said Haste. "Oh," said Voss. He hacked more phlegm onto his chin. "Arden, a traveler came to Stagwater. We steered him north, but he went south. My walk on the Pheonal Path showed me he brings trouble." Haste made a choking motion with his hands. "You have the face of a fish, and the brain of a rat!" Voss croaked. His unfocussed eyes wandered around the room. "This is useless." Kale went to the window and looked out, turning his back on the interview. "Everyone's thrilled that you're able to form an opinion, now pipe down." Haste snapped. Kale squeezed his eyes and fists tight. Not much longer. Haste turned his attention back to the old man. "Arden, remember years ago? Remember when you used to travel the Pheonal Path?" "Eh? Of course I do. You damned fish-rat." Voss's eyes rolled like peeled grapes until they landed on Haste. "Long ago, was there a vision about an interloper with five horns?" The bedsprings groaned as Haste lowered his lumpy butt onto the bed. "You blundering ass. I'm rotting in this shit-hole." Voss succumbed to a fit of hacking and wheezing. In his fit, he coughed a gob onto Haste's sleeve. Fitch scurried over and dabbed at Haste's jacket with his handkerchief. Haste brushed him away. "River House is a very nice place. You are lucky to spend your old age in such luxury. Be thankful the citizens of Stagwater take such good care of you." Haste patted the old man's arm. "Eh? Get to the meat of it, and don't waste my valuable time. I've got lying in bed to do, and later I plan to forget who I am for a few hours. Why would I help you with anything?" Voss strained to sit up a little straighter. A sparkle of mischief shone in the old man's eyes. "I saw five horned traveler carrying a chain. He brings destruction. The phrase 'not many live' echoed in my mind even after the trance subsided. The same day, a man wearing five horns and a chain appeared outside of Stagwater." Haste wiped the phlegm from his sleeve with a look of disgust. Fitch chimed in, "Yes, and he should have gone north, but he chose south. The concern is he'll return." Kale sighed at Fitch's attempt to seem useful. Voss's gaze turned to the bottom shelf of his bookcase. "You're very right to be concerned. Coming to me was the smartest thing you've done in your entire life. Don't think I'm a stranger to the Pheonal path. I may be old and I may lack your Steel Jack gadgets, but I march the Pheonal path day in and out in my old age! I see â€"." "You see what I've described?" Haste interrupted. How convenient! Kale faced the others. Fitch stroked his senfen rapidly as Haste leaned closer to the old man. "Yes, damn you. On the bottom shelf of that bookcase. Those three white volumes are filled with notes, predictions and such. That vision concerns an exiled witch." "A witch, you say?" Fitch squeezed the senfen tight in his hand. Kale knew the reason for Fitch's sudden excitement. Who didn't like a good witch-burning? Everything in good time. "What's the witch's name?" Kale marched to the bookcase and slid a thick volume off the shelf. He opened it briefly, glanced at the pages, then slammed it shut. He shoved the book into Fitch's arms and pulled the other two from the shelf. Haste's blubbery lips curled up into a slippery smile as he watched Kale take the book. If the pudgy dolt thought he didn't have to carry one of the heavy books, Kale would correct him quickly.  Voss erupted in a fit of coughing. His fragile frame flopped on the bed like a puppet possessed. "Shola," he managed to spit out.  "I'll pray for you," said Fitch, one hand on his gold pendant, the other on Voss's bony shoulder. "Choke on shit," coughed the old man. Finally, Kale had found some common ground with the old man.  ⊠⊠⊠ Guard Captain Rorid didn't like being called away from his duties. He especially didn't like being called to the Stagwater Municipal Building. The less direct control the magistrates exercised over the guardsmen the better, in his opinion. His commanding officer had ordered him to bring Guardsman Priole, so this debriefing must have something to do with the drifter from the day before. They'd followed orders. He had nothing new to report. Bureaucrats just loved useless meetings. Rorid sat with Priole in the windowless conference room on the main floor. Sitting in the cushy office chairs should have been more relaxing. "We should just leave," Priole said. "I'm telling you right now this is going to be a waste of time for everyone." He flexed his hands, making his knuckles crack over and over. "If we leave, we'll be unemployed. Guardsmen serve the magistrates. They ask to meet us, we meet them." "Waste of time, sir," Priole repeated. He wrenched his neck side to side, cracking it even louder than his knuckles. "Keep it down," Rorid said, "Magistrates can use Steel Jack listening devices. I've seen it done. And I've seen torturgy used to remedy insubordination more than once. Keep your mouth shut in here, dammit! And remember who your superior officer is." Priole might have been the strongest, fastest guardsman Stagwater had ever employed, but the kid wouldn't get far 'til he learned his place. Rorid hoped he could enlighten the young man, but Priole ignored sound advice. He acted like he had nothing more to learn. The problem couldn't persist. Priole resumed cracking his knuckles, since there wasn't anything else to do while they waited. What the kid needed was a good man to man. Maybe he never got that from his father. Rorid gathered up some of his own father's wisdom and opened his mouth to speak it, but the door opened before he could. Kale stepped through the door, dressed in pressed pants and a jacket with unearned guardsmen insignia. The man walked tall and had a commanding swagger like a veteran, but in Rorid's opinion, Kale was no hero. The closest he ever got to service was when the Woodsmen denied his admittance. As a magistrate, however, he could make life miserable for a guardsman. Fitch followed him into the room. He was a head shorter than Kale and nowhere near as broad. He clutched the gleaming gold pendant hanging around his neck like someone was going to steal the damned sacred artifact. Rorid had no interest in Fitch's spiritual leanings. He never took advice on gods, death, or the afterlife from rich men. Rorid sprang to his feet in salute. Priole did the same, a relief to the older guardsman. The salute wasn't strictly necessary, but it couldn't hurt, especially where Kale and his crazy military aspirations were concerned. "Sit," Kale said, digging inside the exotic slug-plated satchel hanging at his hip. The slime of a vanishing slug, when scraped from the creature's back, dried to become nearly indestructible. The cattle-sized slugs had the ability to vanish from one place and reappear in another in an instant, making their slime nearly impossible to harvest. That Kale possessed a slug-plated satchel, was a testament to the man's wealth, as well as his priorities. From the satchel, Kale produced some papers familiar to Rorid. In fact, he'd signed the bottom of the last page. Fitch stood to the side smiling, as if he were waiting for Kale to finish so he could evangelize the guardsmen. "Your report," Kale ran his finger down the page. "Norchug Mot Losiat, alias 'Chuggie.'" Kale looked from the papers to Rorid and then to Priole. "What did you find when you searched him?" Rorid glanced at Priole. How he hoped the kid would keep his trap shut. "We didn't have to search him, sir. He emptied his duffle bag and spread the contents for us to see. He had all manner of useless junk, and he wanted to sell it to us. It's all in the report." Rorid nodded toward the paper in Kale's hand. "This report is incomplete, soldier," Kale stabbed at the paper with his index finger. "That's right," Fitch agreed with an overenthusiastic bob of his head. "Incomplete." "The last line of this report should say you observed him travelling north." Kale turned his leer on Priole and leaned toward him. "Why doesn't it?" "Um, I don't know, sir. Is that why we're here?" Priole looked grim. "This is not good, gentlemen," Kale's chair screeched as he slid it out from the table. He stood up. "Your orders were to bewitch him and send him north!" Rorid stared straight ahead at the ill-gotten insignia on the man's chest. The damned magistrates could take a turn as guards if they thought it was so easy. "I'm not a conjurist. I bewitched him. I don't know why he didn't go, sir. I did my best." "Best!" Kale scoffed. "You'd best watch your tone." "Sir, he was just a drunken junk man, without weapons. He didn't pose a threat." Rorid held his tongue, hoping Priole could do the same. "We determine who's a threat and what constitutes a weapon. Just because you don't see something doesn't mean it isn't there, guardsman." Fitch stood next to Kale, looking a bit feminine by comparison. His voice rose and fell as if delivering a sermon. "You are Stagwater's armor. If orders aren't followed, the armor falls to pieces." "I don't know why you didn't just have us arrest him if it's such a big deal." Priole blurted out. "We could have done that, no problemâ€Åš Sir." Kale pounded his fist on the table. Rorid knew trouble was on its way. He glanced at Priole. His head hung down, and his face was red. "My son," Fitch's lip twitched as he spoke, "If you'd accomplished your mission, this mischief would be resolved. As it is, the man is still at large, still threatening Stagwater. Your incompetence has put us all in great danger." Danger? If the threat was so great, the drunk should have been arrested, not sent north. Rorid understood: he and Priole were scapegoats for the magistrates' blunder. "On your feet!" Kale barked out the words like an order. "We're taking a walk."  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie tromped around Shola's yard carrying firewood and stacking it next to the house. He pulled turnips and dug potatoes in her garden, placing them in her rickety storage shed. He felt a wave of embarrassment every time he looked at the area he'd trampled the night before. And something else itched at his mind. Shola sat weaving wicker at the table by the cliff. Each time he passed her, she looked a little bit younger. At first, he'd convinced himself that his mind was playing tricks on him. But on his first pass, she'd looked like a skeleton wrapped in cobwebs. At breakfast, she looked old, sure, but not more than seventy. As the morning progressed, though, her face and bosom filled out noticeably. Her dirty-white hair darkened. Her shoulders lifted, her neck straightened. With an armload of wood, Chuggie stopped in front of her. Humming and rocking in her chair, Shola looked no older than fifty years old. Her eyes were no longer milky and dull. The left had gone bright white and her right a brilliant, deep blue. Baffled, Chuggie dropped the wood directly onto his feet. "AACH!" He hopped around, hissing and swearing, then took a block of wood in each hand and flung them over the cliff.  "My, my," Shola said. "If you're tired you should rest." Chuggie limped to his seat at the table. He stared at her, blinking. "Are you getting younger, Shola?" "Are you taunting me now?" Shola frowned. "Take a gander in a mirror and see what I mean." She narrowed her eyes and got slowly to her feet. She hobbled off in the direction of her crooked little house. Her movements were still those of an ancient crone. A minute later, screams erupted from the house. Objects crashed about inside. Chuggie rushed to the house to make sure she hadn't injured herself. He stuck his head in the door. Shola poked at her face, pulled at her skin, and turned her hands over and over. "It'sâ€Åš It's you!" she said. She began to weep as she turned and ran to him with arms outstretched. She crashed into him, hugging him. The impact sent them both out of the house. He barely stayed on his feet. "Chuggie, you're doing this!" She cried tears of joy into his chest. All Chuggie could think to do was pat her gently on the back. "I don't understand," "Neither do I, but somehow you're making me young!" He looked down into her eyes, one as white as the brightest moon, the other as blue as the sea. She buried her face in his chest again, and he held her there for a good long while. Eventually, they sat. Her eyes raced about, and she seemed always on the brink of laughing or crying. Chuggie tried to imagine what went through her mind, but couldn't. Hoping to calm her, he told her a story. "Years ago, I knew a man who could talk to birds," Chuggie said. "He enjoyed it at first, being the sort that likes animals and all. He'd walk through the forest listening to them and talking back. 'How was your day?' 'Fine, I ate some seeds and shat on a statue.' 'Oh, that's lovely.'" Shola gazed into Chuggie's eyes like his story was the most interesting thing she had ever heard. "One day the fella found an eagle feather and stuck it into his hat, thinking if he wore it the birds would like him even more. The birds never trusted him after that, though he never understood why. I guess they thought he killed the eagle it belonged to." Chuggie stroked Shola's head. She was breathing normally again and seemed all calmed down. A story could do that to a person sometimes. "Late one night, as he slept in his bed, a murder of crows crept through his open window. The crows, with their razor sharp claws and beaks, set upon him and severed all his tendons before he could react. Laying there immobile, yet still very much aware and very able to feel, my friend tried to scream. One of the crows pecked out his vocal cords. Others clawed his tongue to useless ribbons." Shola's hand squeezed his arm. "After they plucked out his eyes, they built nests in the sockets â€" his mouth and ears too. They packed orifices and fresh wounds with twigs and dirt until his whole body was stuffed. He went at least three days like that, possibly more, with the crows building nests and shitting inside him. After that, he never spoke to birds again, and neither will I." Shola smiled a drowsy smile and kissed Chuggie on the cheek. A single raincloud drifted out of the east. The setting sun painted it pinkish brown. A gentle rain fell, and Chuggie turned his gaze upward. Ten million golden drops of water, illuminated by the setting sun, filled the sky. As they fell in their seemingly endless show, Chuggie felt like he was rushing up at the heavens. The exact opposite of vertigo, the sensation gave him a long, peaceful thrill. To speak during such a moment would have diminished it. Mere minutes later, the golden points of light lost their luster, and the raincloud moved on. When Chuggie shifted his attention back to Shola, he knew she'd seen it just the way he did. A sad smile touched her lips, and a lone tear sat on her upturned cheek. Things had turned interesting at the house on the cliff. Chuggie wanted, simultaneously, to stay and to go. With no pressing appointments, he supposed he could spare a day or two. Just to see how things played out. Rusty autumn leaves swirled on a wind stream, heading for parts unknown. Chapter 4  Rorid and Priole, with plodding footsteps like men condemned, followed Kale out of the interrogation room of the Magisterial Building. Fitch walked close behind muttering as if he were offering litanies for their souls. "Pay attention, men," Kale lectured as they walked down the stairs, "The Stagwater Corps of Guardsmen is soft. If we can't rely on you, then you serve no purpose." Their footsteps echoed down the stairwell as the group descended. Kale led them past sub-basement B-1. Kale clomped down the stairs at an urgent pace. Rorid wasn't in any rush to get where he suspected they might be going. His legs felt as heavy as lead. He willed Kale to stop at the door to sub-basement B-2, but the magistrate kept going. "After today, you two will be reliable." Kale rapped twice on the metal railing for punctuation. Rorid knew good leadership when he saw it, and he saw none in Kale's methods. A real leader didn't punish subordinates for his own shortfall. The group stopped. Rorid's heart sunk when he saw 'B-3' stenciled on the wall. Two jailors who looked like they could pull an oxcart with ease stood on either side of the barred metal door that opened into B-3. Rorid and Priole followed into the room. Fitch exchanged words with the jailors, too quiet for Rorid to make out. The overhead lights snapped on with a crack. Rorid shielded his eyes. The six infamous torturgy tables lay empty before them like unholy altars. Kale led them to a side gallery and held the door open. Relief swept over Rorid. He'd fully expected them to put him on a table. "Sit." Kale barked the word. The only seats in the room faced a broad window that looked out at the tables. Rorid lowered himself into a chair. Without a word, Kale left the room and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked.  Rorid and Priole exchanged worried glances, but neither spoke. Rorid's stomach turned at the idea of witnessing torturgy, no matter who it was being performed on. He tried to tell himself they only used on deserving criminals, but that didn't help. Some foul energy hung in the air. Priole's pale face said he felt it, too. Kale addressed them through a speaker box next to the door. "Let me assure you, no one is going to die here today. Remember what you see." Rorid and Priole watched through the window as, out in the main room, Kale and Fitch pulled white surgical suits over their clothes. Fitch raised his hand in some sort of signal. The burly, beast-like jailors escorted two naked and bound victims to adjacent tables. The victims wore black bags over their heads, but Rorid recognized the physique of the first. He was a teenage boy, slim and weak. Rorid knew the row of freckles on the boy's shoulder like he knew the boy's face. His son Drexel. Priole jumped out of his seat. "Ree!" he wailed and kicked the glass. "Take your fucking hands off her, you bastards!" Rorid could think of no way to calm Priole. He doubted he could get the young man to look in his direction, let alone follow an order to sit quietly. Priole had married his wife only a few months before, and his entire life revolved around her. Blind rage was a reasonable response under these circumstances. The speaker box clicked on again. This time Fitch spoke. "Sit! They can't hear you, but if you chip that glass, we'll be in here all day." "Drexel." Rorid whispered. Time slowed like a spent and wounded wargoat. His stomach churned as he slouched in the chair. He wanted to look away but couldn't allow himself to do it. He wasn't going to let Drexel suffer alone. Priole's lip quivered as he leaned his forehead against the glass. Kale, in his pristine white surgical garb, stood over the boy. He took a rough pinch of Drexel's skin and latched a toothy metal clamp onto it. He added another clamp then another, forming symmetrical lines down his chest and stomach, converging at his crotch. He then added clamps down the insides of the boy's wide-spread legs. The finishing touch was a line from nipple to armpit, heading down the underside of his arm. Fitch did the same for Priole's wife Ree. Where Kale was rough, however, Fitch was a gentle as lover. He cast frequent looks to the gallery window. His surgical mask covered his smile, but it was plain to see in his eyes. They added collector hoses to the clamps, then attached those to the machines. They turned dials, consulted tiny gauges, and pressed buttons. In unison, Kale and Fitch pulled large red levers, and torturgy commenced. Naked bodies bucked. Black hoods puffed up with the rapid breath of the tortured. Muscles pulled tight involuntarily under skin flushed red. Long moments passed. Finally, Kale and Fitch deactivated their equipment. They removed the clamps, leaving jagged bruises. The session had been brief and bloodless â€" five minutes, no more. That five minutes felt like an eternity. Kale and Fitch led their victims to the waiting physician. Drexel and Ree wore only their black hoods. The doctor began his examination, hiding his face behind a surgical mask like the coward he was. His gloved hands probed and squeezed every inch of Priole's shaking wife. He took a close look at each purple welt running down her body and under her arms. Her shoulders bounced with silent sobs. She tried to cover her breasts, but a stout jailor pulled her arms wide. When the physician finished with her, the jailor pulled her close, embracing her as he shot a cruel smile at the gallery window. Priole got to his feet and started kicking his chair. It had been bolted to the ground. He couldn't break it free, but he kept trying. "Going to kick that chair through the glass, eh?" Rorid's voice wavered as he spoke. "Do that and I'll bet she goes back on the table." He held out a hand to calm Priole. Then it was Drexel's turn. He tried to cover his nudity just as Ree had. The jailor held him roughly from behind and kicked the insides of his ankles. Drexel didn't spread his legs immediately, so the jailor kicked again, harder. The boy nearly fell, but the jailor held him fast. The doctor examined Rorid's son in the same probing fashion. When he finished the examination, he packed up his bag and hustled out of the room, never looking up once. The damned villain jailor lifted Drexel's arms up over his head and picked him up off the floor. With a cruel smile, he shook the boy back and forth a few times before setting him down. Rorid stood with his hands on the glass and tears streaming down his face. He turned away from his boy's humiliation and locked eyes with Priole. The younger guardsman had also been crying, but his bloodshot eyes held nothing but rage. Rorid felt his own fury rising. Without breaking eye contact, Priole snapped to a salute. Rorid returned the gesture and looked back to his son. Drexel's trembling reached a crescendo, and his bladder let go. The jailor slapped him on the side of his bag-covered head, nearly knocking him down. Kale and Fitch took custody of Drexel and Ree, then led them out of the room. "Sir." Priole's voice was low and angry. Rorid shook his head. He pointed to his ear and then to the wall. He opened his mouth and closed it tight in an exaggerated gesture. Priole nodded and clamped his mouth shut. His enraged, red face looked ready to burst. A key rattled in the door. One of the stinking jail-vultures pushed the door open. Fitch entered wearing the beatific smile of a saint. Oh, how Rorid yearned to send him to meet whatever hogshit god he claimed to worship. Kale followed close behind, and Rorid's hands curled into shaking fists. Some dark part of his mind hoped Priole would attack Kale. Then Rorid would have no choice but to go after Fitch. That entire struggle would be over in seconds. He pictured the bodies of the magistrates lying bloody and broken on the floor. Fantasy, of course. They'd never get away with such a thing. "It breaks my heart, that this had to happen today," said Kale, not bothering to feign sincerity. "Nobody made you do that." Priole growled. "You made me do that, guardsman!" snapped Kale. "I will not abide failure." Fitch chimed in, using his most sermon-like inflection. "Sacrifice for the greater good is the heart of Stagwater. Nothing comes easy. We share suffering as we share triumph!" "We'll remember your words," Rorid said through clenched teeth. "Yes you will," Kale said. "Dismissed. Say nothing of this."  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie wondered if Shola would ever tire. Over the course of the afternoon, her years seemed to melt away until she had the body of a thirty-year-old woman. With the return of her youthful strength and vitality, she could scarcely be convinced to sit still. Singing and dancing through the yard, she instructed her scarecrows to chase her. She sang as she skipped circles around them. They lumbered through the yard after her with stiff legs and lifeless faces. Hands of wood and straw clutched for her, but she just giggled and danced away from them. Shola's thick, black hair trailed behind her like a comet's tail as she ran. Her drab, tattered clothes fell open frequently, revealing her petite body a piece at a time. She seemed quite oblivious that so much skin was on display. Her laughter filled the yard. Chuggie tried not to ogle her, but he didn't try all that hard. While he enjoyed seeing her streak past him from time to time, clothes almost falling off, it caused him a twinge of guilt. She'd clearly forgotten how to act around other people in her long exile, and it was wrong for him to delight in that. He chose to busy himself by hiking into the woods. Autumn's fallen leaves rustled as he walked through them, covering Shola's commotion more and more the further he went. His mind fizzed and bubbled with conflicting notions. On the one hand, he knew he had to be moving on. Winter crawled closer every day, and he had far to travel before the snow got deep. On the other hand, Shola fascinated him. He knew he'd miss her company if he left. What if he spent the winter there with her on the cliff? It was a bad idea. If things didn't work out, he'd be trudging through hip-deep snow as he resumed his journey. Even worse, if things did work out, they risked discovery by scouts from the city. Either way, he'd have to live with her eerie scarecrows lurking around the corner every time he took a piss. Another possibility was to turn south and start walking. Right then and there. Unannounced departure was certainly the option he'd chosen most in his life. He turned south, thinking he'd just walk that way a little and see how it felt. For all he knew, Shola would grow old again if he left her. But how was that his fault? He was a simple observer to that phenomenon. He hadn't asked for any of this. He liked her, but he didn't owe her a thing. If he went south along the river, he'd find a bridge or a crossing eventually. It would mean abandoning his few possessions, but the only thing he really cared about was his anchor. He held her up in front of his face for a loving look. Fortunately, losing her wasn't a concern. If he left, he'd feel bad about not saying goodbye to Shola. But many were the farewells he'd never said. What was one more? Chuggie stood right up to the edge of a rocky cliff that looked down on a swampy valley to the south. He shook his head, smiling. "Suppose I could stick around another day or two, just be to help her prepare for winter. You wouldn't mind that would you, anchor? If you're gonna get jealous, I need to know now." It felt good to be needed, if only a little, and weeks of walking could wait. Besides, she'd become quite beautiful. Turning down the hospitality of a beautiful woman was probably bad luck. Not far away, a thrashing in the leaves snapped him out of his thoughts. He readied his anchor as he went to investigate. Nearing the site, Chuggie discovered a small silverhawk standing over a dead rabbit nearly twice its size. The hawk screeched at Chuggie and raised its wings to ward him off. "Well, stab my face with a pitchfork!" Chuggie chuckled. "Lil' partner, I believe you just caught my supper. Many thanks, mister hawkey." The silverhawk screeched once more, hopped towards Chuggie, then hopped back again. Chuggie tossed his anchor a few feet away from the angry bird, and it flapped its wings in an unhappy reply. "You know you can't eat all that anyway. Like I said, I appreciate the gift, andâ€Åš BLAH!" Chuggie shouted, waving his arms wide as he leapt toward the hawk. It flapped off, screeching its dismay. Chuggie examined the big hare. He found the whole scenario so amusing, he just had to share it with someone. He bet Shola would be interested to hear all about it. He started back. When he returned to the little clearing on the cliff, he found Shola grinning at him from her washtub. Her sly smirk dared him to look down at the pale-skinned body below the water. Chuggie hoisted the rabbit in the air. "You ain't gonna believe this. I'm walkin' alongâ€Åš"  "Can you do me a little favor?" Shola lifted her arm, as elegant as a swan, and pointed to the fire. "My water's getting cold." While she spoke, she looked right in Chuggie's eyes just like she knew the power she was wielding. That look she gave, the big eyes, caused him to put the rabbit story on hold as he grabbed the woven mat next to his feet. He took it to the fire, plucked out some hot stones, and dragged them back to her. "You want these rocks in your water?" "Take out the cold ones." She pulled her legs up to her body and wrapped her arms around them. Chuggie guessed he wouldn't mind those arms wrapped around him. Maybe even the legs too. He reached his hand into the water and started pulling out stones. With each stone he took from the water, there got to be more room in the tub. Certainly, Chuggie was due for a scrub, but he'd have to wait for an invitation. "I'll tell you about the rabbit later," he said, suddenly unable to recall his story. "Mind you, it's a story of cunning and guts. Man versus beast, deep in the wilderness. I'm sure of that much." She laughed and splashed water at him. Chuggie gave her a chuckle of his own and plopped the hot stones in her bath. "That ought to be as hot as you need it." "How do you know how hot I need it?" Shola said as she bit her lip and looked up at him through her lashes. Chuggie busied himself by picking up the rabbit and heading back over to the fire. He got to work and skinned the rabbit. He stuck a stick through it and lay it over the fire. As he tended the rabbit, Shola sang his name like a song and splashed water in his direction. He paid her as little attention as he could, but her singing and splashing drew his attention like a lighthouse with a foghorn draws a lost ship. He turned the rabbit slowly over the flame but kept one eye on the witch. "Chuggie!" Shola shouted. He groaned as he turned. The thought occurred to him that if he really wanted some peace, he ought to get her good and liquored up. A hangover could be a blessing, depending on who it belonged to. Then again, her attention took some bite out of the Autumnok chill. "Whatchoo want, naked girl?" he answered. "My water's getting cold, and the air is even colder. I haven't any robes. Bring me my cloak from the house?" Shola cocked her head from side to side. Even at this distance, he could tell she was giving him the big eyes. He looked at Shola, then the house, then the rabbit. Then the house, then Shola, then the rabbit again. "Nah, I think I'd rather watch you walk to the house andâ€Åš" Those words weren't supposed to be spoken out loud. "What's that you're saying?" she asked. "I said I'll go get it for you," he called back. Chuggie loped over to the doorway of the house, steadied himself there, and looked through the door. In the day's last light, he got a better look at Shola's rat nest of a home. Seemed like she made nearly everything out of woven wicker. Tiny reed sculptures hung from handmade string. Feathers big and small poked out of each sculpture. Bird claws, small animal skulls, and furs dangled from the ceiling. He could barely make out some kind of web up there, and he wanted nothing to do with it. Across the room, a lump of cloth that could only be Shola's cloak, hung from a rack of antlers. Chuggie lurched forward to retrieve it. His horns bumped into suspended things, so he ducked down low. They tangled the hanging strings, pulling them down, too. He grabbed the cloak. In his drunken clumsiness and hurry to get out, he toppled a few precariously stacked piles of what-have-you. The noise he made was only surpassed by the mess he'd created. He slammed the door shut behind him as if he'd just battled a hellbeast inside. He made no mention of his troubles when he delivered the cloak to Shola. She stood, turned her back to him, and extended her arms. He wished to drink in the sight of her awhile, but she shivered in the cool air. After an involuntary look up and down her backside, he wrapped her up. She stepped from the water and hustled toward the fire. Chuggie followed her and took his seat, giving the rabbit a quarter turn. Only her face, hands, and feet were free of the cloak, and he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. He looked at her feet instead, with bits of grass stuck to them from her walk across the yard. She flexed her toes slowly, and he was certain she knew where his eyes were. After warming herself a bit, Shola rose and went inside to dress. Chuggie wondered what she would think when she saw the condition of her home. Apologies sprung up in his mind like weeds, but none that were any good. Chuggie hoped the topic simply wouldn't come up. When she returned, she made no mention of the carnage he'd left inside. Shola wore a buckskin dress, wide at the bottom and tight at the top. Each step she took in the dress seemed like a seductive dance. He pretended to rub his forehead, shielding his eyes from hers, and allowing himself a moment's study of her cleavage. She carried a tray and a tall gourd. If Chuggie's hunch was correct, the gourd held some sort of liquor. He liked to think he could sense alcohol nearby, but he never told anyone about this. Shola hummed as she sat on the ground next to the fire. He didn't know the song, but when she got to the chorus, her humming sounded a lot like sex noises. The rabbit was done cooking, and Chuggie put it on the tray between them. Pouring him a glass from the gourd, Shola said, "This wine I made years ago from berries and flower petals. It's a bit strong for me, but you may like it." "I'll only have some if you do. Otherwise I have to suspect poison," he said, with a wink. Above them, lavender clouds danced in the deep purple sky. In the west, golden clouds curled about the setting sun. For miles around, autumn's red and gold-leafed trees sat in quiet approval. They ate together in relative silence. Chuggie did his best not to be grotesque, but the rabbit was so damn good he couldn't help but devour it. A cool breeze swam through, causing the fire to pop and smoke to blow in Chuggie's face. He closed his eyes and smiled as it washed over him. "I need to know a thing or two," Chuggie said at last. "And what, pray tell, would that be?" Shola took a tiny sip from her cup. "How'd you get to be a prisoner here?" He puffed at a cigarette, waiting for her to speak again. She spoke in a low tone, gazing at the flames. "If you must know, you must know. I don't imagine telling you would hurt much." The bubbly girlishness had vanished from her voice, like there was no good left in the world. "I was an orphan living in the streets of some city I can't even remember." Shola took a drink of her wine and grimaced. "Sometimes people tried to help me by taking me in, but I always ran away." Chuggie could certainly appreciate that. Occasionally, running off was exactly what the situation called for.  "I was drawn to conjury of every sort, and I learned what I could where I could. I had to do things I regretted for people I wished I never knew. I got by like this for a long time. But eventually, bad luck caught up to me when I got to Stagwater." She drained her cup, refilled it, and passed the gourd to Chuggie. "And that bad luck's name was Arden Voss. Do you know that name?" Chuggie shook his head. "He was Chief Magistrate, and he put me on his seer council." Shola looked off into the distance. "Go on, say it." "I got meat stuck to my face?" Chuggie asked. "Feels like there some meatâ€Åš sorry, go on." She smiled a little. "Everybody said I was a fraud, because you know, because of my relationship with Arden Voss. But I wasn't a fraud. I wasn't. Okay, maybe in the past I'd cheated a few people, but that didn't mean I couldn't see. Because I could. It was justâ€Åš my predictions took a long time to come trueâ€Åš a really long time."  Chuggie tried to imagine the plight of the orphaned street urchin swept into the lifestyle of a professional seer in a remote city of the cold north. He just couldn't imagine Shola anywhere but here on this hilltop. "Anyway, people started talking. The seer council said I served no purpose, and I had to go. If I didn't give them something of significance, I was to be outcast as a fraud. Voss took their side, as well." Her sad, angry beauty aroused him, but also made him leery. Would she break into laughter or sobs? A tired sigh or blind rage? Shola's voice rose, "I had to show them the most significant prediction I could muster. I fasted for five days and nights. I studied the moons, the stars, even the weather, dating back three full years. I made the appropriate sacrifices, and contacted the appropriate spirits." The sorrow in her voice mixed equally with anger. "I was more certain of that prediction than anything ever. They could have asked, 'Shola, what's more real, your body or your prophecy?' I would have said, 'My prophecy.' Everyone waited but none of the signs came to pass. The people of Stagwater want everything fast, but that's not how things work. Someday they'll suffer for their shortsightedness." She shot him a feral grin, like she was getting ready to eat him. Shola spat into the fire and took a drink. This time she didn't grimace. "Voss confined me to this spot, made it my prison. Here I've been, and here I'll be." Shola got quiet, staring thoughtfully at Chuggie's horns. He stoked the fire and resisted the urge to mention just how scenic he found her prison. "So I get the part how you were exiled, but that part about the prisonâ€Åš" He looked all around, trying to glimpse the unseen barrier. "How's that work?" "They've used their foul torturgy, derived from innocent suffering. There's a hex over me." "Could be it's dried up by now. Conjury can expire for all kinds of reasons. Creatures that grant those kinds of things, they're fickle. I knew a fella once, had a spell going to keep the bears away from his livestock. He burnt a little sage every night, to keep the spirits happy. His roof starts leaking one day, and all his matches get wet. He can't burn his sage, and that night he loses three cows, five goats, and a shoe." Chuggie gulped at his wine and helped himself to more. "I've often tested how far I can go, but it's always the same. People with hateful hearts made my prison with great care." "Let's walk." Chuggie stood and held out a hand to Shola. "Show me your borders." She took his hand and led him south along the cliff for a hundred paces or so. "That stone marks the line," she pointed. "I can't go beyond." Chuggie ambled toward the marker. His arms were out, hands feeling for some invisible blockade. He detected none. "When's the last time you tried?" "Years ago, I suppose." He went back to her and took her hand again. "Got me a feelin' there's no barrier here. Whaddya say? You ready to leave?" She allowed him to lead her up to the stone. "You'll have to carry me." Her legs shook visibly beneath the buckskin dress. She bit her bottom lip and gave him the big eyes. Chuggie picked her up and stepped toward the marker. She smelled like wine and campfire and cinnamon. Her arms around his neck were warm, sending little jolts into him wherever their skin touched. Her fingernails dug into his shoulder, and she gave a little squeak. He got to the marker, then a step beyond, then another. Her nails dug harder, but a choking sound replaced the squeak. As if an unseen rope held her, he could pull her no further. Her face had turned purple in the day's fading light. With one hand, she clawed at her neck. The other pounded his shoulder. An invisible rope throttled her neck. The more he pulled, the deeper it dug. As soon as he realized he rushed her back on her side of the stone. She slid from his arms to the ground, gasping and weeping in the grass. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he said, kneeling next to her. He brushed her hair back and put his hand on her forehead. When her sobbing died down, he lifted her again and carried her back to the fire. "Please, don't hate me," he said. "I'm drunk an' clumsy an' I'm not always as clever as I think I am. I didn't mean to hurt you back there. I'm very sorry." Wiping away the last of her tears, Shola said, "I'm not upset with you. For a moment, I believed I could be free. I could taste it. I can't remember the last time I was so hopeful." And there it was. He'd given her a boatload of hope, then he all but crushed her beneath it. Maybe it didn't mean he was a monster, but it damn sure felt that way. He couldn't bear her sadness any longer. But to abandon her now would be a crime against both of them. He looked her squarely in the eye. "What can we do?" Shola squinted her left eye shut and looked back with her electric-blue right eye. "With the right tool, I think I could break the hex myself." "What tool?" Chuggie hoped she meant something of his.  "A purse," Shola said, "fashioned from the face of a goat." Shola gave Chuggie the big eyes. Firelight danced on her face as she bit her bottom lip. The burning wood popped, and smoke danced lazily toward the heavens. She leaned toward him. In that moment, Chuggie would have kicked a puppy for a goat-face purse.  ⊠⊠⊠ Fey Voletta gathered up the bottom of her pristine, silky frock. She hated the thought of her snow-white garment, trimmed with crimson, dragging on the greasy metal floor of the Steel Jacks' inner sanctum. Sometimes she swore they kept things greasy and grimy just to make her squirm. Her skin, barely touched by the sun, was nearly as white as the robe. She wore only a light dusting of powder to keep her skin pristinely white. Her lips and fingernails matched the robe's crimson piping. For that matter, so did her hair, but she preferred to keep it hidden beneath her hood. Dressing up helped keep Fey Voletta sane this far from civilization. She took the task very seriously. Even though she was tall by most standards, the Steel Jacks towering ten feet above her always made her feel short. Essentially walking armor, the Steel Jacks were really creatures of energy. The metal suits they inhabited only served give them substance, to make them tangible. Two triangular openings in their headpiece formed eyes that glowed with blue light. A vibrating metallic instrument in the armor's neck area allowed them to speak. Slots in the speaking instrument allowed more blue light to escape. While they had no body parts to indicate gender, Fey Voletta always thought of them as male. Everyone did. "I don't belong here," she said as she tiptoed into the metal-walled office. "In Stagwater, or in this room, kitten?" buzzed Non, leader of the Steel Jacks. He sat at a huge metal desk examining sheets of lead with alien symbols etched upon them. "Both," she replied. "This room is so filthy, I feel like I need a bath whenever I think about coming in here." "I see," said Non. Fey Voletta closed the door behind her. While it weighed over a ton, Steel Jack design allowed her to close it with one pinky. Overhead, blue light flickered as the door latched. The light existed for her benefit only, since Steel Jacks didn't need light to see, and she was the only human allowed in this room. Being alone in any room with a Steel Jack gave her a bit of a thrill. Essentially a giant, metal killing machine, she had no protection from the alien creature if he decided to attack. But Non would never attack Fey Voletta.  "And this town is a complete backwater." She pulled a pretend rope around her neck and pretend-hung herself. "If you were on your way to nowhere and you got lost, this is where you'd end up. I'm too young to waste away here. And out on the street, the people are vermin. They're literally vermin. You know it, and so do I!" As she pointed an accusative finger at Non, she lost her grip on the robe. She was too late to save the bottom edge from brushing against the dirty floor. "Whore-sucking bastard!" "Why such disdain for your own kind?" asked the Steel Jack. "No, those aren't my kind, Non. I create myself every day. I hone my mind and body to razor sharpness. The people in Stagwater do two things well: eat and die. We're barely the same species! My kind." She held up the dirty hem of her robe, careful not to rub the stain into the material. "You do not have to wear such elegant clothing to meet with us." "You're hilarious." She lifted the hem even higher to see the stain in better light. She had no qualms about showing too much skin to a Steel Jack. It wasn't as if they'd get aroused. Doing so revealed dozens of knives strapped to her body in garters and belts. As a blade cultist, she'd never be seen wearing anything else. Her robe's form and function were the essence of Fey Voletta. "You know all about my robes, Non. Don't play dumb." "You may be right," said Non with a little buzzing chuckle. "What do you need me to do today? Stalk house to house, to see how many of these swine I can bleed out by morning?" She pretended to stab a group of people surrounding her. "I am afraid not," said the Steel Jack. "Events are accelerating. Have you noticed this?" "Are you kidding?" Fey Voletta shook her head. "Time has all but stopped for me. This city is like quicksand."  "Significant things often occur in insignificant places." "I guess I'm just not as in tune as you are." She hated leaving her apartment because Stagwater and its disgusting people waited outside. Non's riddles could go to hell right along with the people of Stagwater. "When you are older, you will have a keener eye," Non said, setting the lead sheets on the desk. "Twenty-five isn't that young."  "You are new to adulthood â€" still trying to reconcile adult knowledge with childhood conditioning. The human mind is as easy to comprehend as the human body." "That's really interesting," she said, examining her fingernails. "If you need me for something, please don't hesitate to meet me somewhere clean. Now, may I be excused?" "In a moment," Non buzzed. "As our liaison with the humans of Stagwater, are you aware of special projects at the moment? Concerns? Goals? Plans?" He folded his two primary arms across his chest. His secondary arms, smaller and growing from what would have been his neck, held a lead sheet over his head. He lowered it, read something, and raised it again. Fey Voletta shuddered. "You know I hate it when you use your little arms. That's why you do it, I bet." She put her hands over her head and wiggled them in mockery of Non. "But no, I don't know anything that Haste and his creeps have been doing. Why?" "Haste is up to something, and somehow he has concealed it from us." Non's little hands crumpled the lead sheet slowly over his head. "A stranger came to Stagwater recently. Haste sent guardsmen to turn him away. This person is of great interest. He will be returning." "I work for you, Non. If you want me to do something, spit it out."  "You work with us," Non corrected. "Of course." She gave a little bow. "For now we want you to be alert and to keep your ears open. As our liaison, you have access to Haste and the guardsmen. Gather what information you can about this stranger." "Ugh, Haste?" she said, "He's the creepiest rat of them all. I think you made me liaison because you knew he'd find me sexually appealing." "That is one of many reasons," replied Non. "Well at least you're honest. What about this stranger? What's so special about him? "Norchug Mot Losiat." Non spoke slowly, his way of adding emphasis: "He carries vast power." "I don't suppose we can leave this place after we recruit him?" Fey Voletta asked. She pulled her hood back, revealing the intricate, geometric scarring on her face. Self-imposed, these graceful scars, covered her entire body and indicated her devotion to blade worship. "We leave only if the city breaks the contract." "How likely is that?" She didn't expect a favorable reply. "Stagwater has violated their contract again and again. We won't forgive much more." Non walked over to Fey Voletta. A massive metal finger touched her gently beneath the chin and raised her up face to look at his. "If our recruitment of this man is upended, so is the arrangement. The contract is voided." Non's eyes glowed blue. "Whatever," she said, pulling away. "We should be running this entire blasted world." "Steel Jacks are guests here," Non said. "We serve our human hosts by enforcing their laws. If we chose to rule, that would make us invaders." Non's eyes grew bright again. A silent moment passed between them. "First thing in the morning, I'll see what I can learn from the guardsmen. Then I'll work on the magistrates." Fey Voletta smiled, gave a bow, and turned toward the door. She looked over her shoulder at Non. "I'll do my best," she said, then closed the door on the Steel Jack's grimy office. The thought of returning to civilization gave her a bigger charge than slaughtering this entire piss pot town. Almost.  ⊠⊠⊠ Exotic taxidermied animals hung on the walls. Elaborately carved and heavily polished woodwork trimmed windows and bookcases. Tables and chairs of gleaming mahogany sat silent and solid on the sienna carpet, without so much as a hint of a wobble. Kale, Haste, and Fitch convened at a corner table in a private room at The Stagwater Magisterial Club. Kale dropped Arden Voss' book onto the table between them. Haste plopped himself down in a chair and opened the book. Fitch, like the toady he was, snuggled right up to Haste. Kale looked over their shoulders at the tangle of papers and miscellaneous crap that was supposed to be a book. The old man kept a lot of notes. But like all of these seer types, his organization was for shit. Voss apparently thought scrawling random notes any which way on the page was a good idea. Haste paged through the volume while Kale puffed on a cigar. He flicked his ashes in the general direction of the freestanding stone ashtray. Such foolishness trying to decipher Voss' nonsense. "Do you have to do that in here?" Fitch waved away the smoke from Kale's cigar. He pinched his face into a knot. "Filthy habit." Kale started to speak, "How about I put it out on your â€"." "Here it is," Fitch nearly fell out of his chair he was leaning over so far. "It talks about a witch named Shola that Voss put on his seer council." The corner of Haste's rubbery lip curled into a sneer at the mention of the witch's name. "What about the traveler with the horns?" Kale pointed at the book with his cigar. "I just found the entry, you dolt. Give me a chance to examine it." Kale lunged at Fitch like he was going to throw a punch. "If you can't act like adults, you are of no use to me." Haste said as he pulled the book away from Fitch. Kale and Fitch locked eyes. As the pretend-preacher tapped his senfen in a subtle taunt, Kale fantasized about choking him with it. Not just strangling him with the chain, oh no. He would be ramming the pendant down Fitch's throat to block his airway.  "Hmm. Cast out for incitement and bound in exile," Haste read with a cruel grin on his lips. "What else hereâ€Åš Ah, she was screaming in the streets about 'a manâ€Åš coming, bringing destruction, not many live,' over and over." Haste clearly knew more about this than he let on. A seer and a liar – what a combination. Kale nearly laughed out loud. He didn't, though. It was too damn late, and he was too damn tired. All he had to do was break a chair over Haste's head and bludgeon Fitch with one of the legs, and then he could go home. And if he did that, why he'd sleep like an angel. "What's this?" Fitch slid a crumbling paper from between the pages of the book. Haste snatched it out of his hand and read aloud: The Darkness Sleeps. The flame shrinks as a widow weeps. Shadows planted long ago find rich soil in which to grow. A traveler comes from days long gone. Troubles dark are soon to dawn. Heads shout to make their voices heard, but cannot comprehend the word. The Darkness Stirs. The flame flickers and dire death occurs. Shadows planted in years gone by have breached the soil and seen the sky. The traveler drags the darkness on. The weak are failed by the strong. Leaders know not what's been stirred. They misread and misspeak the word. The Darkness Walks. The flame goes out and midnight stalks. Shadows grow and bear dark fruit. Dark new seeds grow strong in root. The traveler can save not one. The darkness brought can't be undone. Leaders have all failed the herd. All is lost in the unknown word. At the bottom, the words You have been warned were followed by a slashy signature: Shola of Scarecrows. "Do you remember her? Do you remember anything about this?" Kale asked. "No," said Haste said before he even had time to think about it. "Arden Voss did not discuss his appointments with me." "Bound in exile?" Fitch asked, squeezing his senfen. "They tied her up in the woods?" "Although why they didn't send her to the creature in the northâ€Åš" Haste sipped his wine. Seeing Haste drink, Fitch took a drink of his own wine. Kale fought to keep himself from slapping the ass kisser out of Fitch.  "She's long dead," Kale said. "Bound in exile? It means they chained her to a tree in the woods. Animals would have devoured her in a week."  "Of course." Haste put on a look of self-satisfaction. "But she's not the problem. The man in her prediction is. Soon enough, the Steel Jacks will be an asset, not a burden. Then we control everything. Increase opium pine production, increase exports. By the time I'm through, mothers will be feeding opium pine to their babies. Wealth and influence, men!" Kale knew exactly whose wealth and influence Haste was referring to â€" none other than Haste's. Fitch gazed down at his senfen. "Most importantly, Stagwater must find faith. Under my spiritual guidance, this city will become a true city of God, the last sanctuary in these end times." "Even you don't believe that." Kale said. "When you tell people the world is going to end, they tend to notice when it doesn't." "Thankfully," Haste said with a shushing gesture for both of them, "I'll be somewhere warm, managing the distribution of the opium pine. However you two run the day-to-day operations of Stagwater, I care little." Fitch put a hand on the book in front of Haste. "What if Voss's seer council was right and the witch's predictions were all nonsense. What if this man doesn't actually bring destruction? Maybe we should take her words with a grain of salt." "I saw him myself when I traveled the Pheonal Path. Was I was tricked by the trance?" Haste folded his arms, and scowled at Fitch. "Or are you calling me a fraud?" Haste's voice came out slightly louder that it needed to be. Fitch's face flushed. "I'm not saying anything like that. Food for thought is all." He shrunk away.  "Our plans are near fruition now, but they're ever so fragile. This is a crucial time. We can't take chances. If the traveler returns, that's the end for him." "I'll post men on the road to the south." Kale ground out his cigar. "That's what you saw in the vision, right?" Having men in the forest south of town for the next few nights meant delaying some plans of his own. He needed privacy to conduct his affairs in the woods. But sacrifices would have to be made. Kale chuckled at the double meaning. Haste nodded. "First thing in the morning, then." Kale gave a stiff bow to show he was leaving, and that it wasn't up for debate. He hoped this damn five-horned drifter would come soon. Chapter 5  Chuggie awoke the same way he always did â€" confused. A patchwork quilt of small animal furs covered him. He yanked it up over his head to block out the light. Doing so exposed his feet to the morning chill. His feet, he decided, shouldn't be quite so cold. They should be snug and warm inside their boots. He tried to remember where his boots might be. Nothing came to mind.  Something dug into his back. Had he slept on a rock? He lifted himself and turned a bit. There they were; the boots that should have been on his feet. Rolling off the boots gave him such relief that he groaned like a sleepy walrus. Eyes burning and barely open, Chuggie peeked from under the blanket. Nearby Shola screamed. Everything came back to him then. He'd spent the night at Shola's Cliffside Resort. Yes, and he'd fed her plenty of wine the night before precisely so he could lie moaning in peace all morning. Perhaps she would know why he'd slept on his boots. He smelled smoke. Chuggie threw off the blanket and sprang to his feet. Flames roared as they engulfed Shola's storage shed. She swung a wet blanket at the blaze, but she was losing ground. Fighting the fire alongside her, two scarecrows tried to help her by batting at the flame. One succeeded only in setting its arms on fire. It kept trying to fight the blaze, even as the flames spread to its painted pumpkin head. "Chuggie! Help!" Shola had screamed herself hoarse trying to wake him. Chuggie staggered barefoot to the shed with the fur quilt in tow. They swatted at the blaze with their blankets as scarecrows arrived with buckets of well water. Chuggie flung the water at the burning structure as quickly as the scarecrows could supply it. Smoke rose in a column. He hoped they weren't sending signals to the Stagwater sentinels. Chuggie and Shola finally managed to snuff out the fire by smothering it and throwing water on it. Chuggie examined the blackened husk of the shed. From the heap of burnt food, he pulled either a charred potato or a blackened turnip. He took a bite to see which, but he couldn't be sure. The scarecrow that had caught fire burned down to cinders. It was now little more than a smoldering stick figure stretched on the ground. A stick figure with a burnt, busted-open pumpkin head. Several other scarecrows gathered around their fallen comrade. Chuggie opened his mouth to comfort Shola when a burning scarecrow lumbered out of the forest. Its carved-pumpkin head sloughed off, broke apart on the ground, and smoldered with a smell like pie. The rest of it collapsed in the garden, a heap of crackling embers and burning flannel. A drumming of hooves thundered from behind the burning scarecrow. The sound grew like a tidal wave. A snort and then flame shot from the underbrush. In its wake, a fireboar stomped into sight with smoke puffing from its nostrils. Its thick, soot-black mane stood stiff, impervious to the morning's breeze. Chuggie snarled and darted at the hog, forgetting he wore no boots. As he sprinted, his hands unwound the anchor. Passing the burning scarecrow, he snatched up one of its legs to use as a bludgeon. Twirling the anchor furiously with his left hand, he brandished the scarecrow leg with his right. Chuggie charged the massive boar. Shola screamed at him, but her words were lost to the whoosh of the chain and the angry squealing of the fireboar. It snorted a cloud of oily flames at him. With an arm thrown up to protect his face, he sprawled backward and landed painfully on his chain. By the time the flames dissipated, the pig was nowhere in sight. Chuggie ran after the culprit. Thorns and brambles tore at his feet, but he paid no mind. He stopped at the edge of the woods and turned to wave at Shola. She waved back with both hands, apparently disapproving of his decision to pursue. When did women ever want their men to go hunting? He wished for a second he had his boots along for the hunt. The fireboar had been easy to track for the first quarter mile or so. It had left Shola's yard in a hurry, leaving behind a trail of hoof-torn soil. As Chuggie followed it deeper into the woods, the tracks became less obvious. Chuggie wanted to smoke, but he fought the urge. He needed his senses sharp. Also, smoking would betray his exact position to his quarry. He tried to be stealthy, but his feet kept finding leaves to rustle, hidden puddles to sploosh in, or dry sticks to crack. His chain and anchor made sounds of their own that, oddly, blended with the sounds of the forest. This was no drakana, thankfully. Those monstrous, reptilian predators moved like lightning and could kill you twice before your blood sprayed the ground. Their compound, insect-like eyes saw everything. Delicate ears and sensitive noses made them near impossible to evade. As if they knew he could suck them dry in a heartbeat, drakana never got too close to Chuggie. That is, never under ordinary circumstances. If agitated enough, a drakana would attack anything. Hunting a fireboar was nothing like hunting a terpeskoa either. Alien monsters, the terpeskoa slipped through the Tetracardi Rift just months ahead of the Steel Jacks. They attacked anything that moved. Some preferred the single life while others lived in packs.Oftentimes, seeing one meant several more lurked nearby, just out of sight. The woodwolves of Haver Gesh required bait and ambush, a method of no use against a boar such as this. Scrathes, dordalises, bearfoxes and desert kingsnakes each called for different hunting tactics. None of those tactics was of any use against a fireboar. Chuggie had hunted plenty of pigs, but never barefoot and without a bow. A gelfhound would be pretty nice to have right about now. A full hunting party of spearmen, bowmen, and booze bearers would be best of all. When a man hunts a fireboar, the hog hunts him back. Fishing in his pockets, Chuggie found a small folding knife. He put it to use whittling branches into spears, and carving his initials into a tree trunk for no good reason. The boar probably shared a den with a sow. And they probably had piglets. The boar could actually have more than one sow, as if one wasn't punishment enough. Each of them could have piglets. And them mama pigs would go absolutely berserk in defense of their young. A female fireboar, he knew, would not pour flames out of her snout. Not enough to make a fuss about anyway. Her tusks, however, were longer than the male's. The two would work in unison. The male would spray a cloud of fire at the target, and the female would charge from the side. From there, a number of things could happen â€" mostly painful. Chuggie leaned his head back and murmured, "Challenge accepted." A drumming of hooves grew suddenly loud, and something heavy smashed into him just as he turned. Chuggie flew in the air and landed ten feet away with his spears strewn about. He fumbled for the anchor as he rolled. The hog, he guessed female since he wasn't on fire, snorted and glowered and lowered its head to charge. "You shit-eating piss bag," he growled as he scrambled out of her path. The sow stormed off into the woods carried away by the momentum of her charge. "You won that round, bacon!" Chuggie raised his fist. "You wanna dance, piggies? I'll dance on your stinkin' hide while I eat your damn face-meat!" He spat twice at the pig's trail and kicked a bush. The bush acted disinterested, so he spat on it, too. Chuggie gathered up his spears and froze, listening to the sounds of the forest. Off in the distance in the direction of the fleeing sow he heard a flock of birds take startled flight. He hunkered down and crept along the trail of churned up earth that led into the brush below. He could almost smell that pig all trussed up and slathered with plum sauce. He listened, sniffing the breeze. A trickle of blood dribbled down his side. He'd take a look at that later. From the feeling of it, he'd need a stitch or two. A good job for Shola. A gamy stink hit his nostrils as hog shit squished between his bare toes. He got low and ready to defend, scanning the vicinity. Dung piles of varying size dotted the ground. Big, adult-sized mounds and the tiny black droppings of hoglets littered the ground. It was a good thing he didn't have his boots on. This would have been the farewell voyage for the old boots. The bushes were lousy with wild berries and milkweed. He may not have been in the boars' lair, but he was definitely in their feeding ground. And, oh yeah, they knew damn well he was there. Rustling and heavy animal breathing sounded nearby, no doubt an agitated boar. Chuggie scanned the area for water. It'd be mighty handy if a fireboar got in the fire starting mood. He saw no sign of water anywhere. Chuggie picked up a handful of stones from the weedy ground. He lobbed one into the thick undergrowth where he'd heard movement. He threw another, and another. "I know you're here, you rat-raping pile ofâ€Åš" He threw the last stone. It flew through the air. A demon-like squeal followed the thud as the stone struck the beast. Chuggie crashed through the brush and sprinted toward the sound. The sow snorted and thumped her hooves in retreat. Another sow, gray-skinned and wild-eyed, charged from his left side. Chuggie swung the anchor, planted his feet, and launched it at her, leaning backward against the swing. It smashed into the beast's face, spraying blood and tusk fragments into the air. She crashed off into the brush with a squeal like damnation itself, hurt but not defeated. Another trample arose behind him. He wheeled and footed the back of the spear into the mossy ground, pointing it at the charging beast. It gored itself on the spear with a wet squeal. It flopped into the tall grass, twitching and convulsing. By its small size and thick coat of black bristles, he knew it was just a teenager in pig years. The big ol' male from back at Shola's snorted its fireball at him. A blast of heat hammered into Chuggie and knocked him on the ground. He rolled and smacked out flames on his jacket, then scrambled to his feet just in time dive under the next fireball. The mammoth hog charged. Chuggie whirled and flung the anchor at the boar's face. His blow caught it on the snout. The force of it knocked the pig off course. It turned and shot more fire. It charged as Chuggie dove away, then charged again, planting the curve of its tusk in the small of Chuggie's back. Screaming in pain, Chuggie stabbed it in the side with a spear until it retreated. Chuggie had a new tusk gash along his lower back, and his sleeves were on fire again. He smothered the flames and spat blood as he struggled to his feet. The boar charged jarring the chain loose from his hand. Chuggie faced the boar on all fours and lowered his horns. The boar snorted out an enormous, oily fireball that smelled of burning hair. Fire crackled as it chewed up Chuggie's clothes. Engulfed in flames, he held his ground like a snapping turtle. He bucked his neck and stabbed his soot-blackened horns into the boar's chest. He slashed its throat for good measure. When the boar snorted its last, the remaining two sows of its harem ran away squealing. Chuggie shook his horns and fought to free them from the boar's chest. Like a meteor crash, sound and concussion tore through the air. The explosion slammed Chuggie against a tree with the force of a cannon blast. He slid to the ground and lay motionless. His horn had pierced the boar's gas-bladder, releasing a sphere of fire. For miles around, birds took panicked flight. Rodents dove into their holes. Deer perked up, then ran away. Frogs stopped croaking. The sun crawled across the sky, and night fell as Chuggie lay broken on the ashy ground. Unconsciously he drew the moisture of the surrounding vegetation, the fallen boars, the air, the water table. Water collected around him in a pool before he absorbed it like a burnt, bloody sponge. Shola's eyes haunted his dim thoughts. Blue and white, blue and white. In his addled state, he thought maybe he could love those eyes, maybe he already did. She was so vulnerable without him. If he didn't make it back, she'd probably just wither away, cursing his name with her last breath. As he lay there in the growing darkness, something tugged Chuggie down into to that dark, wet hell â€" the lonely realm waiting for him on the other side of death. Down there in the dark, every drop of liquid he'd ever drank swirled around him in a whirlpool of woe, drowning him for centuries, crushing him. Hands like pitchforks stabbed and tore at him in the darkness. He tried to push them away, but he had no strength. He caught glimpses of spindly, asymmetrical creatures. The darkness pulled at him just as the shadowy figures yanked him through briars and over logs. Sticks and stones pummeled his face. Through the slivers of his eyes, he saw treetops silhouetted against the moonlit clouds. He tried to call out but lacked the voice. "Damn it," he managed to mumble. "How come a guy like me can't ever die with a shit's worth of dignity?" Chapter 6  "I'll leave this backwards shit-heap, that's what I'll do," said Priole. "I've had enough of this fucking town and the vultures pulling the strings. When I put on the black and red, I thought I'd be defending the people. This place is sick!" "I feel the same way, believe me. I'm sure if I was a young man like you, I'd be gone by morning." Rorid didn't make eye contact with his young comrade. "Whatever either of us decides to do, we have to do it smart." "You aren't leaving?" Priole threw up his arms. "I don't think I can. Drexel's a good son, but he's no fighter. I couldn't take him into the wilderness. Besides, this time next year I'll be collecting my pension." "Your pension's blood money, you coward!" hissed the younger man. "Bite your fucking tongue, boy. I'd do anything for my son," said Rorid. "But I'm not going to close my eyes, put my head down, and run blind into the wilds just because I'm pissed off." "Then what are you going to do?" Priole asked. "All I can do is wait. That's what I'm advising you to do. I know you're mad, and so am I. We goddamn should be. I'm saying, don't make things worse." "Coward." Priole puffed out his chest. "Say that again, boy, and you'll find out who's a coward. Now I'm going to speak some words. I want you to listen to them and understand their meaning." Rorid squeezed his hands into fists and released them. "If you get caught trying to leave, your young bride will be visiting the torturgist again." Priole started to speak, but a gesture from Rorid stopped him. "But let's say you got out of the city on foot. How long do you think you'd last without a fully equipped caravan? Or, let's say you swipe a boat. Think you could outrun the Steel Jacks' barge? No. So you'd get back on land and have the same problem. I know you want to get out. I'm telling you to wait and consider the angles. Think about some things you haven't thought about." "Somebody should kill Haste. His little henchmen, too. I don't care if they're all magistrates." Priole lifted his gleaming dagger and pointed it at Rorid. "Close your mouth!" snapped Rorid. "Shit like that can be heard in the Pheonal trance, and you damn well know it. I asked you to meet me here, so I could talk some sense into you. You and me, we have to stick together now. Like it or not, I'm the only person in town you can even talk to about this." "Fine, I'll wait." Priole spoke through clenched teeth. "But not for long." "Stay close to me. When it's time to move, we'll know it without a doubt. And I think we'll need each other then." Rorid looked up at the moons and narrowed his eyes. "They will pay." "Sorry for calling you a coward." Priole looked down at his feet. "This calls everything into question, you know? Everything we've done. Raids on the Carnie District, every arrest. Even the drunk we tried to send north. I don't trust them now. Not for anything." "I feel the same way," Rorid said. "Every order we've gotten cites 'the greater good' or 'the well-being of Stagwater.' The greatest good that could be done for this place would be a group of armed citizens went down to the Municipal Building and â€"." "Enough!" Rorid snapped. "It's late, I'm cold, and this alley smells like piss. I'm going home. Now I want your word that you won't do anything stupid." "I remember my wife on that table. I remember her squirming and crying," Priole growled. "I told you, they will pay." "Then you have my word." Priole stomped off, pausing only to kick a dent into a metal barrel. The young man was right. The black and red uniform of the Stagwater Corps of Guardsmen meant something once. Wearing it had been an honor. Those days were gone.  ⊠⊠⊠ Kale walked with heavy footsteps whenever he walked on the big bridge. He loved the sound his boots made on the wooden planks. The cool morning air invigorated him as the sun rose over the trees. Walking east into the sunrise in the early morning, he could forget the filthy, crowded city at his back. Two young men waited for him at the center of the bridge, but the wind and the river made their conversation impossible to hear. Upon seeing him, they stopped talking entirely. Jaron Haskall and Dan Diori were nearly inseparable, and they gave Kale as much allegiance as he could buy. Fortunately, he had deep pockets. These two would do just about anything if the price was right. "Good morning, gentlemen," said Kale. "Good morning." Jaron gave a nod. He was bigger and stronger than Dan. He always wore his long, black hair tied in a ponytail. One of these days, Kale was going to grab that ponytail and lop it off. No man should have hair like a woman.  "Anything to report from last night?" asked Kale. "Not a goddamn thing," answered Dan. He was the fast one of the pair, the thinker. He had short, light brown hair like a good soldier should. His blue eyes had a reputation with the ladies in town, but Kale knew both of the young men would rather pay to beat a person than lay with a woman for free. He could appreciate that. "What was your position?" asked Kale. Jaron pointed a thumb to the south. "We were south of town, like you told us. We spent a little while under the south end of the swamp bridge, but then we moved further out. We set up a little ways into the forest." "I want you to go out farther tonight," said Kale. "I don't want anyone from town or even a patrol on goatback to see you. They better not even catch a whiff of you." "Got it." Dan said. "Off the road," Kale went on. "A tight ambush." "Fucking right." Dan said with a grin. "No mistakes." Kale spat over the side of the bridge and watched it fall, just to let Dan know how he felt about bravado. "Kill him and drag him off the road. Bring me anything you find on him. Any questions?" "It's about time you sent us a real job," said Jaron. "We're tired of shaking down Carnies." Kale glared. "Never mind my idiot partner." Dan backhanded Jaron. "He's just saying we want to show what we're made of. Get what I'm saying?" Kale eyeballed Jaron. "Can you two idiots keep your mouths shut?" Jaron's face reddened. "Of course, of course. You're the man with the money." "Well, go home and get your beauty sleep. I want you back out there tonight, an hour before sundown." Kale rubbed his face. "Make this problem go away, and it'll be worth your while." Dan flipped his dagger once in the air and sheathed it. "You got the money, we'll get you what you need." They left Kale, slapping and shoving each other as they went. Kale leaned against the side rail. The morning calm would be over soon enough. He looked out over sleeping Stagwater. Soon, very soon, he'd get this burg in line. The era of Haste would be over soon. Chapter 7  Chuggie awoke to the smell of pork frying. Shivering naked in the washtub, his breath puffed in the chilly air. His only covering was the chain that linked to his ribcage. Someone had unwound it from his torso and left it in a pile on his midsection. The anchor sat atop the pile like some kind of reigning champion. He guessed there had been water in the tub at some point, but he'd absorbed every last drop. "Meat's cooking if you have an appetite." Shola's voice carried over to him like a song. He started to climb from the tub, lost his strength, and plopped back down. "Maybe I'll just lay here a bit," he grumbled. "I don't seem to have the oomph to liberate myself. Guess I'm meant to stay." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "If you let this meat get cold, you'll be sorry," she said. "What kind o' meat are you burnin' over there, anyhow?" He turned his head to look at Shola. She sat down and began to eat with delicate and graceful gestures. Her wild black hair danced whenever she moved. A regular guy might've felt self-conscious about appearing naked before such a lady, but Chuggie's only concern was getting another hour of sleep. "This is one of the boars you killed. Remember that?" Chuggie muttered, "Nah, but if you come over here and take your clothes off, I'll fake it." "What was that? I can't hear you way over there." "I said I vaguely remember something like that," he called. Honestly, Chuggie's memory of the hog hunt was hazy. The last thing he remembered was being lugged through the woods, and fading in and out of consciousness. Shola's scarecrows had transported him about as gently as a bee-stung wargoat with a crippled puppy tied to its leg. "I put fresh clothes out for you," she said. Chuggie found the clean clothes sitting within arm's reach. Not far from them lay his old clothes. Muddy, bloody and burnt. He climbed from the tub, groaning. His muscles and bones protested as he bent to pick up the clothes. His new pants had vertical stripes of black and dark green. The shirt, once white, buttoned up the front. She'd even found him a pair of barely-worn boots. He hadn't noticed his missing skullcap until he saw a freshly sewn replacement lying on top of a neatly folded jacket. The cap and jacket were both steel gray, apparently cut from the same material. It all fit astonishingly well, and the style suited him perfectly. Chuggie hobbled to the water pump. As he cranked the handle, its rusty squeak burrowed into his brain with the fury of a starving brain leech. Only a trickle of water dribbled into his hand. "I had my boys cranking that all night," Shola said just behind him. He hadn't heard her approach, and she gave him a little start. "You won't get much more than that for a while." "You should fix it." he smiled. "Your body sucked the water up about as fast as we could pump it." Meeting her eyes, bright blue and white, Chuggie found himself frozen mid-pump. He forgot whatever clever thing he'd been about to say.  "You absorbed it like a sponge," she said. "Strange to witness. How do you feel?" "Like a diamond wrapped inâ€Åš bacon." Chuggie pulled his eyes off hers and looked down at his new clothes. "Well, I have meat that's close to bacon right over here, and it's getting cold." Shola started back to the table, her blue eye looking over her shoulder at him. "Honestly, if we start salting and curing right away, there's almost enough meat here for the whole winter." Chuggie walked just behind the witch. His head bobbed side to side as he stared at her bottom. There sure was some nice scenery up on the cliff. Across the yard, scarecrows butchered one of the sows. Two held it upside down, while a third skinned it. Together they did a messy job, and Chuggie wondered why they didn't hang the carcass from a tree. "Thanks for the clothes." He sat down and shielded his eyes from the morning light. "Where did you even get them?" "My boys have salvaged a lot over the years. We saved something especially for you." Shola's eyes sparkled with merriment as she pointed to the table. There, beside his plate, sat a glossy black fireboar tusk as long as his forearm. In an instant, he knew what to do with it. He'd carve into a tobacco pipe. That tusk would make one of the finest pipes anyone had ever seen. When they finished eating, Chuggie rummaged in his junk bag for some old carving implements. He spent the next couple of hours fashioning a pipe from the tusk of the fireboar. He filled and lit the pipe as soon as he was done. He puffed clouds of his own up into the atmosphere. The high, lazy clouds shuffled across the sky changing from turtles to boats to farming implements. A monster tree grasped at a screaming dragon, then both the tree and the dragon morphed into a two-headed fish. The pipe smoked like a dream. "You look like you're having a good time," said Shola. "Ain't had a pipe this good in ages. Have a puff." He held the pipe out to her. He hadn't expected her to take it from him, but she did. After her third puff on the pipe, she broke into a coughing fit and shoved it back at him. "Yes indeed," he mused, "she smokes real nice." "Come for a walk with me," Shola said, grabbing his hand. "All right, but I'm bringing my pipe." Chuggie let her pull him up. She could drag him anywhere, as long as he didn't have to leave his new toy behind. She sighed and led him across the garden. On the other side, near where they'd had their first encounter, a grinning scarecrow stood at the entrance to a trail. Chuggie made a face at the scarecrow as Shola pulled him into the woods. The trail twisted through a grove of dwarf elms. The trees spiraled out of the ground like frozen dancers with dresses made of golden leaves. Chuggie and Shola followed the path until it gave way to a clearing. Across the clearing loomed a dark, bloated tree. Tattered, gray ropes clung to it like cobwebs. "Blood maple," Chuggie noted. "They don't just sprout up on their own, do they?" Shola stopped thirty paces from the tree. "That's what they usedâ€Åš when they first bound me here. The Stagwater torturgist tied me to that horrible tree. With my own suffering, he built my prison." He saw the pain in her eyes and put an arm around her. The whole place held nothing but misery for her. As long as she remained, so would her anguish. She sniffed back tears and cleared her throat. "When they finally stopped coming, I made my first scarecrow. I thought he could chop the tree down, but he fell to pieces. They all do, as soon as they swing the ax." She stepped away from Chuggie and took a few more steps toward the blood maple. "I tried to set it on fire more than once, but I get sick if I get too close. See that black thing hanging up there at the top?" "I do," said Chuggie. He walked to the tree and looked up into the branches. "It's an old oleostex eye," she said. "It's what keeps me bound here." "Looks rotten." He gave the tree a kick. "This is why I need the goat-face purse," Shola said. "Come, this isn't what I brought you back here to see." She led him further on, beyond the clearing. The came to a stand of birch trees, bone white against the ocean blue sky. At their feet, wispy grass of green and gold swayed lazily in the breeze. They sat in the grass a little ways apart, looking at anything but each other. He knew he had to free her. Had to take her with him far away from this place. Had to tell her how important she was to him, but he couldn't think of how to begin. Shola took a breath, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again as she looked away. She crawled to him and kissed him softly on the cheek. She lingered for a moment, and he inhaled her scent, all flowers and campfire smoke. She looked into his eyes, sighed, and put her mouth on his. There, in the wide open field with the swaying golden grass and the deep, deep, blue of the sky, she pushed him onto his back. Slowly, with mouthwatering grace, she danced. Her buckskin dress began to slip. She raised one arm over her head, and when she brought it back down, it slid a little more. Then the other arm. The top eased down over her breasts, leaving them covered only by her long black hair. It inched down her hips, about to fall to the ground. Chuggie swallowed hard. Inch by inch, Shola danced dreamily out of her clothes. In doing so, she barely took her eyes off his. His wide gaze, however, skated up and down her ever-nudening body. His white-knuckled fists held tight to the grass. The skirt slid to Shola's feet, and she kicked it away without taking her eyes off him. For the first time, Chuggie noticed the black tattoo on her hip. When she noticed him staring she turned away. "Wait, what was that?" he asked. The hurt returned to Shola's eyes. Any second she'd break into tears. Chuggie mentally kicked himself for blowing it. Her clothes should be going back on in fiveâ€Åš fourâ€Åš threeâ€Åš. But Shola neither cried nor dressed. Instead, she turned her hip back, so he could see and slowly pulled her hand away. There Chuggie saw a faded black spider, symmetrical in design and blurry on the edges. All fine detail had long since faded away. Her slow dance resumed. Chuggie's head spun as he tried and failed to form a rational thought.  Above Shola, clouds like silver ships sailed the sea of the sky. It could have been his intoxicated imagination, but he swore the clouds danced along with her. The way she moved her hands over her body made it difficult for him to confirm the phenomenon. He needed to say something. He reached into the depths of his mind for poetry, for words of passion and longing. He opened his mouth to release the words. "Someday I'll name a boat after you." Embarrassed, he added, "Somedayâ€Åš I'll name a boat Shola." She smiled and gestured that he didn't need to speak anymore. Humming a tune he knew from somewhere, she lowered herself to him. They made love in the tall grass for hours.  ⊠⊠⊠ Fey Voletta wore her hood so its shadow hid all but her lips. Her robe closed tight around her, showing only her hands. Today, she even wore clothes beneath the robe, something she hated to do. The weekly meetings Haste insisted she attend so she could deliver her reports on criminal activity demanded such wardrobe choices. His unabashed leering made her sick. He licked his lips constantly while eye-groping her. There was absolutely no reason she had to attend these meetings, except that Haste was a disgusting old letch. She could only grit her teeth as she pondered the hundreds of different ways she could kill him. Entering Haste's office made her sicker still. It stunk of old tobacco, long-forgotten liquor spills, and the sweat of a fat man. The animals on the wall were supposed to be intimidating trophies, but she found them comical. She'd seen enough in her short time in Stagwater to know they were nothing more than 'average' specimens. "Ah, Fey Voletta," Haste said, raising an arm in welcome. The fat jiggled like half-congealed gravy. "You're looking lovely as ever, my dear. Won't you have a seat?" He lit a cigar, as he always did when she met with him. Apparently, he thought it impressed her, but his cigar sucking made her think he secretly wanted to wrap his lips around some guy's cock. The thought of Haste with a penis in his mouth made her laugh at first. Now his cigar, his mock cock, made her want to puke herself inside out. "Fellas like that, don't they?" she asked as she tossed the folder with the criminal reports in his direction. Haste's smile vanished. His lips unwrapped from the cigar, and he asked, "What?" "Smoking cigars," she said as she took a seat. "Fellas like smoking cigars." "Hmm," he said. "Apologies, my dear. You've just caught me about to eat lunch. I hope you don't mind, but I prefer to eat before it gets cold." He placed his cigar in the ashtray, leaving it to burn slowly on its own. A covered silver platter sat on the desk in front of him. He removed the lid and sniffed at the billow of steam that mushroomed out. He waved the vapor away, revealing a whole fish. "Caught fresh this morning," he told her. "If I'd known you'd be here, I'd have ordered the same for you." She narrowed her eyes. He knew damn well when she'd be coming. He was the one who scheduled the meeting. Watching him lick his fat lips, she wanted nothing more than to slash him to ribbons. The fish raised and splayed a fin. Its mouth gasped for water that wasn't there. "You're eating it alive?" she asked. "Fresh." He whiffed more of the fish-steam. "The chef scales it, cuts some ribbing down the side, and seasons it. It's truly scrumptious. You'll have to try it sometime." "So you skin, slice it, and dump salt in its wounds?" she asked with a voice full of disdain. "Yes, and then we eat it." He smiled as if pleased by his own refined tastes. "Did you want to discuss the reports? Or have I been summoned so I could watch you eat a live fish?" She hoped he'd spill his guts quickly so she could leave. "What's Non up to these days? I rarely see him anymore," Haste said with a sneaky oily-looking smile that said he was trying to evade her question. "Non? He's around." She'd have to change tactics to get information out of this fat fuck. Non would owe her after this â€" owe her big. Fey Voletta stood and walked around the desk. Haste didn't look up from his meal. She allowed herself a shudder before she sat on the arm of Haste's chair. Finally, he turned. He licked his lips frantically, bits of fish stuck to his tongue. A dopey grin spread over his face as she began rubbing the back of his neck. She didn't know if it was the fish, his breath, or his body odor, but some foul smell assaulted her nose. Hidden in shadow, her left eye twitched. She leaned close. "You have a lot of tension in your neck. Under a lot of stress?" Her voice purred, but her mouth frowned. "An ounce of gold weighs a ton when you make it into a crown," said Haste. He shoveled his mouth full of fish. "I'm listening." She leaned a little closer. Haste chewed like a starving man, making grotesque, wet sounds and breathing through his nose. Fey Voletta imagined smashing his face into the platter, mashing it into the gasping fish. Instead, she kneaded the muscles beneath the fat of his shoulders. She couldn't feel any muscles, knotted or otherwise. She only felt fat. Haste groaned. "Oh, it's nothing really." She tried not to think about the erection Haste more than likely hid under the folds of his belly. She closed her eyes to ensure that she didn't accidentally catch a peek. "Come on," she coaxed. "I can see something is bothering you. It's my job to help where I can." She imagined the sound his nose would make as she smashed it against the silver platter. "Some drifter dared to threaten our security," Haste said through another mouthful of stinking fish. "But I made sure that was taken care of." He puffed out his chest like he'd just been awarded a medal. "Of course you did," she cooed. "And you didn't even need the Steel Jacks' help, did you?" Maybe someday she'd poison his fish. Only, she decided, if she could find a suitably horrific poison. "I didn't." Haste beamed. "Who is he?" Fey Voletta held her hands still hovering over Haste's shoulders. "Don't stop." Haste pleaded. "Tell me about the drifter." "Some fellow wearing a chain. Ahh that's the way." Haste sighed as Fey Voletta resumed her massaging. "Andâ€Åš" "Fellow with a chain and five horns on his head." Haste leaned his head down, so she could massage him better. Apparently, he'd forgotten the now-dead fish. "He's a troublemaker?" She made her voice velvety smooth. "The drifter?" "Ahh, yes. Something like that." "But you took care of him." She took her hand away and examined her fingernails. "Not yet," Haste said. "But soon. Deep in the forest, where no one will ever know." Fey Voletta hopped up from the arm of the chair and walked back around the desk. Haste's looked at her like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away. The idiot was just now realizing he'd said too much. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with me?" Without waiting for a reply, Fey Voletta turned and walked to the door. Haste sprung up to open the door. He held his arms wide and offered his cheek.  She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded her good-bye. She'd cut her fucking eyes out before she'd let this sweaty swine touch her. Haste's frown made him look like a mutt. She squeezed past him, stepped through the door, and pulled it shut behind her. The lock clicked. Fey Voletta shuddered at the thought of Haste twitching and convulsing with pleasure to the image of her in his head. Non would be hearing all about this atrocity and her deep, painful sacrifice. He owed her â€" he owed her big.  ⊠⊠⊠ The witch and the wanderer enjoyed a cliff-side luncheon of grilled pork. The little table overlooking the swamp nearly overflowed with food. Chuggie ate heartily while Shola hummed her tune again. "What is that song? I know I know it," said Chuggie. With the voice of an angel, she sang: "Let a woman not ever be suffered to beg/ But a man may chew off his very own leg/ Where they can find peace, O let them dwell/ Though first they must walk o'er wide fields of Hell." "I'm taking you with me," he said, looking into her eyes. She didn't answer; only stared at him in confusion. "I can't stay here. We both know that. And I can't leave you." "But, Chuggie, I can't leave." She looked wounded. "I can't stay, you can't go. What if you could leave though? What if I got you the goat-face purse?" He pulled some meat apart with his fingers. "I need to know more about it, though. Is there anything inside?" "Madness." She looked at him with serious eyes. "Chuggie, you can never look inside it. Not ever." "Is it cursed?" Chuggie stroked his chin. "I don't know. I think it just is what it is." "Would folks kill over this purse?" Chuggie's other hand caressed his anchor. "Folks kill over anything. I think you know that." "Guess I'm goin' into town." He wished he had other choices to pick from. "Lucky thing you just gave me these fresh clothes and boots." "While you're there, you'll live like a king. I have plenty of currency that's good in Stagwater." Chuggie was about to ask her where she'd gotten the money, but he saw the tear rolling down her cheek before he got a chance. Chuggie to reached over and took her hand. "I see a grass hut on a sandy beach. Not another person in sight. Just you, me, the rollin' ocean, and enough coconuts to make you sick. Seagulls flappin' around all day, hollerin' at us to throw 'em crab meat."  "You'll really go after the purse?" she sniffed. "I will." "For me?" She wiped another tear. "And for me. You're crazy, but I think I like that." A spindly scarecrow with red eyes painted on its pumpkin head lumbered around the side of the house. It looked old, like its limbs could snap off with each jerky step. Holding its arms straight out in front, it carried a dusty satchel that jangled as it walked. The scarecrow threw the satchel in Chuggie's direction, then stomped away. Chuggie looked inside. Coins and paper notes filled it halfway up. Shola jumped up and trotted away without warning. She disappeared into the house. Chuggie took stock of his possessions, deciding which he wanted to take on his trip. The anchor, of course, would be going. His boar-tusk pipe went into the satchel. He rummaged through his pockets and junk bag, finding little that might be useful. Just a church key, the whittling knife, and his tobacco pouch. Shola returned holding what looked like a short piece of black rope. He recognized it at once as a length of her knotted hair. The hair smelled like pure magic, like autumn itself, as she wrapped it around his neck and tied it. He beamed at her. "I'm leaving now."  "This minute?" "I wanna get this over with. I'll get into town, get a room for the night, and find that purse first thing in the morning. This looks like a lot o' currency. Might be able to buy the purse off this Arden Voss character. With luck, there'll be enough left to buy an old skiff. I can float back down the river and get you. Then we can float downstream as far as the boat'll take us. How's that sound?" "I think you should stay tonight," she said as her clothes started sliding off again. Chuggie pecked her lips with a quick kiss and gathered up his gear. "How'd you get all this money, anyway?" he asked. "Make no mention of me in town," she said. "If the wrong person hears my name everything could be ruined." "Don't worry. I'll say my grandpa made a bunch of purses years ago out of animal faces. As he sits on his deathbed, he wishes he had them all back to take with him to the next life. My grandma, sweet angel of a woman, asked me an' my brothers to bring the purses back before he passes on. My one brother, his name's Jamick, went â€"." "I think the less said about the purse the better," Shola cut him off. "Really? Cuz I can blabber on like that for hours." "I'm sure you can. Are you sure you won't stay tonight?" As she finished, her garments fell to the ground. Her hair, tied back this time, didn't cover her breasts. Chuggie froze, staring at Shola's nudity. A moment later he shook his head and looked back up to her eyes. "Her left eye's white, and blue is the right." He touched her cheek. It pained him greatly to do so, but he left her standing there naked under the afternoon sun. He wanted to remember her just that way, to use that memory like fuel. She'd told him about the route along the river that would take him to town much faster than going through the swamps. With a satchel full of cash and a nude woman behind him, Chuggie marched toward Stagwater. He held her hair to his nose and inhaled her scent as he left.  ⊠⊠⊠ Dustiv Dawes wanted Fey Voletta more than he'd ever wanted anything else in his life. He always saw her around town looking miserable. Men with chiseled features and heavy wallets courted her in a seemingly endless stream, but gossips said she turned them all away. Dawes knew why. They weren't true men of action. Of course, neither was he. Yet. Fey Voletta had spoken to him on two separate occasions. The first instance occurred at the summer festival. At the crowd's edge, she'd looked him dead in the eye and sighed, "I need to get out of this place." Then she swept out of the square like the wind. The second time, he'd seen her walking down the street next to a Steel Jack. He jogged to catch up, hoping there'd be an opportunity to gain her attention. He couldn't hear her words, but she spoke angrily to the Steel Jack, something no one else would ever dare to do. Dawes had yet to catch his breath when she stopped without warning in front of him. He nearly ran into her when she turned and pointed a red-tipped finger at his chest. "How about you? Would you like to get me out of Shitwater and back to civilization?" Again, she looked straight into his eyes. Then, before he could manage a response, she turned and walked away. A woman like Fey Voletta, with her exotic mystique and dangerous beauty, needed a man who'd had great adventures. She needed a man who'd laughed in the face of death. A man, damn it all, who would take her away from Stagwater. Dawes wanted to be that man more than anything. No, Dawes was going to be that man. Dawes liked Carnietown better than the rest of the city, even though he was a Stagwater native. Natives were supposed to hate Carnies, but they fascinated him. Their romantic, nomadic lifestyle outshone Stagwater's stogy and boring daily grind like a sun next to a moon. The Carnies were like beautiful caged birds stranded in Stagwater. A Carnie woman named Faben Brassline interested Dawes above all other Carnie-folk. He thought of her as the key that would open the door to the rest of his life. Faben Brassline had once been a summoner in the Woodsmen. Their Lodge held her in good standing. If Dawes could get Faben's endorsement, he could go to the Woodsmen's Lodge and begin training. In no time at all, he knew he'd excel and become a full-fledged Woodsman himself. Then he'd find Fey Voletta, declare his love, and carry her away from Stagwater. He'd spend the rest of his days pursuing high adventure in the wilderness with a beautiful and deadly wife waiting at home. Of course, Dawes never told anyone about his love for Fey Voletta. So far Faben hadn't asked why he wanted to be a Woodsman. He didn't want to lie, but he suspected she wouldn't endorse him if he told her the truth. Dawes thought and thought, but so far he hadn't been able to think of what he would tell Faben when she finally asked him the question. Today, Dawes had books to exchange. One was a field guide to large predators. The other discussed the philosophy of the Woodsmen. Dry reading, certainly, but he'd read them cover to cover. He planned to trade them for others if he could ever find Faben's place. Dawes had been there plenty of times, but he always got turned around in the chaotic geography of Carnietown. His method for finding her house involved going toward the center of the ghetto until he got lost, and then wandering in circles until he spotted Faben's canary yellow door. He strode through the bustling slums, nodding at the residents. Most smiled at him and nodded back, which always impressed him. They had little reason to be happy, given their situation, but they were. Just a few minutes after he was sure he was lost, he looked to his left and saw the yellow door. A miracle! He had located Faben's place in record time. Mismatched sheeting formed the outer walls of Faben's home. It looked like all the other Carnietown hovels. The entire district looked like a heap of garbage with windows and doors thrown this way and that. As he knocked on Faben's door, Dawes felt a wave of pity for the Carnies who had to live in this mess. "Come in, Dawes," Faben called. "I finished reading these." He held up the books. Faben scrawled one last word in her summoner's manual and looked up at him. "Set them on the pile there." She pointed. The shanty was big enough for a bed, a table, a stove and little else. Faben kept the place clean and tidy, but Dawes doubted she'd be hosting a dinner party anytime soon. From the floor to the ceiling, stacks of books, thick enough to form an insulating layer, leaned against the walls. Every space that didn't hold books was crammed full of boxes. Dawes found an empty crack and stuffed the books in. He'd asked her once why she never unpacked her boxes. Like the other Carnies, she felt Stagwater would never be home. Home was the road, and her bags would remain packed. Faben stood and slid a chair out for Dawes. She was old enough to be his mother, perhaps even his grandmother, but she moved without a hint of stiffness. Faben stayed in better shape than he did, despite her age. She had a unique femininity, despite her short-cropped hair. This was partly due to her full lips and high cheekbones. Dawes had the impression her eyes were brown, but she always wore rectangular, yellow-tinted spectacles. He sat across from her and pointed at the summoner's manual. "What's today's entry in the old diary?" Faben closed her inkwell with a smile. "Techniques for summoning and banishing ghentels." She closed manual and pushed it to the side. "What did you think of the books I lent you?" "Very interesting." he said, nodding. She picked up another book from nearby and handed it to him. He read its title: "The Origin and History of the Lodge of Woodsmen." "Read it and learn it," Faben advised. "Read it five times if you have to." "It'll be my pleasure," Dawes said. "I didn't realize Woodsmen did so much reading." "They don't." Faben produced a match and lit a porcelain pipe in the shape of a falcon head. "But greenhorns do." He noticed that day's edition of the Provender newspaper stuck to the wall with a knife. He nodded at it. "Good news today?" Faben grinned. "The usual garbage from Haste. We Carnies cause all of Stagwater's problems. I didn't have a picture frame, so I hung it on the wall with my stabber." "I guess it wouldn't do any good to tell Provender's editor that the Carnies don't even want to be here?" He squinted at the newspaper. Faben shook her head and snorted a laugh. "Then there's Kagen Kale, that fucking goat-brain, telling the Carnies we've got to serve Stagwater. We haven't risen up and torn this place down. That'll have to be service enough for now." Dawes chuckled and wondered if the Carnies could really tear Stagwater down. He hoped so. Quick as a whip, Faben hurled another knife into the newspaper. "And Ronymous Fitch, he's the most annoying of all. He goes on with his rants about the end times. He thinks the Carnies should sign up for his goat-shit religion." "It's just like you told me, isn't it?" said Dawes. "The rich and the powerful are frightening the masses into submission. An informed public would drag them through the streets." He waited eagerly for her response.  "One day I'll reach the end of my rope." Faben lowered her head and narrowed her eyes. A little smile played on her lips. "When that day comes, there won't be anything left of this shit-pile city. No offense, Dawes." He laughed. He loved to see Faben get worked up. He hoped to have a good place to watch from if Faben ever reached her breaking point. He'd be glad to be her ally on that day. Faben sighed. "Haste and his goons all use torturgy and opium pine to enter the Pheonal trance. If I think about it too much, or actually start planning, they could catch wind of that. What's one more disappeared Carnie to those criminals?" She puffed at the falcon pipe and pondered the newspaper stabbed to the wall. Dawes let his eyes roam over the monumentally large piles of books. It would take him a hundred years to read them all. "When do I learn to fight monsters and summon creatures from other realms?" Faben's cold gaze flicked from the newspaper to his face. "You're very eager to be tested, my young friend." "Well, it's what I'm paying you for, right?" said Dawes. "The sooner I get your endorsement, the sooner I can begin training at the Lodge." She raised an eyebrow. "You pay me for assessment and for rudimentary training. But my endorsement cannot be bought!" Cold sweat formed on his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with one raised finger. "I know what you meant." Her voice rose. "You need to remember that there is no guarantee I'll sponsor you. If I do, there's no guarantee they'll accept you. If they accept you, there's no guarantee you'll complete training. If you complete training." She paused. "You'll probably die." She stared at him stone-faced for a long moment before her lips curled into an involuntary smile. She chuckled as she puffed away on the falcon head pipe. She grabbed another book off the stack and shoved it into Dawes' hands. Dawes laughed then, too. "Thank you for the book." He looked down at the title. "The Appetites of Lesser Demons. Well, just as long as none of them have a taste for ol' Dusty Dawes." Faben folded her arms and leaned back. "That's the problem. They all do." Chapter 8  Chuggie tramped along an overgrown logging road until he came to a big teardrop-shaped turnaround for oxcarts and the like. Seeing the terrain in daylight somehow made navigation easier than it had been at night. Perhaps someday he'd get out pen and paper to figure out why that was so. For now he just kept walking, trying not to get poked in the eye by branches. The city couldn't be much further, not if the smell of industrial smoke was any indicator. Approaching it in daylight would probably get him arrested, since the guardsmen had already turned him away. At least in darkness there was a slim chance of sneaking in. He should have lingered longer with Shola. Since he had the time, he wished he'd spent it getting nude with her. Stripping the body naked could be a symbolic gesture for stripping the soul naked. Two souls bared to each other had to be the ultimate act of honesty. He stumbled on a rock before he could fully explore the notion. Walking lackadaisically along, Chuggie whistled Shola's song. The sun dropped down behind the trees, and night tiptoed in. The moons shimmered into sight off to the east. Two crescent, one half, and one full moon. He gave them a friendly wave, doubting the celestial snobs would wave back. His tendency to become distracted had become quite distracting. The goat-face purse; that was his mission. He needed to stay on course, mind the sails. He held the rope of Shola's hair to his nose. He breathed her in. The trail grew darker as he advanced. When he listened he could hear the far-off percussion of factories. Would he be able to pass through the city gates freely? He had doubts. Would he be able to find and meet this Arden Voss character? He doubted that even more. If Stagwater's top leader agreed to meet a fellow who emerged from the wilderness on foot at night, he'd eat his hat. The trail bent around a corner, and Chuggie slowed. Something in the air didn't feel right. Just ahead, beams of moonlight stabbed through some leafless trees. He stopped just before he stepped into the moonlit section of the trail. For an instant, he could have sworn he heard someone breathing. Was he letting the moonlight and shadows get the best of him? Most likely. He walked on. Dry sticks and crunchy leaves crackled beneath his boots as he stepped into the patch of moonlight. Something burst from the brush behind him. Something burst from the brush ahead. "HA!" yelled the man in front, brandishing a dagger over his head. "DIE!" hollered the man behind, holding his dagger low. "Fools," Chuggie chuckled. They might've gotten him if they kept their mouths shut, but they had to sound a battle cry. Just like boys in a schoolyard playing pirates. There came a chink of chain as Chuggie flung his anchor at the frontal assailant. He felt the anchor's impact through the chain as it struck the man's chest. He yanked and swung the anchor behind him in a wide arc, high enough to catch the other man's head. A surprised grunt came as the chain met the side of the rear attacker's neck. Chuggie looped a section of the chain and tossed it over the punk's head. He pulled the chain tight. His battered attackers managed to stay on their feet, but just barely. Chuggie felt they'd be much more comfortable relaxing in the grass. He heaved on the chain, yanking one into the other. They fell in a heap. "What in the name o' piss was that all about?" Chuggie roared. Neither answered. They coughed and sputtered instead. Chuggie stood over them and struck a match. When his pipe was lit, he threw the used-up match at them. "Better start singin', little birds." Chuggie snorted smoke from flared nostrils. "I'd hate for this to get ugly, y'know?" Neither answered as they tried to get on their hands and knees. "I ought to make you eat each other's balls! Gravel and fury filled his voice. Lucky for you, I'm pressed for time. Now, I figure you both know who sent you an' why. If you both have the same exact knowledge and serve the same exact purposeâ€Åš well, then I don't need you both." "W-we thought you were a raider," stuttered one. "We're out here to protect against raiders." "No, you aren't." Chuggie grabbed up the daggers they'd dropped in the dirt. He stuffed one in his boot and clutched the other in his fist. "Say goodnight, chatterbox. I bet your friend here will be more helpful when he sees your headless body twitchin' in the weeds." "Okay!" coughed the shorthaired shithead with the chain around his neck. "We're supposed to keep you from coming to town. They sent us here to kill you so you don't attack our city." Chain-neck's partner moaned and clutched his chest. Both of them got to their feet. "You turd weasels got names?" said Chuggie. "Dan," said the shorter man of the pair. "That's Jaron." "Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt. Those're your names from now on. Sound good, Stinkface?" Dan nodded and tried to remove the chain. "Leave that chain where it is." Chuggie waved the knife. "You idiots have a lantern?" "Over there by the rest of our gear," said Jaron. They struggled to their feet and stumbled up the trail a little ways to where they'd hidden their things. "Light that thing up." Chuggie planted his boot on the Mutt's backside to give him a little extra encouragement. He dug a match out of his pocket and lit the lantern. "Sweet bleedin' bastard, is this a joke?" Chuggie said. "They sent two kids into the forest for a nighttime ambush? Ha! Whoever sent you boys out here don't care if you make it back!" "We can take care of ourselves just fine," said Jaron the Mutt. His long, black hair had come free of its ponytail. He tossed his head in a proud gesture that failed to get the hair out of his face. "Oh, obviously," Chuggie taunted. "You're born killers." "Look," said Stinkface Dan, "Why don't you just take our lanterns and daggers? Leave us here." "No, Stinkface, you're carrying the lantern." Chuggie puffed at the boar tusk. "We're gonna walk and you're gonna talk.  "Now grab up your gear. I gotta get you kids home for supper." Eyeballing their backpacks, Chuggie saw a bit of rope sticking out of one. He snatched it and fashioned the ends into leashes. He collared up his guides, and the three set off toward Stagwater. Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt kept glancing over their shoulders at Chuggie. Any fool could see they were planning a mutiny. He decided to play along and began staggering from side to side even more than usual. He added extra slurring to his speech, even a few phony hiccups. Chuggie couldn't make out everything they said, but he clearly heard the words drunk, kill, and get him. "Hold up there a minute." Chuggie bent down and fiddled with his bootlaces. "Damn the boots," he slurred. "Hey, kids, how 'bout you come gimme some light." The boys turned around and stepped toward Chuggie. They spread apart, doing their best to flank him. Dan and Jaron balled their fists, got up their courage, and made their move. The two segments of rope, each ending around a young man's neck, lay under Chuggie's boot. As they sprung, Chuggie stood and pulled the rope, using his boot as a pulley. Stinkface and the Mutt fell forward, their faces yanked toward the ground. Chuggie didn't let them fall on their faces, though. Dan got a knee to the nose. Jaron got a backhand to the mouth. Both of them landed on their backs on the opposite side of the road. Chuggie picked up the lantern and took a look at his stunned guides. "Break's over, ladies." Chuggie gave a tiny pull on the rope to make sure he had their attention. "First one on his feet doesn't have to carry the lantern." That got them moving. Jaron the Mutt won the contest. Dan wiped blood from his lip and took the lantern. Chuggie snapped their reins and they started moving again. "Look, dipshits, I see everything back here. Next time you start swappin' funny looks, I'll yank this rope so hard your heads'll pop off. You need to remember, you can get paid tonight or you can shit out your own teeth tomorrow. Maybe the next day." Chuggie felt satisfied the team had been properly motivated. "Shit our own teeth?" Jaron asked. "He's going to knock our teeth out and we're going to swallow them," Dan said. "We'll see about that," Jaron grumbled. "Okay, put your hands out," Chuggie said. Neither of them put their hands out. "Put your hands out, damn you. I'm not gonna chop 'em off." Reluctantly, they did as instructed. "Palms up," Chuggie growled. They obeyed, and Chuggie slapped both their palms with a small stack of cash. Jaron and Dan stared at the money with eyes and mouths open wide. "Now let's get to town. I'll pay twice that when we get where we're going, but if you try anything again, I'll take the money back along with them pretty hands. Got me?" Stinkface and the Mutt nodded grimly to one another and led on. "How about one of you tell me who sent you out here." He glared at the backs of their heads. When they didn't answer, he gave a little tug on the rope to remind them who held the reins. "Jaron the Mutt, you go ahead and tell me about it." "Fine," Jaron sighed. "Mr. Kale hired us. He said there'd be a man with horns and a chain out here. We're supposed to kill you." "Doesn't make sense," said Chuggie. "I don't know anybody named Kale, and I didn't decide to head into town until this afternoon." "They use the Pheonal trance to see the future. This is our second night out here waiting for you." Jaron looked over his shoulder at Chuggie. Dan elbowed Jaron and scowled at him. "Hands to yourself, Stinkface," Chuggie warned. "I told you before, I only need one o' you. Tell me, Mutt â€" who's this Kale guy?" "Kale is a magistrate. The Council of Magistrates runs Stagwater." Jaron looked at Dan apologetically and shrugged. "So they run the town. And you guys are gonna, what? Ride their coattails all the way to the top?" Chuggie chuckled. Neither Jaron nor Dan gave a reply. "I worked with some guys like you years and years ago." Chuggie examined a dagger in the moonlight. "Nice knife by the way. Looks expensive." His guides led on in silence. "These guys thought big things were in store â€" that they were on their way to the high country. Fleas on a big dog's back, that's all they were. They figured when the dog caught the rabbit it'd be their rabbit, too. They thought that when the dog won the dog show, they'd get little flea-sized ribbons." He thumbed the blade's edge. "Ooh, that's sharp! As it happened, these guys turned into actual fleas. I suspected witchcraft at the time. They were man-sized fleas at first. They showed up at work, did their job about the same as ever. They never stopped talking about how their fancy friends were carrying them to greatness. Lucky for the rest of us, nobody can understand a flea when it's talking." Chuggie pulled the other dagger out of his boot and examined it. It was identical to the first. "After about a week, we noticed that these giant fleas were actually shrinking, on their way down to actual flea-size. By the time they got down to the size of a rat, we all got sick of their chatter. A guy named Horny Hoff took a shoe and splattered them right there on the floor. Smell was fuggin' terrible, but we got the next day off. With pay." If the story resonated with Jaron or Dan, neither gave any indication.  ⊠⊠⊠ Kagen Kale did not like children. He especially did not like them in his home. Their filthy little fingers did little besides get fingerprints on his fine leather furniture and clean glass tabletops. Only the decorative shields, high on the walls, were safe from nasty little hands. Olin Stone was a shining example of all Kale despised in children. The boy sprawled on his couch, making himself right at home. He ate ice cream out of a dish, but most seemed to be smeared on the furniture. Each time the child took a spoonful, it dribbled on his shirt and face. The boy invariably wiped his mouth with his bare hand, then wiped the hand on the couch. A cloth napkin lay unused on Olin's lap. The child had been in Kale's home for less than three hours, and already he acted like he owned the place. Kale couldn't wait to be rid of his little visitor. In the orphanage, this boy always managed to squirm out of his mask. His only responsibility was to wear the damned thing, and he refused. Headmaster Banden had to continuously devise new masks that the child couldn't remove. The latest one covered the boy's entire head. As soon as they got to his house, Kale had removed the Olin's mask revealing an elfin face with brown eyes framed by sandy brown hair. Wasn't it just like a kid to be unhappy no matter what? This kid complained his face hurt just as bad without the mask. Kale took it off anyway. The kid whined and cried that he wanted to keep the mask. Kale let him have it, and the kid wore it on his belt. "Now that you live with me, we need to lay down some rules," Kale said. Olin looked up from his dish of ice cream. His eyes grew wide as if he were afraid Kale would take it away. He should take it from him. The brat had done nothing to earn a treat. Before Kale could say any more, his doorbell chimed. He stomped off to see who had the misfortune of interrupting him. He opened the door and let out a groan "Good evening, Kagen." Fitch entered without waiting for an invitation. "What do you want?" Kale narrowed his eyes. Fitch had no business showing up unannounced to his home. "Have I caught you at a bad time?" Fitch flashed a wide grin and bowed. "Yes!" Kale snapped. "What do you want?" "I'm meeting with Haste in a little bit. I want to know what to tell him about our little five-horned problem." Fitch leaned to peak into the next room. Kale leaned to block Fitch's view. "I haven't gotten a report yet. When I do, Haste will be the first to know. Not you." "Maybe you should join our meeting. I know you like to keep informed." Fitch's sly smile dared Kale to decline. "I have things to do." Kale grabbed Fitch's elbow and tried to lead him to the door. "Who's here? Who's that in the next room?" Fitch resisted Kale's urging and tried to see over his shoulder. "Not your concern." Kale blocked Fitch's view again. "I'm your friend," Fitch said. "Your problems are mine." "Yeah, we're regular old chums." Kale shuddered. "Didn't you say you had to be going?" Fitch glanced one last time into Kale's house, then walked toward the door. He turned. "I know you're up to something." "Nope, not a thing." Kale turned Fitch around and gave him a little push. Fitch shook him off. "That's not why I came. The Steel Jacks cancelled the watch at the towers and gates tonight. They are manning the posts themselves. The wall around Stagwater doesn't have a single human guardsman on duty. Haste wants to meet right away." "Why do you enjoy wasting other people's time so much?" Kale's nostrils flared like a horse's. "Peace, brother, peace," Fitch smirked and rubbed the charm around his neck. He stepped through the door and made his way down the walk. "See you in thirty minutes," he called over his shoulder. Kale slammed the door. That was the first and last time Fitch would ever enter his home. And what were the Steel Jacks up to? Would his men be allowed back into the city? If not, he supposed that wouldn't be so bad. If wild beasts devoured them in the night, that'd save him some money. No, he decided, he wanted to hear their report. This horned traveler situation needed to be resolved. He walked into the next room and stood in front of the boy. "Have you ever had angel's milk, young man?" Olin bit his lip in deep thought. "I don't know what that is, sir. Maybe I had it and didn't know it." "If you've ever had angel's milk, you would know it." Kale gave a wolf-like grin, and Olin's face lit up at the prospect of a new treat. Kale picked up the small silver bell on the end table and gave it a frantic ring. Before the last peals of the bell faded away, a young woman hurried into the room wiping her hands on her apron. With a timid smile, her eyes darted back and forth between Kale and the boy. Bruni Tallstaff, his whelp of a house girl, was in charge of tending the boy. Doing a piss poor job of it, too. "Olin's never had angel's milk, Bruni. I think it's time." Kale raised his eyebrows at her and wondered why she hadn't already trotted off to the kitchen. But she just stared at the boy, looking like she was about to start weeping. "Give him anything he wants," Kale said with an angry glare. He'd had just about enough of Bruni's constant sniveling. If she didn't watch her step, she could take the boy's place. He led her into the kitchen, growing angrier with each step.  "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't want to soundâ€Åš" she trailed off. "You can't do this to children." And there it was, the weak-willed female stance on the issue. No wonder only men could lead. "You're a woman, so I'll make this simple." Kale said with a voice that dripped contempt. "Sacrifices must be made." Bruni's lip trembled as she opened her mouth to reply. "Should I take you? Maybe one of your sisters?" Kale twisted his face into a threatening smile. "I don't want to have this conversation again. This is not your concern." Kale donned his black overcoat and stretched his neck as Bruni wiped tears away. "I've got a meeting," Kale said. "Give him whatever he wants." Kale stormed out of the house, making sure to slam the door.  ⊠⊠⊠ South of Stagwater, a strip of tamarack swamp stretched inland from the river. A low, wooden plankway built from heavy timbers, crossed the wetland. By lantern-light, Chuggie saw hoof marks imprinted in the wood, most likely from oxen towing loaded wagons. A thick cover of tamarack branches stretched over the plankway blocking the sky. Chuggie and his companions tripped along over the uneven boards. With no side rails they were in constant danger of falling into the swamp. Entering Stagwater would be a problem. One he could hopefully solve with a bribe. But there was always the chance that the guards wouldn't admit him at all. Chuggie followed the boys up to the heavy, barred gate. A painfully loud clacking cut through the air as hidden gears ratcheted the gate open. Chuggie snapped his head up to look at the watchtower. Two glowing eyes looked back â€" the eyes of a Steel Jack. Chuggie looked up at the glowing eyes and sighed. Just his luck. "Welcome." The Steel Jack's voice thundered in a low-pitched vibration. Chuggie bit back a surly reply. Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt looked over their shoulders at him. Stinkface raised up his eyebrow as if he too thought this was mighty strange. Chuggie shrugged. He snapped their reins and all three of them passed through the gate. It ratcheted shut behind them. Chuggie cast a backward glance at the tower. The Steel Jack watched, unmoving. Its eyes grew bright, then faded to black. Maybe it was a fool's wish to think he could dodge the metal-skinned aliens while in town. He felt better after they'd walked some distance from the tower. He looked up and down the street lined with shabby shops and skinny houses. His guides took him off the main drag and down a dim alley. What, didn't they want to be seen with ol' Chuggie? He clapped them on their backs. "So, where we headed, fellas?" "Carnietown," Dan said. "And what's Carnietown?" asked Chuggie. "It's where the Carnies live," Dan said with a matter of fact tone of voice. Chuggie put some tension on Dan's leash. "Boy, I haven't decapitated you yet. That doesn't mean I won't." "Yeah, yeah." Dan gave a dismissive wave. "The Carnies are the worthless dregs of Stagwater. Carnietown is their slum. It's the only place you could find a room." He tugged on his leash to pull Chuggie along at a faster pace. They rounded the side of a butcher's shop and emerged on the cobblestone street. Chuggie growled as he let Dan hurry him along, but he was actually quite satisfied. He felt right at home on skid row. Slum people were his people. They minded their own business, but helped if you needed it. Ghetto cocktails were cheap, and you could always find a good trash fire to drink them around. The slummier the better, as far as Chuggie was concerned.  "That's Carnietown up ahead," said Jaron. "Up where there are hardly any lights." "Thanks, Mutt," said Chuggie. He could already smell the trash fires and hear the distant shouts of his fellow drunkards. It almost felt like a homecoming. "There are a couple of shitty whorehouses in Carnietown." Jaron caught his reflection in a shop window and started straightening his ponytail. "They'll give you a room. It won't cost that much." "Take me to one with a bar." Chuggie didn't care about the whores, but he cared about getting a drink.  "I'm sure they all have a bar." Dan said. They stopped at the end of a garbage-stinking alley. Captor and captives were quite ready to be rid of each other. All around, little huts made of scrap metal and salvaged lumber squeezed together like hobos in winter. Here and there shops, taverns, and churches jutted out of the detritus. "There it is." Dan pointed just up the block. "Can we go now?" "You kept your end of the bargain, I'll keep mine." Chuggie dug in his satchel. He handed them each a stack of money. He had no idea how much.  "Jaron the Mutt? Stinkface Dan? Been a pleasure. A real pleasure. I know you tried to kill me twice, and I beat your asses for it both times. I know. In spite o' that, I feel like we really had some good times. It brings to mind a story about this fishin' boat I used to own. Y'see, me and these three other â€"." "Can we have our daggers back?" Jaron asked. Chuggie immediately thought of stabbing them both in the chest with their own blades. Were he to do so, he'd have to remember to say something like, "Here's your daggers back, you bastards." He'd have to come up with something better than that, but it was a good start. As he considered different ways of saying the line, he drew the daggers, one from his belt and the other from his boot. Instead of committing double murder, Chuggie threw the daggers down the dark alley to his right. Dan and Jaron grimaced hearing the clang of their fancy weapons hitting the stones. He dropped the rope at their feet, turned toward the tavern, and left his new chums behind. Chuggie looked up at the sign in front of the establishment. It was a marvel to behold. Elegant letters spelled 'The Gulping Goat' across the top. Beneath that, a feminine liquor bottle â€" complete with a face, arms, and legs â€" poured booze from her bottle-shaped breasts. A goat in a fine suit-coat caught the liquor in his smiling mouth. In one hoof, the goat held a mug of ale. In the other, a wad of cash. The goat's erect penis had a face that smiled up at the liquor lady. If the sign was any indicator, he was going to enjoy The Gulping Goat. Chuggie pushed through the door prepared to spend plenty of Shola's money on drinks and a room. The wiry, middle-aged bartender looked up at Chuggie and snarled like he wanted to fight. Scattered around the room, all dressed up in their finest rags, the few customers in the place looked like they wanted to go die somewhere. The woman dancing on the platform would pass out if she were any drunker. A few other women wandered about, trying to be friendly to the miserable patrons. One of the ladies had a black eye. "What kind of entertainment are you looking for tonight?" asked the bartender. He ran his fingers over his slicked-back hair. He applied the dab of grease, collected from his hair, to his stringy handlebar mustache. "Just a drink for me," Chuggie said. "What?" the bartender scoffed. "Well? What do you want to drink?" "Uh," Chuggie wrinkled his nose. "Pour me a pitcher of your best." The bartender shook his head as he stomped off. Chuggie took a seat on a barstool. He immediately hopped back off as something sharp poked him in the ass. He ran a hand over the seat and discovered a sharp metal spring poking up through the top of the stool. It was the color of rust, and nearly invisible to the naked eye. He ran his hand over the next stool before he sat again. Other barstools and chairs were held together by tape. Some had mismatched legs. One of the gloomy patrons, a doughy man in a dirty poncho, stared at Chuggie. The guy could barely keep his eyes open, and Chuggie wondered how long he'd be able to stay atop his stool. A few moments later the bartender returned with an undersized pitcher filled half with beer and half with foam. "You own this place?" Chuggie asked. "Yes. Five bucks for the beer," said the bartender. "Who painted your sign out front?" "I did. Five bucks." The bartender stuck a hand out. Chuggie fished in his satchel for some money. He felt some cash, pulled it out, and handed a bill with a '5' on it to the angry barman. All the cash featured magnificent stags standing in water. The five buck note had five stags. Ten stags for the ten buck note. Chuggie wondered how many bucks he had left. Maybe it was time to count. "Hey, barkeep!" he called. "Got a washroom in this dungeon?" The barman waved toward the back of the place then turned away. Chuggie walked and drank, gulping the pitcher dry before he got halfway across the room. He slammed the empty pitcher onto a table slightly harder than intended and made his way to the commode. Once inside, he closed the door and sat against it. Someone, it appeared, had flung mud at the far wall. Apparently, the mud in Stagwater stunk like shit. He needed to conclude his business in this room quickly. He started counting cash and discovered far more paper bucks than he thought. So long as he had the satchel, he didn't have to worry about going broke anytime soon. Unless, of course, he lost the satchel. Chuggie folded money and stuffed it in his boots. He filled his pockets. He tucked some under his skull-cap. Everywhere he could think of, he hid money. After checking to make sure he hadn't dropped any, Chuggie rose and left the room. He sucked greedily at the clean-by-comparison air of the bar. He looked to his left at the sad bar scene. To his right, a board propped the rear door open. The dark alley outside invited him to enjoy its tranquility. "Hey!" The angry little bartender shouted at Chuggie as Chuggie pondered the exit. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, the universal gesture for money. "You want a tip, you greedy weasel?" Chuggie called out. "I'll pay you in one respectâ€Åš I'll let you live." He walked out the back door. The alley's quiet darkness offered a scene at least thirty-eight times better than the one inside. The establishment didn't deserve such a wonderful sign as hung over its door. A crafty fellow wouldn't have much trouble at all getting his hands on that masterpiece. He wedged himself against the wall in the shadow of a trash bin, and got out his pipe for a smoke. Before he struck his match, however, he heard rapid footsteps approaching. Chuggie sat quiet and still in the shadows. The footsteps stopped nearby. "Are you sure about this?" asked a voice he recognized. Chuggie, without making a sound, leaned out from behind the trashcan.  Jaron the Mutt stood right there, plain as day, in the alley. "Yes, dammit!" said Stinkface Dan. "Bastard threw our blades down the fucking alley after parading us through town like goddamned dogs. Penalty for that is death in my book. And remember, we are supposed to kill him." Light from inside the bar glinted off the edges of Dan and Jaron's daggers. "Aren't there going to be witnesses in there?" Jaron said. "Or are we just supposed to kill everyone inside?" "I don't see the authorities doing an investigation, but if you're worried put your scarf over your face," Dan pulled his scarf up over his mouth as he spoke. They hurried into the bar. Chuggie waited and listened. Nothing happened. A moment later, they darted back out into the alley. "How could we miss him?" Jaron looked right and left. "Shit!" Dan kicked the trash bin next to Chuggie. "He beat us. The drunken bastard beat us." "What do we do now?" asked Jaron. "Go home and get some sleep." Dan gave the trash bin another kick. "Fuck it all, we've got to report to Kale in the morning. We better have something good to tell him." "Can't say we got our asses kicked," Jaron agreed. "We were bewitched!" Dan raised his hands to the sky. "He used some kind of conjury to see our ambush. He was ready waiting for us. Then he bewitched us!" They left the way they came, and Chuggie had the alley to himself once more. He got up and walked in the opposite direction.  ⊠⊠⊠ As Kale had predicted, Haste's little meeting had been a waste of time. Haste could cry about the Steel Jacks all day and night, but nothing would ever change. Kale knew the answer was to take control â€" just take it.  Kale poured himself a glass of whiskey. He admired the amber light shimmering through the most expensive liquor in Stagwater. When he entered the sitting room to enjoy his drink, he was assaulted by the sight of the little shit orphan boy sleeping on his fine leather couch. The child had either spilled a drink or pissed himself, and Kale didn't see an empty glass anywhere. He already felt like stomping a kitten, having lost his entire evening in Haste's office. And having Fitch present at the meeting hadn't done anything to improve his mood. Haste loved group discussions, but he never followed Kale's sound advice. If he did, the fat bastard always claimed the idea was his own. I had the very same notion, Haste would say. Hearing you say it reinforces its validity. Kale swirled the liquor around in his glass and glared at the brat on his couch. He was through having his best ideas stolen. Once he took his rightful place, he'd put an end to that bullshit. Would he keep Haste on staff as some sort of consultant or put him in charge of collecting goat shit? Would he execute Fitch for bogus treason charges? For that matter, would he execute them both for conspiracy? Or would he simply dissolve the Magisterial Council and lock them up? A warm tingle of pleasure spread through Kale. He knew exactly what he'd do. He'd bewitch them and send them on a northbound hike. He laughed into his drink. The orphan on his couch stirred in his sleep. The boy was the key to Kale's success. Kale would put up with as much urine on his couch as he had to. He fought the urge to grab the boy right then and there, drag him out to the woods, and get on with his plan. "Haste only leads to mistakes. It's all going to work out soon enough," he said to himself. "A little death, a little paperwork, and Chief Magistrate Kale will hold the reins." Chapter 9  Chuggie wandered up one alley and down another. Carnietown was not as cheerful as its name suggested. The litter-strewn streets formed a maze through the shanties cobbled together out of bits of metal and scraps of wood. He was relieved to see most of the people out tonight were at least as intoxicated as he was. He followed a boisterous group of men to The Fifty Moons Inn. Chuggie stepped over a laughing vagrant and peered in the window. Inside, tattered-looking patrons crowded around the bar. They toasted each other, cheered and clapped. Onstage, a heavy-set gal sang in front of an old-timer with an accordion and a guy banging a bucket like it was a drum. On the sign over the entrance, glowing white spheres strung together spelled "The Fifty Moons Inn." The sign painter obviously intended the spheres to represent moons. Chuggie resisted the urge to count them. It'd take a mighty talented artist to use all fifty moons. Some sort of magic must have lit up those painted moons. However it was done, he liked it. When Chuggie entered the bar, no one noticed. The patrons were either too deep in conversation or too enthralled by the chesty singer and the songs she belted out. Her smoky voice sang of carnivals in distant lands and ships lost at sea. Now more than ever, Chuggie loved songs about the sea. Tonight, the song made him think about how, before long, he and Shola would smell the warm, salty air of the ocean. Chuggie slid a stool up to the bar and plopped himself down. The décor featured dirty moon paintings, chipped moon carvings and cracked mirrors with moons painted on them. The bartender made his way over. "What'll you have, stranger?" The man, a lanky fellow in his late thirties, jittered and twitched as if he lived only on coffee. "Lemme get a pitcher of your best," Chuggie said. "That's going to be four bucks," The barman said. He didn't move, as if he was sure Chuggie would decide to order something cheaper. "I'll take it." Chuggie grinned and slapped some bills on the bar. "All right then, a pitcher it is." The barman hustled away to the tap. His eyes darted around as if searching for the next thirsty customer. He itched at a metal collar around his neck as the beautiful, golden ale streamed into the waiting pitcher. Chuggie smiled upon seeing the man tilt the pitcher. Here was a guy who knew how to pour beer, and that alone would earn him a good sized tip. Already, The Fifty Moons Inn had far surpassed The Gulping whatever it was. The barman set the big, beautiful pitcher of frothy goodness in front of Chuggie, along with a single glass. Ignoring the glass, Chuggie lifted the pitcher and drank the beer down. The bartender watched as if amazed. Chuggie drained the pitcher and slammed it on the bar. "What the hell you got around your neck?" Chuggie asked. The singer finished a song, and the bar filled with applause. The bartender raised his voice to be heard over the din. "It's a torturgy collar," he said. "The sign out front â€" this keeps it lit. If I take it off, the sign'll go dark." The barman grabbed the pitcher and refilled it. "If you can do that again, this one's on me. They call me Baker, by the way." He set the pitcher down in front of Chuggie. Chuggie shook his head with a grin. Torturgy? For something as minor as lighting a bar sign? He chuckled, lifted the pitcher, and guzzled it down. Banging the empty pitcher on the bar, he unleashed a mighty belch of satisfaction. The ale had been masterfully brewed. The bartender applauded. A woman perched on a stool down the bar a ways cheered for him, too. She undid the top button on her blouse and tossed her hair. "Hey, big drinker," she grinned, displaying a smile with a few gaps in it. "Come and sit by me a while." She unbuttoned another button of her blouse. "Alrighty." Chuggie said as he got up from his stool. "Hate to pass up some nice scenery." At that moment, a big, burly man with a face scarred from brawling stepped up behind her. His sneer said he wanted a fight. Her hungry smile said she wanted to see the fight. Chuggie veered from his course and headed toward an empty table along the wall. The young, blonde waitress smiled at him and leaned down to take his order. He smelled the liquor spilled on her clothes and felt a little bad for her. He ordered a jug of good wine and resolved to tip the young lady well. "Nice hat." Another young woman, a girl really, called out from the next table over. Her friends agreed, and their voices merged in a chorus of giggling. He couldn't tell if they were making fun of him or not, but he tossed them a twenty-buck bill just the same.  Before he'd even managed to get his pipe lit, the waitress returned with his wine and a glass. Not bothering with the glass, Chuggie glugged his wine from the bottle and smoked his pipe. Glug, smoke, glug, smoke. A man, skinny as a post and drunk as a monk, stumbled over to Chuggie's table. He sat himself down, nearly turning the table over. "'Nother bottle o' Hound's Head," the skinny drunk yelled across the room. "Thanks," Chuggie nodded. "Don't mind if I do." He didn't know if he wanted a drinking buddy or not, but he was sure he didn't want it to be this guy. "What you wearing that chain for?" the young man asked. A bit of drool slid down his chin as he pointed a wavering finger.  "Shipwreck." Chuggie put a hand on the anchor. "Every man who survived wears one o' these for the men who didn't." Chuggie bowed his head thoughtfully, giving the impression that a long, depressing story would follow. This was an old trick: make it seem the story is as sad as it is long, and people will leave you right alone. That skinny young fella all of a sudden had important business to attend to. He tipped his hat and went on his way. For a while, Chuggie watched a woman spin on her bar stool. In spite of the spinning she did a pretty good job of singing along with the crooner onstage. Chuggie did his very best to ignore the conversations going on all around him. He'd have enjoyed himself more if he didn't speak the language. Who was belly-slappin' who didn't interest him any more than who owed money to the drunk hollering two tables away. Chuggie just wanted to be there, to glug his wine and puff his pipe like some kind of Steel Jack-designed coal engine.  "Hey, stranger!" The scar-faced brawler from the bar bumped Chuggie's elbow. "Do you know what we do to people like you when they come in here?" Without taking his eyes off his pipe, Chuggie said, "Buy 'em a beer and a steak?" "No!" "Then I ain't interested." Chuggie's fingers tightened around his pipe. "Piss off." The man grabbed Chuggie's shoulder. Chuggie looked down at the guy's hand as he rose to his feet. He turned his gaze to that sneering, jigsaw face. "Get that hand off me, or I'll keep the damn thing as a trophy." And his night had been going so well. The man threw a quick jab. His fist connected with Chuggie's mouth. It wasn't a powerful blow, but it stung plenty. Baker the Bartender jumped from behind the bar and scurried to intercede. Chuggie lowered his head. He spat blood. Did it always come to this? Sure seemed like it. His arm shot out, delivering a speedy back-hand to his new pal. One the fellow's bloody teeth flew through the air and landed in the giggling girl's drink. She and her friends screamed and laughed at the same time. The guy twisted and fell to the floor. His hands clapped to his face and he moaned as if he was pretending to be a ghost. The man whimpered as he sat up, holding his mouth. His jaw hung open and off to the right. "Got what you deserved this time." Baker dragged the man to the door and shoved him out onto the street. He delivered one last kick to the man's backside. Chuggie dropped down into his chair and scowled hard enough to keep everyone away. He wished he was back with Shola, naked in the autumn sun, with clouds dancing behind her. One eye blue, one eye white. He held the rope of her hair to his nose. Maybe it was time to call it a night. Drinking in a bar wouldn't help him find the goat-face purse he was after. The mission, the mission. Shola. He puffed on the boar-tusk pipe. His cloud of smoke kept growing and growing. "Aach! A man smokes like that, ought to do it outdoors." Chuggie snapped back to reality. "Sorry 'bout that. Guess I got a little carried away in my thoughts." A spry-looking woman with short hair had walked up. Her eyeglasses were amber rectangles that glinted when they caught the light. He couldn't tell her age, but her tone and posture said she'd seen a lot. Her stern brow said she didn't take any shit. "I'm Faben Brassline." She dropped into the chair across from him without asking. Intrigued, Chuggie held out a hand. "Name's Norchug mot Losiat." Maybe she was worth a minute of his time. If she wasn't worth talking to, he'd be on his way. Faben shook his hand. "Where'd you get that fancy pipe of yours?" Chuggie looked to his left and right as though he had a secret. "On the afternoon I captured this here trophy," Chuggie stroked the smooth side of his pipe, "I came across a whole herd o' firehogs. Dozens of 'em, no less than fifty. I tracked these wily beasts to their lair, silent as death and twice as deadly, I was. They knew I was coming for 'em, just not when. The crafty bastards, they waited and waited and planned their ambush." Chuggie's face was as serious as an empty bottle. Faben helped herself to a glass of wine from his jug. Deciding to act civilized, Chuggie poured wine into his own unused glass.  "I crept among those hogs, invisible. I could've walked right on top of any of 'em, and they'd just have thought it was the wind. "I didn't have any weapons, mind you. I was the weapon. No conjury, neither. Just wits, cunning and balls. I leaned against the big male â€" the hog honcho â€" and I had a smoke. He never knew I was there, jus' that somethin' was wrong. He looked around in a panic while I puffed right behind his ear. Faben narrowed her eyes and leaned back a little, like she was sizing Chuggie up. "When I finished my smoke, I plunged my hand through his ribcage and tore out his liver." Chuggie shot his hand out and made a twisting motion. "That ole' hog turned and tried to gore me, but I fed him his own liver instead. A group of swine charged at me from the side, so I threw his twitching carcass at 'em. They flew through the air, squealing until they smacked into trees and boulders. Some of them came back at me, but I broke their spines with my fists. "They blew fire on me and attacked in waves from afternoon till morning. When I finished, I strolled over to the big male and yanked out his tusks. I made this one into a pipe." He leaned his head back. "I like a smoke with my bacon." "Let me see how it smokes." Faben grabbed the pipe from Chuggie and held it to her lips. She closed her eyes half way, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a plume of smoke. While her expression didn't change, Chuggie knew she was experiencing new heights of smoky bliss. "It'll do." She handed the pipe back. "It'll do," Chuggie sputtered. "You just smoked the finest pipe in all the land." Faben rolled her eyes. "How come I've never seen you before, Mr. Norgit Mutt Lazy-tot?" "Nor–chug Mot Lo-si-at. But everyone calls me Chuggie." "You new in town? Norgmuggie? What brings you here?" He grinned as he realized she was giving him a little shit with regards to his name. He respected that. "Came to town to see a fellow name of Arden Voss." "You don't say." Faben scratched her chin and studied Chuggie. "What you want with him?" Chuggie shrugged. "Doesn't he, y'know, run the town?" "You really aren't from around here, are you?" The drunk two tables away guffawed and mentioned to someone they owed him money. The table of girls rose and fell in tides of ear-stabbing laughter. The singer onstage broke into a ballad about murder and an instance of double dealing. "That would be a factual statement," Chuggie said.  "Arden Voss is an old man. He doesn't run anything anymore." Faben helped herself to another slug of Chuggie's wine. She didn't bother pouring it in a glass this time. "The Chief Magistrate these days is a man by the name of Haste. What do you need with the Chief Magistrate, anyhow?"  Questions aplenty sprouted in his mind like witchgrass. This Faben dame seemed interested in asking more questions than she wanted to answer. Didn't she understand his questions were more important? No, she clearly did not. He'd have to indulge her a little if he wanted any information out of her. "Couple of days ago, some guards stopped me from coming into the city," Chuggie said. "They told me I had to go north. Said there'd be easy passage and an old bridge to cross the river. That make any sense to you?" "North?" Faben leaned forward. "Did you go?" "Nah," said Chuggie. "I waited for dark an' went south. What's so special about the north?" "Anybody who knows isn't saying. But when people mess around up there, they end up as a gut-pile found by patrols, if they're found at all. And for reasons I can't figure out it's the Carnies most often that end up that way." "You've got a special soft spot for the Carnies?" "Being I'm one of 'em." Faben scowled. "And I'm tired of scraping my friends and relatives off the side of the road." She furrowed her eyebrows until they met right over her nose, then leaned closer to Chuggie. "If you ask me, the Magistrates have something to do with whatever's up north." Chuggie nodded and puffed. "Yeah, somethin's rotten up there. My hostages pretty much told me so." "Hostages?" Faben froze with the bottle one inch from her mouth.  "When I came into town tonight, I got attacked by some guys on the way. I masterfully subdued 'em and made 'em bring me into town. They brought me to The Gulping Goat." "Ha." Faben snorted. "And them whores let you out without a hitch in your walk?" Chuggie pointed to himself with both thumbs. "I fought 'em off with an ax and a can o' beans. The service in there left somethin' to be desired." Faben smirked knowingly. "You got to buy koochie to get friendly service there. Who do you think it was attacked you in the woods?" "Names were Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt," Chuggie said. "I don't know any Stinkfaces or Mutts," she said. "Guess they were supposed to kill me." He ran a thumb across his throat in a slitting gesture and poured some wine down his throat. "I'll give 'em credit, though. They had good position on me out in the woods. They were just five or six different kinds of sloppy." "Sounds about right," Faben nodded. She lowered her voice until it was barely audible over the music. "For all the trouble these people causing for everyone they about got as much sense as a sack of gravel. Somebody who's got some sense ought to be able to knock them down a notch." Billiard balls cracked. Across the room, a glass smashed to the floor. Faben jumped and looked over her shoulder. "What're you afraid of?" Chuggie asked. "Nothing." Faben said louder than necessary. "When someone's as jumpy as a frog in heat, that tells me they're afraid of something." "Can't be too careful these days. You can get arrested and locked down just for talking to the wrong person in Stagwater. No offense, Chuckie, but I don't know if you're a wrong person." She swigged the wine. Chuggie puffed on his pipe as he pondered this idea. "These guys that jumped meâ€Åš they said they worked for a magistrate name of Kale." Faben sat up straight. "None of the magistrates do jack shit on their own. All of 'em take their marching orders from Haste." She looked around to see if anyone might be eavesdropping. "If Kale wanted you dead, so does Haste. You got somebody's attention over there." "That's good because I need to have myself a talk with this Haste fellow." "Even though he wants to kill you?" "Especially though he wants to kill me," Chuggie smirked. "Why do you want to see him about?" "I'm going to see the man about a goat." "Pfshaw, keep your secret business secret, then. But you better watch out for the Steel Jacks. They'll get your secrets out of you if you cross their path." Chuggie knew more about Steel Jacks than he cared to. Their alien kind had been on his butt like a bear on honeycomb for as long as he could remember. Those rift-crawlers always had some sort of proposal for him. From the time they first stepped out of the Tetracardi Rift three centuries ago, they seemed a little too eager to help. They claimed the rift opened one way, and that they couldn't go back through. True or not, there was no way to verify this, since the Steel Jacks had put that crackling tear in reality on lock down. He never trusted their otherworldly motives, and their offers always stunk of fine print obligations. "So Brassline, you ever do any dancing?" Chuggie cocked his thumb in the direction of a sad little cluster of dancers swaying in front of the stage. "Not with the likes of you, I don't." Faben crossed her arms over her chest. "Aw, come on. I'll teach you." Chuggie held out his hand. "I know how. I'm just not doing it. If you know what's good for you, you won't ask me again." "All right, all right." Chuggie let his hand drop. "I had this pal once who said a woman who won't dance with you can't be trusted because they're always secretly plotting to have you killed. I think that part had more to do with the kinds of women Korkorahn shacked up with, but â€"." "You know that name?" Faben's eyes grew wide. "Korkorahn?" Chuggie asked, loud enough that she squirmed in her seat. She put a finger to her lips. "Shh, are you crazy? You can't talk about him." "You know him?" "Yeah, I know him. Keep your fucking voice down. He brought all us Carnies here." Faben glanced over her shoulder and leaned closer. She whispered. "I'm the summoner for The Great Korkorahn's Traveling Carnival of Wonderment and Oddities." "You don't say. Ain't that fuggin' something." Chuggie grinned. "This world is about as small asâ€Åš good ole Korkorahn, how the hell is he."  "Shhh!" Faben clamped her hand over her mouth to demonstrate when the people at the next table turned to look. She took out a scrap of paper and a pen. She scribbled and handed the paper to Chuggie. "This is my address. Visit tomorrow and we'll talk. But not here." Faben jumped up from her chair and rushed out the back door. "Hmmph. Could've said good night, you know." Chuggie picked up the wine bottle and tilted it on its side. "Empty." "Closing time." Baker called out. He flickered the lights. "Suppose I ought to put myself to bed." Chuggie lurched out of his chair and waded through the people leaving the bar. "Excuse me, stranger," said a youthful-looking woman with startling red hair. Her silky white wrap clung to her body like a wet sheet. "Apologies, my dear," said Chuggie, amused with himself for dozens of drunken reasons and trying not to stare at her breasts. A pair of drunks rammed into Chuggie. "Hey, watch where you're going ass-hole," the tallest one said. "Yeah," the other agreed. Their loud, slurring voices turned to yelps of pain as the young redhead punched them both in their stomachs. They hunched over, wailing and holding their guts, then shoved their way to the door and disappeared into the night. "I'm Fey Voletta." The young woman held out her hand. She had some sort of darkish fluid on her hand, but in the dim bar light, he couldn't tell what it was. He gave her a sloppy, oafish handshake. "Ray Fervetta, it's nice to meet you. I'd love to stay and chat, but about now bed-ways is best-ways." Chuggie smiled, tipped an invisible hat brim, and stumbled past her. He lurched up to the bar. "Baker, my friend, is this a good place to rent a room?" Baker grinned. "Twenty bucks an hour." "I'm not talkin' about a bonin' room," Chuggie said. "I'm talkin' about a sleepin' room." The bartender laughed. "We have those, too, if sleeping is what you really want to do. Sixty a night." Chuggie chuckled and shook his head. "I think I'll be heading to my room now." "Yes sir," Baker said as he stepped from behind the bar and opened a door. Chuggie plodded down a poorly lit staircase. The rough-sawn stairs creaked with each step. The basement was eerie in its dark, empty silence. If he had to leave in the night, he could be in trouble. The bare cement of the floor glistened with moisture. He lurched from side to side, bouncing off cracked plaster walls until he arrived at a door with a yellow number '12' painted upon it in. "This is it," Baker pointed. Chuggie shoved the key into the lock. The small, dank room stunk like a wet dog, but at least there were no damnable windows. The glassy bastards always seemed to let the sun in hours earlier than necessary. Chuggie splashed onto the bed. It smelled of dust and mold, but that didn't bother him in the least. It had been a very long time since he'd had a real bed under his back. The last clomping footsteps left the bar above as Chuggie watched the ceiling spin. Lying on his back, he grabbed the edge of the bed to keep from falling off. He did his best to enjoy the ride. As the room slowly grew drier and drier around him, Chuggie drifted ever closer to sleep. Questions stampeded through his mind like a herd of goats on fire. He tried to ponder them, one by one, but somnias, mischievous little slumber-sprites, danced behind his eyelids and pulled him down into a deep, dreamless sleep. Chapter 10  Pounding, pounding. Horrible, hell-born noise hammered at Chuggie's head as he fought to stay asleep. What vile sound chiseled at his dreams? Had the gathered demons of every hell massed upon his brow? "Are you in there, sir?" a distinctly human voice called from the other side of waking. "No!" Chuggie rasped. His voice answered on its own. "There's nobody here!" "There is a Steel Jack waiting for you upstairs." Baker's voice sounded even more agitated than it normally did. Chuggie groaned. He sat up squinting at the door. "What does it want?" "Mr. Non says he'd like to help you. He says he is at your disposal. I'd like to strongly encourage you come upstairs and meet with him?" Chuggie shuffled over to the door and pulled it open. With one eye squeezed shut, he glared at Baker. The man twitched and fidgeted so fiercely, Chuggie was amazed he hadn't come out of his shoes. "How do I get you to go away?" he grumbled. "I'm honestly more concerned with how I get the Steel Jack to go away. He wants you to go upstairs and see him. Please, please, go and see him." Baker no longer wore his bar-sign collar, but he rubbed nervously where it had been. His gaunt face spoke of no sleep, little food, and plentiful paranoia. Chuggie buried his face in his hands. With a gesture, he could tear the water from Baker's body. That would put the poor bastard out of his misery. And if he were a thirteen pound dried-out husk, Chuggie could get some sleep. Of course, Chuggie would likely lose control and wipe out the entire city. He sighed, and instead of committing mass murder, he gathered his things and followed Baker down the hall. "You folks ought to clean these rooms. Enough mold down here to choke a fuggin' goat," he said as he climbed the rickety stairs. "Yeah, I know," Baker said. He opened the door to the bar and held it for Chuggie. Chuggie squinted into the bright daylight streaming into the dilapidated drinking hall. A nice tavern was a thing of beauty. No one should ever lay eyes on a good one in the daylight. Sucks all the magic right out of it. Before Chuggie took in too many of the bar's shabby features, a large metal hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Ah, Norchug Mot Losiat! It is so nice to meet you at last," buzzed the voice of a Steel Jack. "I am Non." "Hello there, Non," Chuggie said. "Baker here tells me you've got something you want to see me about. Mighty early in the morning for socializing, if you ask me."  Baker scurried to the far end of the bar and found a glass that needed a polish. His eyes darted from the Steel Jack to the front door. Chuggie took a seat. The Steel Jack, being much too big and heavy for a stool, lowered himself to a kind of squat. Non's alien legs bent in two different places, and he held himself motionless. It wasn't as though Steel Jacks had muscles that would tire. "You are a unique individual, Mr. Mot Losiat, and we Steel Jacks would like to accommodate you in any way possible." Non's friendly act was as transparent as it was untimely. Chuggie's sorry ass should have still been in bed. "How'd you know I was here?" Chuggie's eyes wandered over to the beer tap. "Don't you recognize me? I opened the city gate for you last night," buzzed Non. "Guess you all kinda look alike," Chuggie said. "Baker, I'll have a pitcher of your best, long as I'm here." Chuggie let his bag fall to the floor and began fidgeting with his pipe. Baker's shoulders slumped, and he looked like he might cry. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He began filling a pitcher with none of last night's enthusiasm. "How'd you know I was at this particular inn?" Chuggie loaded his pipe up and dug around in his pocket for a match. "We heard report of a stranger in an altercation with a local last night," Non said. "Our representative came to investigate and identified you." Since the Steel Jacks provided law enforcement, nobody would want to go admitting to any wrongdoing in their presence. That could get a guy locked up. "No, no. Hardly call that brawling. Just some pals rough-housin'. In any case, that shit-pile came at me. I gave 'im a little tap, sure, but he hit the floor like he'd been hit by a fuggin' cannon." "You broke his jaw," said Non. "Thought I got the nose, too." Chuggie waved at the bartender. "Yeah, bring that right on down. I'm useless until I had my breakfast." "I am sure he had it coming," Non buzzed. "S'pose some might make that argument, yeah. Hey, Baker. That guy deserve what he got last night, or what?" Baker's hands shook so much that beer sloshed over the side of the pitcher. He set it down and shrugged, apparently wanting to stay out of the conversation. "Got a match?" Chuggie leaned over the bar with his pipe. Baker fumbled around behind the bar. Non reached out with one of the little hands coming from his neck. A small jet of flame sparked between two metal talons. He lit Chuggie's pipe and put the small hand back over his head. "What brings you to Stagwater, my friend?" Non asked. "I was headin' east. I have a tiny bit of business to handle, then I'll be on my way." Chuggie lifted up his pitcher and drank it down. Delicious. The only thing better than beer in the morning was beer in the evening. And beer in the afternoon. Chuggie burped. "In fact, I ought to be on my way already. Time's wasting."  "What can we help you with?" Non asked. "Not one single thing." His better judgment told him not to involve a Steel Jack in his personal business. "Nothing at all?" Non leaned forward and placed his metal hand on Chuggie's shoulder. Chuggie pondered the metal-encased creature for a moment. He glanced down at the hand on his shoulder that kept him from getting up. Maybe he was missing an opportunity here. "All right, you wanna help so bad? Get me a meeting with this guy they call Haste. Can you do that, tin can?" Non spread the little hands by his neck in a strange bug-like expression of mock surprise. "Why, what a coincidence. I was just going to see the Chief Magistrate right now!" Chuggie narrowed his eyes and studied the Steel Jack. "That is a mighty strange coincidence." Chuggie said. "Strange but true." Non buzzed and hummed as he laughed his odd mechanical laugh. "Allow me to escort you." Chuggie overpaid for his drink and hoisted up his bag. An expression of profound relief washed over Baker's face. Chuggie wondered if the man might have wet himself. With a nod to the bartender, he followed Non's clomping steps out the door. Chuggie'd have to be on his guard. A Steel Jack would act like his best friend, but only to distract him from their agenda. Every deal had fine print, and Steel Jack fine print, for some reason, gave Chuggie chills. Rubbing his eyes, he stepped out into the blinding sunshine. Chuggie had yet to see Stagwater in daylight. Before he could open his eyes to take a gander, Non opened the door to his sleek black carriage. Chuggie hacked and spat into the gutter. The streets were abuzz with people shuffling to their jobs, but none cast more than a glance at Chuggie or Non. Chuggie tossed his bag into the vehicle and climbed in behind. Chuggie sat on the glossy metal bench-seat facing Non as the coach sailed up the lane. Basically an elongated, gloss-black bubble, the thing moved down the street unobstructed. No driver sat atop or inside the coach. Somehow, Non drove the thing without using his hands. The Steel Jack didn't even look forward. But creatures of pure energy didn't have eyes,Se so that explained that. The eye-slots in their metal suits just existed to help put humans at ease. As the coach rolled on, Chuggie scowled out the darkened window. Being in debt to a Steel Jack appealed to him about as much as having his eyes chewed out by horny rats. Being coerced into anything â€" even a ride down the street â€" made him feel like someone was slipping a collar around his neck. There was always a catch. Nobody gave out favors for free, especially not Steel Jacks. "Right. What the hell do you gain in settin' up this sit down?" Chuggie said. He didn't expect an honest answer. "I hope you will think of Steel Jacks as your allies in the future. That is all." Chuggie leaned forward. "Don't think I'm climbing up in your pocket. I won't be around long enough to go into debt." "My friend," Non buzzed, "You owe me nothing." "Then let's just get to this meeting. I've already been off the road too long." He suspected Non was taking him the long way as the coach wound through the streets, lined on each side with dirty shacks and hovels. Children played on rickety roofs or rummaged through piles of trash. Teenagers, dressed in faded rags, delivered carts of firewood. Awnings, fashioned from old scraps of circus tent, flapped over the windows. Shoppers haggled with fruit vendors, who pushed carts loaded with shriveled melons and baskets of rotten apples. Carnietown ended next to a line of small factories. When the coach crossed the boulevard, Chuggie craned his neck to look up at the tall thin houses. "Rather than expand outward, Stagwater has grown upward," Non said. The homes seemed to be a step up from the shacks of Carnietown, but the people looked just as downtrodden. Children chased dogs up and down the alleys. Old men sat on rugs, smoking from strange contraptions. Women huddled together on porches and balconies, talking about the devil-knows-what. None of them gave Non's coach more than a glance. Chuggie lit up his boar tusk pipe. He watched the city go by and blew smoke at Non. Steel Jacks didn't breathe, but he hoped the gesture would at least irritate Non's metal joints. The Steel Jack prattled on, pointing out slaughterhouses and small factories. Chuggie ignored Non as best he could. He tried to focus his foggy mind on the tasks at hand. Shola, all for Shola. He closed his eyes and held the rope of hair to his nose again. With a bit of luck, soon he'd return to her with the goat-face purse. As they arrived at the town square, Non said, "On your right is the Steel Jack headquarters, should you ever require my assistance." "Thanks," Chuggie said. "I'm dyin' to put that knowledge to work for me." The coach crossed the square to a building kitty-corner from the Steel Jack barracks. As they approached the riverside, Chuggie's attention focused on the heavy-timbered bridge. It seemed odd that the busy city's signature feat of engineering should be empty of people. "This building here," Non pointed to the building nearest the bridge, "houses the Magisterial Council." The coach stopped. The faÃżade of the magisterial building shone bright white in the morning sun, with glinting gold trim and burgundy banners.  "So what now? Just walk up and announce myself? These are the very same folk tried to kill me." "They are expecting me, but they will be getting you too. Don't worry." Non buzzed and hummed so hard his metal vibrated. He sure found something amusing. Chuggie opened the door of the Steel Jack's coach and climbed out. Non followed close behind.  ⊠⊠⊠ Kale walked down the hall to Haste's office. His step was as heavy and plodding as an ox pulling a siege wagon. Already this day had started out wrong. The wretched child in his house had woken up in the night and wanted food. He'd left a blob of spilled jelly and a mound of bread and cheese on the pristine mahogany table, and decorated Kale's walls with jellied fingerprints. Then the child had removed his urine-soaked trousers and left them in a ball on the carpet â€" the hand-loomed carpet from faraway Seacastle. And if that wasn't enough, the brat had decided to see what he could discover in every drawer of the sitting room. Who knows what he had destroyed. Kale balled his fist up. He swung at the bust of a mermaid protruding from the wall. He stopped himself inches before he smashed his fist into her porcelain nose. His morning didn't get any better when he met Jaron and Dan on the bridge. Not only had the morons botched their simple task, they had led their intended victim into the heart of the city. There, the drunk apparently vanished into air as thin as Kale's patience. Sometimes it felt like he was completely surrounded by buffoons. Kale marched into Haste's office and slammed the door behind him. Fitch perched on the edge of the sofa grinning like a devil, and Haste sat at his desk glaring at nothing in particular. He shoveled sausages into his mouth. "Good news this morning?" Fitch raised his eyebrow, as if to imply he'd already delivered his own good news to Haste. When the hell did Fitch ever do anything useful? Never, that's when. "Bite your tongue, or I'll cut it out," Kale snarled. "Now that would be a vow of silence we could all appreciate." Haste slammed a hand on his desk, then pointed an angry finger at Kale. "If you've got something to report, report it!" "My men set up an ambush, as you know." Kale thumbed his nose like a boxer. "But this Mot Losiat character knew all about it. He kicked my men like dogs and bewitched them into bringing him to town. I'd like to know where you get your information, because he's more formidable than you led me to believe." Kale stood in front of Haste's desk with arms folded. "Where is he now?" Haste demanded. "He's somewhere in the city, that's all I know." Kale could feel his eye twitching. If he didn't smash his fist into someone's face soon, he was going to explode. "Well, that's the bad news," Fitch's fingers drummed playfully on his senfen. "Let's hear the good news." "When you lift a fucking finger to do anything, you can open your mouth, Fitch! Until then, keep your opinions up your ass where they belong!" Haste cleared his throat. Kale turned his back on Fitch. "A Steel Jack relieved the watchmen at the southern gate last night. He let Mot Losiat enter freely, holding my men as hostages. You need to get the Steel Jacks in here to do some explaining." "I need?" Haste said. "What else, Kale, would you like to order me to do?" Kale said nothing. "As it happens, Non insisted that we meet with him later this morning." Haste shook his head. "Cancel your plans for the rest of the day, Kale." "Why?" Kale didn't like where this was going. "That meeting's not going to take all day." Haste licked his lips. "I'm still deciding whether I put your little friends on the torturgy table, or just you." "I'm sure Mr. Kale would be as useful on the table as he is off," Fitch said to Haste, "The man is lost who denies the guiding light." "Shut your fucking mouth!" Kale swung around. "I'll shove that damn senfen up your scripture hole." "Tut, tut. temper, temper." Fitch shook his head. "We need to use our heads, don't we? We know the stranger is in town, but so do the Steel Jacks. What we have to do is figure out how to get to him first, right?" "It's time to put our heads together." Haste covered his sausage platter and wiped his mouth on a linen napkin. "Mr. Kale? Can you calm down enough to be useful?" Kale glared at Fitch. Then turned his gaze on Haste. He tilted his head in a curt nod.            Once he took power, maybe he'd boil Fitch in tar. But the future was wide open, and he didn't have to decide today. First things first; the drunk had to be dealt with.  ⊠⊠⊠ The boots Shola had given Chuggie tapped noisily on the polished hardwood floor as Chuggie and Non made their way down the hall. Elaborately carved doors like sentries all along the hallway guarded the extravagant paintings and tapestries. "Mighty fancy place." Chuggie whistled. "Makes the rest of the city seem poor by comparison." He thought of the Carnietown hovels and people keeping warm around trash fires. "Magistrates occupy these offices, but they belong to the people," said the Steel Jack. Non stopped at the far end of the hall in front of a gilded door slightly larger than the others. A silver plaque displayed the engraved words Chief Magistrate. The door was probably worth more than the combined wealth of Carnietown. The entire hallway felt like an insult. Chuggie wanted to piss on the doors and set the paintings ablaze. Non raised a massive hand to knock. "Hang on," Chuggie said. "These guys have tried to kill me twice so far." "They won't try again," Non buzzed. "You are under my protection." "That ain't what I mean." Chuggie waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sayin' I'm madder than a one-armed gravedigger." "I do not understand that expression," said Non. "Means I'm liable to raise my voice in there. Pound a table. Break a chair. I jus' wanna prepare you." Chuggie clutched his anchor. "I see." Non knocked. "Enter!" a man called from within. Chuggie put on his most serious scowl and stepped into the office after Non.  A man with the physique of a potato sat at a desk that took up a whole corner of the room. At his right hovered another man with broad shoulders and a flared-nostril scowl. His jacket shone with more buttons and trim than any real colonel's coat ever had. And to the fat man's left, a little man wearing fancy-looking preacher clothes squeezed a little gold idol hanging from his neck like he could get some juice out of it. He grinned like an idiot crocodile. Upon seeing Chuggie standing in the doorway, all three of them froze like somebody cast a statue curse on them. "Mr. Haste, Mr. Kale, Mr. Fitch, may I present Norchug Mot Losiat, a true traveler of the world." Non gave a flourish and a little bow. The men stared like haunted paintings. Were these clowns responsible for two attempts on his life? That went a long way in explaining why both tries had failed. "Norchug Mot Losiat," Haste, the fat one, finally spoke up. That must have been why he was the leader â€" sharpest reflexes. The tall military looking fellow crossed his arms and glared at Chuggie. None of them held out a hand for Chuggie to shake. "It's just Chuggie. That's what you call me." "What is your business in Stagwater?" Haste asked like he was used to getting his questions answered. Chuggie turned to the scowler. "Kale, right? You're friends with Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt, aren't you?" Kale's eyes flashed for an instant, with fear or guilt. He looked at Haste, then back to Chuggie. Then, as if to hide his momentary lack of composure, he drew his mouth into an angry line. "They said you paid 'em to kill me. What'd you do that for?" Chuggie felt his temperature rising. "What is your business in my city?" Haste pounded his desk. In earlier times, Chuggie would have given into the thirst as soon as that fat hand struck the desktop. He tried to calm himself with thoughts of Shola. Chuggie narrowed his eyes and answered without looking away from Kale. "I hoped I might buy somethin' and be on my way. Thought you might be able to help me." Non's voice buzzed low and menacing. "We want you to help him find what he is looking for." Fitch, the preacher, flinched and ducked backward at the sound of Non's voice. For a supposed man of the cloth, he sure acted like he had something troubling his conscience. Haste cast a disbelieving glare at the Steel Jack. His jowly face turned a strange shade of purple. "And whatâ€Åš what am I supposed to help you find?" He turned his gaze on Chuggie. "It's this purse, y'see." Chuggie smirked. It was better to have his opponents be the angry ones. It made them vulnerable, or at least more fun to taunt. "It's fashioned from the face of a goat. If I can jus' get that, I'll be on my way. I'll pay. I got plenty of money." Haste looked from Kale to Fitch. If those three weren't up to something, why Chuggie'd beat a cat. "It's a purse. You put things in it." He held raised his boar tusk pipe. "Knickknacks and doodads and shit like that. You know, a purse. You know where I might find a thing like that?" "What do you plan to do with this purse?" Haste wrote notes in a ledger without taking his eyes off Chuggie. "Gonna destroy it," Chuggie said. "Damn thing's been nothing but trouble. Hey, do I smell sausage in here? I kinda missed breakfast, unless you count beer." "And if I give you this purse, you'll leave Stagwater and never return?" Haste's chair squealed as his pushed back from his desk. He got to his feet with a grunt. Non let out a low rumbling sound that sounded like an angry hive of bees. Fitch backed away from Non. Another inch or two and his back would be up against the wall. From the look on his face, Fitch was either ready to puke or shit. Wondering which could be funnier, Chuggie hoped for both. "Yep, I'll never return." Chuggie sucked on his pipe as he watched the weaselly preacher. Haste strolled over to the window. He put his fingertips on the glass and looked out over the city. "I don't have your purse anymore." Kale unfolded his arms and leaned against the edge of the desk. Chuggie bit down on the pipe stem. "Then I suppose I'll just be staying right here in your fine town." "I think not." Kale clenched his fist. Haste turned away from the window and smiled. "I don't have the purse here. But you are welcome to go and get it. The purse was stolen along with several other artifacts." "Stolen!" Kale blurted out. "Why wasn't I told about this?" "You remember, Mr. Kale." Haste raised his eyebrows. "When all those relics and talismans were stolen. Terrible loss." Haste shook his head. "Terrible. According to our intelligence, the thieves stashed it in a graveyard north of Stagwater." "Ah, yes, of course!" Kale exclaimed. A smile spread across his face. "The thieves took it and hid it in the graveyard." "You are free to reclaim it, Mr. Losiat. Chuggie." Haste's smile looked like he'd slathered up his mouth with snake oil. "North? Ha!" Chuggie pointed the pipe stem at Haste. "Just the other day I ran into some fellows who were trying to convince me to go North. Whatever you Stagwater folks got up there, you're sure anxious to get me to take a gander at it. A suspicious man might find this allâ€Åš uh, suspicious." "I assure you, Chuggie, the goat-faced purse is yours for the taking. We'd rather it be in your possession than in the hands of thieves. Isn't that right?" Haste looked from Kale to Fitch. "Right," Kale barked. "May those thieves rot in hell," Fitch said as he rubbed his lucky charm. "But that's it. Once you have it, you leave Stagwater and never return. We'll regard any suspicious activity or double-dealing as conspiracy." Haste pointed an accusative finger at Chuggie. "I'll be watching. This story of yours doesn't sit well with me." Chuggie nodded. "Same here." He lit his pipe.  "Tell him where to find the purse." Non's eyes grew bright. Haste's head nodded in short, jiggly motions. "Kale, draw our new friend a map to his prize." Chuggie puffed heavy on his boar tusk pipe. He sidled up to Kale and looked over his shoulder as he sketched. Kale slashed an 'X' on the paper, then held it out to Chuggie. "Better not be any wrong turns on that map." Chuggie grabbed the paper, but Kale didn't let go. Leaning close, Kale whispered, "Tonight I'll dig a hole in the woods. I can't wait to bury you in it." Chuggie yanked the map from Kale's hand and stomped to the door.  ⊠⊠⊠ Rorid heard his son Drexel sniffling in the next room. The boy had barely left his bed since the torturgy, and Rorid had no intention of forcing the issue. He heard a pen scratching paper as Drexel sketched or wrote or whatever he did. Rorid looked around the cramped and dirty apartment. He felt ashamed that his son had to live like this. True, he and his son lived much better than the residents of Carnietown, but that offered little comfort when he heard the upstairs neighbor screaming at her unconscious husband or the infant below crying in hunger at all hours. "What're you writing here, sonny?" Drexel didn't look up. "It's a poem, I guess." "You guess?" Rorid sat on the bed next to his son. "Mind if I take a look?" Drexel quickly closed his ledger. He stared at it for a quiet moment, then handed it to his father. "It's not good. It's stupid." He pulled a pillow over his head. Rorid patted his son's shoulder and opened to the last entry. Helpless agony bound. I am naked and alone in the dark. Awash in pain, blood aflame, Monstrous men do monstrous things. Nearby, I hear a woman cry. Helpless agony. Her sound is drowned by pain, she's gone far-far away. Is she dead or just wishing? Monstrous men do monstrous things to me and to her. Helpless. They, too, are broken. They, too, are afraid. I forgive them and wish to die. Help. Rorid's hand shook as he closed the ledger and placed it on the bed next to his son. He wiped away a single tear. With a shaky voice, he said, "Boyâ€Åš I'm sorry. I'm sorry my failure landed on you." He wanted to fall on the floor and cry out for his son's forgiveness, but wasn't in his character. He stood to leave before the tears broke loose. "I told you, you're not to blame, Dad," Drexel said with a soft voice. "What if I was?" asked Rorid. "Then I'd forgive you." Rorid left, quietly closing Drexel's door behind him. He couldn't raise his son in Stagwater, pension be damned. He could no longer bear breathing the same air as the men who did this to his son. He needed to talk to Priole.  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie stood in front of a Carnietown shack, considering its yellow door. Might as well knock, he figured, and so he did, a bit harder than necessary. From inside came a ruckus followed by cussing. A moment later, Faben swung the door open. She looked none too pleased. "Oh hell, it's just you." Faben said. "Do you always pound doors down like you're the city guard conducting a raid?" "I'm lookin' for Faben Brassline," Chuggie smiled. "I got some cosmetics to sell, and word around town is nobody needs makeup more than Faben does." "Why don't you bring the comedy act inside?" She held the door open for him. "What am I interrupting?" he asked. "Nothing. I was just writing in my summoning manual." She closed the thick, leather-clad book sitting on her little table and righted a fallen chair. His knocking must have startled her out of her seat. "I got my meeting," Chuggie told her. "A Steel Jack called Non came to the inn this morning and took me to meet Haste." "That seems unlikely," she said. "I don't know where to begin with that. You really met him?" "And the two pukes he had with him. I told them I'm after a goat-face purse. They told me it was up to the north, hidden by thieves in a graveyard." "There's something up north, but I doubt it's thieves." "I got suspicions about that myself. But I do believe they got that purse hidden up there. Or they will have by the time I get there." "You think they told you the truth?" She gestured for him to sit. "Yep, enough of it's true, at least. Non vouches for it." Chuggie took his seat with a groan of relief. "Why are the Steel Jacks helping you?" "Never met a Steel Jack that didn't try to sign me up." Chuggie spat on the floor. Realizing his error, he quick wiped it up with his sleeve. "When this Non character says he wants to help in any way he can, I know what that's all about." "What is it all about? Never seen Steel Jacks act like that before." Chuggie thought for a moment. He couldn't see the harm in telling her what he really was. He'd be gone soon, one way or another. "You got a glass of water?" "Yep." Faben said, and a moment later a pitcher of water and a wooden cup sat upon the table. "Gonna show you some real conjury," said Chuggie as he poured the cup full. He held the cup out so Faben could look inside, then he dumped it out on the table. Chuggie held a hand over the puddle, and it evaporated immediately. He filled the cup again and poured it slowly onto his hand, but no water spilled. He absorbed every last drop as quickly as he poured. He lifted the pitcher to his lips and dumped the remaining water down his throat. Only a small trickle escaped from the corner of his mouth. "What is that supposed to be? The Steel Jacks want to enlist you because you can do parlor tricks with water?" Chuggie looked around the room. Under the window, Faben had fresh tobacco leaves drying on a tray. He got the tray and held up the first leaf. Faben watched as the leaf withered in Chuggie's hand. He repeated the demonstration until all the tobacco was dry enough to smoke. "There," he said, "your tobacco is ready for puffin'." Faben raised a brow and shook her head slowly. "I don't understand, Chuggie. What did you do?" He cleared his throat. "I'm walkin' Drought. Born when the world was young, and humanity had yet to be dreamt of. And I'm always, always thirsty." He produced his boar tusk pipe and stuffed some of Faben's tobacco into it. She struck a match and lit if for him before setting her own pipe on the table. "Long time agoâ€Åš I forget the name of the town, don't suppose it matters much now, Frogwood or Dogtree, or some shit along those lines. Anyway, this town sat at the bottom of a mountain on the shore of this big, deep lake." Chuggie puffed away. "Yeah, they didn't take kindly to me over there in Frogwood. They up an' chained my ass to a big damn rock, then they dropped me in the middle of the lake. I sunk down, down, down, and it was painful cold down there on the bottom." With one hand, Chuggie held the pipe to his mouth, and with the other he gestured wildly to add emphasis to the story. "Well, nobody in Frogwood lifted a finger to help, and I didn't have a lot of self-control back then. I guzzled that lake down to a dry, rocky lakebed. When I climbed out, I saw that I'd drank up the whole town. People and animals laid in the streets, dried out husks of their former selves." He paused to blow smoke rings. "I warned 'em. I said, 'Better not sink me in the lake, boys. I don't know what I'll do.' They did it anyway, and I couldn't control my thirst. It opened up, and I didn't know how to close it again. "'Til this day, I still feel pretty bad about it." "You're telling the truth, aren't you?" Faben examined one of the dried tobacco leaves. "You really are walking Drought. I knew there was something odd about you, Chugger-lugger." Chuggie nodded. "And the Steel Jacks want folks like me and my kind in their pocket. I suspect having me around will make it easier to take over when they make their move. So they try to bribe me or intimidate me, try to give me loans I can't repay. This one, Non, keeps on tryin' to do me favors." "Steel Jacks don't do people favors out of kindness." "I know that an' you know that. But for some reason the Steel Jacks think we don't." "At least he helped you get your meeting." Faben loaded her ceramic falcon-head pipe with the freshly dried tobacco. "So now you're going north to get the goat-face purse." "Don't see as I have much choice," said Chuggie. "I need that purse." "You know there's a monster up there that they've been feeding the Carnies to." Faben reached across the table and touched his hand. "Maybe you don't need that goat-face purse after all." He looked into her eyes. He hadn't yet known her for a full day, but already she felt like a comrade. Chuggie looked down at the table. "I have a woman waiting for me. They bound her out in the wilderness with conjury, an' I aim to set her free. Gonna take her away from this place. Sooner I get the purse, the sooner I get back on the road." "Oh," said Faben. The tips of her ears turned red. "Your woman, she sounds real special." Chuggie looked at Faben again. He reached out and patted her hand. "Don't get your feelings hurt. If you turn in your application, I'll consider you for the harem." "Ha." Faben snatched her hand away. "Like I'd ever be caught dead snuggling up to likes of you." Faben got to her feet. From beneath a pile of clutter, she produced a crudely printed pamphlet and handed it to Chuggie. "What's this?" "Remember last night when you said the name of Korkorahn?" Chuggie raised an eyebrow. "And you snapped at me like aâ€Åš like a damnedâ€Åš" "Have you been drinking this morning?" She leaned closer to smell his breath. "Well, not since breakfast." Chuggie hiccupped. "You can't go around shouting the name of Korkorahn. Not if you want to live." She tapped the pamphlet. "Honesty and Artifice," Chuggie read. In this pamphlet, Korkorahn told the truth about what the magistrates did to the Carnies. Chuggie spat. "Is Korkorahn's here?!" "Not anymore," Faben said. "He was arrested the day that pamphlet hit the streets. He vanished in captivity, or so the story goes. I believe it. They tore the city apart when he disappeared." She pulled a bottle of wine from a shelf and filled the wooden cup for Chuggie. Chuggie looked down at pamphlet. He grabbed the bottle of wine and put it to his lips. He drank deep until Faben broke out laughing. "I thought you'd drink from the cup." Chuggie, embarrassed, set the bottle down and took up the cup. "How'd you and Korkorahn meet up?" Faben poured a glass for herself. "I'm no circus clown. I'm a Carnie, but I never had an act. I was a summoner in the Woodsmen." "A woman Woodsman?" Chuggie chuckled. "You laugh, but as many women belong to the Lodge of Woodsmen as men. When I retired from the Lodge of Woodsmen, Korkorahn hired me as his Road Master. My job was to ensure safe passage of the Carnies from city to city." Chuggie nodded. She certainly had an impressive résumé. And she'd known Korkorahn! He could share old Korkorahn stories with her all day. Good ol' Korkorahn. "He and I became very close." Faben looked down at her own wine cup and gritted her teeth. "Married?" asked Chuggie. If she and his old friend were in a relationship, maybe spending the day telling Korkorahn stories wasn't the best thing. "Hell no," she smiled. "We'd never make that mistake. But I loved him. There's nothing I wouldn't do... You remind me of him in some ways. You don't know what's waiting for you up there, but you seem intent on going." "I am," Chuggie nodded. "I think you'll need a Woodsman," said Faben. Chuggie froze as he was about to take a drink. "Are you saying you wanna come with?" "I am," nodded Faben. "I feel like I owe it to Korkorahn to do my part to kill that thing that's eating up the Carnie folk. I have an apprentice who'll join us, too. Dawes. A bit of a smartass, but you can give him a slap if he runs his mouth too much. Just try not to break his jaw. He's on our side."  "You an' Dawes?" Chuggie couldn't believe it. All he could do was stare at the table in wonderment. "Good ol' Dawes." "You know him, too?" Faben chuckled. "Nah." Chuggie smiled, sipping his wine. "Did I tell you Haste wore a green jacket when I met him?" "No. What difference does that make?" Faben asked.  "Never trust a man in a green jacket. I've been known to wear one myself, but only when I know I can't be trusted. It goes back to my smuggling days when I'd been hired to move a boatload of kittens and puppies across a certain border that I shouldn't mention. Kittens and puppies being perfectly legal to transport, I found myself confused about the job. The guy wanted to pay, so I went ahead and assembled a team. "Crossing the mountain range was tricky, and we ate all but three of the men on the crew. It's not that we were hungry, mind you, or even low on food. We just hated them and couldn't bear the thought of them sharing our money. So we delivered the kittens and puppies. Probably the most adorable payload in history. The kittens were snuggling with puppies, and the puppies were wrestling with kittens. Hundreds of 'em, and not a one mistreated during the journey. "But the owner turned it around on us. He insisted he could only pay in puppies and kittens. We didn't know anything about puppy/kitten/cash exchange rates, but what the hell were we supposed to do? We didn't like it, but we had to accept his shitty terms. In the months to follow, I learned seventy-five interesting ways to prepare puppy and/or kitten. The guy who hired us, he always wore a green jacket. Green or red, I can never remember. Actually, I think it might've been red. Ever since, I don't trust nobody in a green jacket." Faben blinked at Chuggie. Chapter 11  Back in his room, Chuggie considered his preparations for the trek north as he got ready to bed down. He'd bought two goats, food, water and another night's stay at The Fifty Moons Inn. His cash stack remained good and thick, though he hadn't bothered to count it. Barring a real estate deal, he wouldn't be running out of funds during his time in Stagwater. The rope of Shola's hair had lost most of her scent, but a few hints remained. He lay on the bed holding her hair over his face. "Shola, Shola," he asked the hair, "where'd you ever get so much money? Bet you're sittin' in the grass right now askin' scarecrows when I'm comin' back." He let the hair brush his forehead. "Soon, crazy lady. Real soon. Maybe tomorrow night if I'm lucky, and â€"." Excited pounding at the door interrupted his one-sided conversation. Chuggie threw a blanket over the money and the hair. He put on his most sour expression and got up to answer. "Who's poundin' my damn door so late?" he asked as he opened it. "Fey Voletta, and it's hardly late," answered the girl. She seemed very familiar in her silky white robe trimmed with burgundy. The hood cast her face in shadow, all but her dark red lips and powder-white chin. Chuggie'd prepared himself for an argument with the innkeeper or another tenant. Seeing the young woman in exotic dress had him disarmed and fumbling. She smiled about as flirtatiously as cat meeting a mouse and stepped forward as if to enter. He blocked her passage. "Aren't you going to ask me inside?" She spoke in a slow whisper, almost a moan and pushed her way into the room. She smelled like flowers on the beach, and he could just about hear seagulls in the distance. "Do you know who I am?" she asked. "We met last night, very briefly." "Sorry, I had a lot to drink last night." Chuggie shook his head clear and looked at the door. How had she gotten inside, and why was the door closed? "I bet you did," she smiled. "Like I said, I'm Fey Voletta. And you are Norchug Mot Losiat. Isn't that right?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "It is, but I jus' go by Chuggie. Who told you my name?" "Non told me. I work with the Steel Jacks." Now it all made sense. Chuggie grinned. "I get it, I get it," he nodded. "Thank you for stopping by, my dear. Won't be needin' your services tonight. Please tell your boss that I'm leavin' town very soon and â€"." "Services?" she cut him off. "What services might those be?" The flirtatiousness had gone from her voice. Chuggie stared at her. His mouth fell open. Some women were too volatile to accept his tendency to say the wrong thing at damn near every opportunity. "You think I'm here to fuck you? You think I'm a whore? No, no. I'm nobody's whore, old man. Oldâ€Åš whatever you are. Since you bring it up, I've never slept with anyone. Not for money or status or anything else. I bet you can't say the same, can you? If anyone in this room is a whoreâ€Åš" She pointed an accusative finger at his face. Her fingernails were the same deep red as her lips. "Whoa, whoa, take it easy," he said. "If you were me, you woulda thought the same. This Non character has been trying to enlist me since I got here. You're a pretty girl, and you said he sent you. The pieces fit, but I was wrong and I apologize." "You're wrong again. I didn't say he sent me. Nobody sent me. I'm here on my own." She smiled mischievously. "You came on your own." Chuggie's mind scrambled to process everything. Was she playing games with him? "Why would you come here on your own?" "I heard you were going on some sort of archeological reclamation. Thought it might be fun to go along." Chuggie studied her for a moment. "I don't think that's a good idea, miss." "Why not?" She took a step toward him. "For starters, you might get your pretty silk robes dirty." "That would never happen. I'm far too graceful." She rubbed the fabric between her fingertips. "If you wore fabric of this quality, you'd take care of it, too. Go ahead, feel it," she said. "What do you think it's made from?" "Rat guts," he said, taking a seat on the only chair in the room. "It's human skin," she said, pulling back her hood. Elegant, intricate scars swooped and curled across her pale face. These were the self-inflicted designs of a blade worshipper, which made her even more of a riddle to him. Each line, dot, and curl told a story. Some shapes represented people she'd killed, others indicated techniques mastered. Blade cultists were perfectionists by nature, the exact opposite of Chuggie. How could such a person stand to be around someone like him, who constantly bumped into walls and tripped on open ground? At the very least, this girl was interesting. "You have to have a lot of skin for a whole robe." She twirled on one toe with a dancer's grace. "You have to beat the skin, stretch it, treat it with chemicals. You have to be careful not to over bleach, because that will destroy the tissue. It's a very long process. I won't even tell you how many different men went into these robes." Chuggie lit up his tusk pipe, hoping a cloud of smoke could keep the strange young woman at her distance. "What about the red edging? Dyed with the blood of children?" "It's crimson velvet," she said. "Not everything's about killing." Her red, fire-like hair curled to match the shapes of the scars. Her eyes looked like superheated emeralds set in ivory. Damn these women and their eyes. "So take me with you," she said. "I can handle myself. Don't worry about that." He shook his head. "Sorry, I can't. It's not that I'd mind if you were around. Problem is â€" if I'm tellin' the truth here â€" I think you could be a little distracting. I don't know what's up there, and I'll need to be on my toes." "That's a load." She shook her head in mockery. "I don't even know you, girl. Why in bloody, screaming, shrieking hell would I bring you along on aâ€Åš a fuggin' suicide mission?" "Because if you go alone it will be a suicide mission." "I'm prepared, equipped, an' fed." Chuggie clapped his hands on his belly. "I got a squad of thirty or forty men, ready to kill and die accordin' to my whims. They're savage brutes, y'see, every damn one of 'em. For me to even consider them for the mission, each had to go into the forest unarmed and bring back a drakana claw. They haven't had nothin' to eat besides the blood o' the innocent for the last six days, and I think Iâ€Åš yep, I can hear 'em howlin' right now. I'm in good hands. All's I need now is a night of rest, an' I'll be ready to whoop ass from here to spring." "Then bring me back something nice." She bent down close enough to kiss him, and he caught her beach-flower smell again. "There'll be something nice waiting for you when you get back." Chuggie felt her breath on his face and a tingle in his loins. Without another word, she turned and left. He locked the door behind her and spent the next several minutes reminding himself this was all for Shola.  ⊠⊠⊠ On the east side of Stagwater, Dustiv Dawes sat with a couple friends in a tiny tavern called The Stone Hat. The bartender, a matronly gal named Rosie, smiled and listened to him like always. "I'm not saying I'm the greatest knife-thrower in the world," said Dawes. "I merely submit I'm the best in the city." "Sure," she said. "Maybe someday you'll give us a demonstration." "Out of the question. If I did that, you'd all learn the secret of my technique. I couldn't stand to be plagiarized that way." He downed his shot, grimaced, and signaled for another. A hand clapped him on the back, and a woman said, "Time for bed, Dawes. You've got a big day tomorrow." Dawes turned to see Faben. "Ah-ha! Faben! Now it's a party. Pull up a stool, madam. We were just about to play â€"." "Can I have a word with you, Dawes?" Faben led him outside. "Is something wrong?" he asked, unsure if he was in trouble. "I'm taking a little trip tomorrow. I'd like you to come. I'm not forcing you to. But if you do, it could go a long way for me endorsing you to the Lodge." Dawes gave a chuckle. "Where are we going?" "I met a fellow last night, and interesting man. He's going to look for an artifact tomorrow, up north of the city, and I'm going with." Dawes tilted his head. North was bad news. Nobody knew what was up there. Some said a monster. But Dawes subscribed to a theory of his own. Nothing lived up there. People died from the treacherous terrain. When they were dead, little woodland critters came along and made a mess of them. Magistrates created the monster stories to frighten children and keep them from sneaking out of town. Then the children grew up, still believing the story, and passed it to the next generation. Stupid superstitions; yet another reason he wished to be gone from Stagwater. "So who's this man? How do you know you can trust him?" asked Dawes. "Haste hates him. The magistrates don't want him coming back, so that's good enough for me. I'm going to help him. Haste and his little gang have been screwing us long enough. Maybe this way we can do some screwing of our own." "Is it going to be dangerous?" said Dawes. "I don't know," Faben replied. "But I can't endorse you to the Lodge if I've never seen you outside city walls." Dawes jutted his chin out and nodded. "I get you, I get you. I'll go with you, sure." "Good," said Faben. "You'll want a weapon. You'll want some food and some water. The plan is to leave early in the morning and be home before dark. But plans go to hell quick, so it couldn't hurt to be ready for a camp out." Faben put a hand on Dawes' shoulder. "I want you to come with, but I also want you to understand the risks." Dawes brushed her hand away with a smile. "Hey, I said I'd go. You clearly need me and my unorthodox, yet devastating, abilities." "Yeah, well, get some sleep, and be at my door by dawn." Faben gave a solemn nod and walked off toward Carnietown. Dawes stuck his head back in the bar and shouted a quick farewell to his friends. He blew a kiss to Rosie and headed for home. He loved and despised Stagwater at the same time. The city of his birth might as well have been a prison. He needed adventure. He needed exploration. He needed Fey Voletta. Dawes felt no hint of fear over the journey north. No eyewitness had ever seen the rumored hell-spawned horrors. As a summoner, Faben spoke with many spirits, and none of them could say what was up there. It was a ghost story for children, so what was everyone so afraid of? He was a little embarrassed on behalf of his people. And even if some demonic beast lay did lay in wait, true Woodsmen stood tall, even in the face of death. Dawes increased his pace. He hoped he'd be able to get some sleep, but it seemed doubtful. In his mind, the Woodsmen had all but accepted him as a greenhorn.  ⊠⊠⊠ In Stagwater's northeast corner, a townhouse towered over the river. Kale stood in the window of the apartment Dan and Jaron shared, admiring their view of the moonlit water. The two young men rested on couches. They groaned every time they moved.  "I want you men to remember why you were on the table today," Kale said without turning from the window. "This drunk drifter you brought into town, he's the reason. You might as well know he's going on a little trip, and we don't expect him to return." When Kale turned around, Jaron and Dan's bloodshot eyes watched him intently. He crossed the room and stood over them. "You aren't in this alone, and you never were. I'll tell you this, too: If I'm lucky enough to see that miserable bastard again, I'll kill him where he stands." "I'd like to watch that," Dan's voice was shaky and weak, as if he'd been on a six day march. Kale smiled. "And speaking of miserable, you know that little bastard from the orphanage? Well, I haven't had the time for him, and my house is starting to smell likeâ€Åš well, like an orphan. Every time I try to take him out of the house, Haste dreams up some crisis. Orphan doesn't wash out of suede, boys. I'll be needing your help in that department soon. That should cheer you up." They gave him little, tired smiles. Jaron cleared his throat and swallowed dryly. "I want to kill him," said Jaron with some effort. "The orphan?" asked Kale. "Don't we all?" "Noâ€Åš Haste." Jaron looked to Dan for support, but Dan had fallen asleep. "Some problems take care of themselves, my young friend," Kale said with a grin. He placed two stacks of money on the table, shook Jaron's hand, and made his exit. In the wake of their torturgy session, Kale felt generous toward these two. Stepping onto the street, he got the notion to send them up some prostitutes. Chapter 12  The Darkness Stirs. The flame flickers as dire death occurs. Shadows planted in years gone by have breached the soil and seen the sky. The traveler drags the darkness on. The weak are failed by the strong. Leaders know not what's been stirred. They misread and misspeak the word. The sun rose over Stagwater, but it never broke through the clouds. Morning chill washed over the few shivering souls ambling about the streets. A touch of frost iced a metallic sheen on top of everything. Faben dressed in a gray trench coat, and her bright-eyed apprentice Dawes led a goat apiece toward the Fifty Moons Inn. In front of the inn, Chuggie strapped his goats up with water jugs and various bundles. He nodded to Faben. "Good morning, boss," she called. Chuggie finished packing up the last goat. "Gotta say, I don't know if I expected you to show up. I probably wouldn't have." "This is Dawes. I've told him to keep his damn mouth shut, so you two might just get along." Dawes put his hand out. "I'm Dustiv Dawes, sir. You can call me Dusty." "Nice to meet you, Dawes." Chuggie shook his hand. While he certainly appreciated the young man's help, Dawes seemed far too happy for this time of day. Chuggie hoped the kid wouldn't talk to him much. "That's a nifty hat you're wearing, sir. Where's a guy get a hat like that?" Dawes pointed a finger at Chuggie's head. Chuggie stared blankly at Dawes for a moment. Bringing the kid might have been a bad idea. The smooth-faced youngster didn't look like he'd ever shaved, let alone been in a fight. Worse, he didn't look like he had a speck of fear in him. Still, Faben vouched for the smirking teenager, and Chuggie had to trust her. He turned to Faben. "You two need breakfast?" "We're fine. Ready to go whenever you are." Faben studied Dawes as if she shared Chuggie's doubts. Chuggie pointed to the staff strapped to the side of Faben's goat. "Is that what I think it is?" "That'd be my summoner's podium." She held the goat still and unsheathed the weapon. One end of the staff spread into a three-pronged spear for stomping into the ground. Tiny letters covered the shaft. As Faben removed the leather cover, the semi-circular blade at the top of the staff glinted in the morning light. With the prongs in the ground, the blade's shape allowed it to hold Faben's book of summoning. Razor sharp, the podium doubled as a close-quarters weapon. She handed it to Chuggie. "Looks brand new," he said, studying the armament. "Ever use this thing before, Brassline?" She smiled, took it back from him, and stepped into the street. Faben moved her legs apart and lowered herself into an athletic pose. Still smiling, she began swinging the podium blade in figure eights. Faster and faster, then behind her back, she whirled and spun, whipping the weapon about in a blur. Her trench coat twisted with her in a dizzying display. She glanced the blade off the cobblestones in clanking rhythm, flicking sparks at Chuggie. Coming to an abrupt halt, she held the podium blade up for Chuggie to see. To his surprise, the blade's edge had not a single nick or blemish from striking the stones. He nodded and grinned at her. "Let's ride." The three mounted up and rode toward the northern gate. The houses north of the town square were luxurious. Only one family seemed to live in each, and the buildings didn't have a coat of soot. Actual lawns separated homes from the street. Chuggie shook his head. He doubted these people knew or cared about the living conditions in Carnietown. What business was it of theirs if the poor froze or starved? As Chuggie and company approached the northern city gate, the guardsmen took notice. Two of them slid down a pole to the street. "Who are you, and what is your business?" asked the bleary-eyed senior officer. "I'm Norchug Mot Losiat," Chuggie answered. "Lemme out!" The guardsmen conferred for a moment, then waved to their colleague in the gate control tower. The spiked, iron-lattice gate rose with a loud clacking. Apparently, word had gotten around that Chuggie was no one to trifle with. Chuggie, Faben, and Dawes rode through the gate and up a logging road. Soon they entered a maple grove, and the city disappeared behind them. As the morning breeze lost its chill, all Chuggie could smell were his unscrubbed goats. The smell took him down the winding road of his memory. Once he'd ridden a wargoat into a terpeskoa-filled mist alongside â€". "What's the story with that chain and anchor around your chest?" Dawes asked. "Not something I care to talk about, thanks," said Chuggie. "Well, what about the hat?" Dawes kicked his goat to a faster pace, so he rode at Chuggie's side. Chuggie rolled his eyes. "The hat was a gift from none of your business. No offense, kid, but when I want to give you my life story, I'll beat it into you." Faben shot Dawes a narrow-eyed look and mouthed Shut up. NOW. And Dawes did stop, but not for long. Less than five minutes passed before Dawes called out to Chuggie. "Where were you born? Hey, I said where were you born?" "I meant it, Chuggie," said Faben. "You can slap him any time you want." "I would, but I think I'd break him." Chuggie narrowed his eyes at the youth. "He asks questions when he's nervous," Faben explained. "Hey, I'm not nervous!" said Dawes. "I'm excited. Big difference." "That's great, kid," said Chuggie. He pulled his goat to a halt. "Aw, damn it all! I forgot something back in town. Dawes, will you scoot back and get it for me?" "What did you forget?" asked Dawes. "Oh, you'll know it when you see it. Meet me back here with it tomorrow." Chuggie chuckled. Faben laughed, too. "Oh, you guys are so funny." Dawes pouted like a six-year-old whose big brother had taken his toys. When he stopped to water the bushes, Chuggie and Faben pulled ahead. "You got any family wondering where you are, Chuggie?" Faben asked. Chuggie's smile vanished. "One brother, two sisters. Four of us. Mischief, mayhem, want, and woe." "I see," said Faben. "Which one are you, Chug-along?" "Want, I guess. That's how the story goes, anyway." He looked up at the skeletal branches of a towering oak. A troupe of red-eyed crows watched him back, which he hoped was a good omen. "Is the rest of your family like you?" "Yep, probably more so than I like to admit. Fire, Flood, Sickness, an' Drought. That's us." Chuggie didn't like to talk about them, but it felt good to confide in Faben as long as Dawes didn't hear. The kid would never be able to shut up about Chuggie's family. "Hmm, I'd hate to attend your family reunion. And I thought my kin were bad." "Sister Flood, well, it'd be an understatement to say she's sad all the time. She cries an' cries. Cries rivers, all 'cause of some deep sadness she can't ever cry away. Sister Fire, she's not out to hurt anybody, just out for a little mischief. She likes to play with flames, and who could blame her? Sometimes they get away from her. Sometimes they get away real bad." Chuggie lit his boar tusk pipe. "And what about your brother. Sickness?" Chuggie nodded his head. Well, she was going to ask sooner or later, the way the conversation was going. He lowered his head and blew smoke out his nose. "Every family's got one, don't they? A black sheep." "I suppose they do." "I see his touch everywhere I go. His mind is as sick as his body. He ain't anybody's friend. He wants mayhem. He'd tear the world to pieces if he could. He used to march across the land spreading disease and madness. These days, I think he just sits back and watches it spread on its own. Like the rest of us, he's died many times. And he's got his own private Hell to go to when he does. When the conditions are right, he comes back to pick up where he left off. That's all I care to say about my brother 'n sisters." "I don't blame you," said Faben. She furrowed her brow and stared straight ahead at the ever-vanishing trail. "You said you were Want. I'm not sure I understand that." "I'm want. It means I thirst. It means I'm poor. It means something's missing. It means I fall short." Chuggie spat at a mossy log. His eyes pointed at the ground, but his gaze pointed inward. "That sounds like you always get the losing end of the stick. If that's really true, why would you keep on trying?" "It's just true enough." Chuggie squinted. "Result is I don't waste a lot of time makin' plans. Usually just go. Livin' like that can really shake the confidence if you aren't as amazing as ol' Chuggers." His smile returned. Faben laughed. "I know exactly what you mean." The orchards of elm and oak gave way to stunted pines and twisting thornwoods. Jagged stones spread over the ground, often hidden by leaves and weeds. Chuggie was glad to be mounted on a goat. Dawes galloped to catch up. "What's the hurry? What are you guys talking about?" "We're just noting all the good places out here to hide a body." Chuggie gave Dawes a cold stare. The kid clammed up, but Chuggie wondered how long until that'd wear off. The group made their way north, plodding through the tangled undergrowth. High above, massive pine branches formed a canopy against the daylight. Crows cawed here and there. He followed the landmarks described on his map. Somewhere beyond halfway, a clearing offered them a reasonable place to rest. Leaves covered the ground, along with boulders the right size for sitting upon. Chuggie tied his goats to a log at the clearing's edge and stretched. Faben stomped her summoner's podium into the ground, laid her book upon it, and turned to a page marked with a purple ribbon. "Go gather me up some sticks," said Faben to Dawes. "What kind of sticks?" "Any damn sticks," she snapped. "Hey, why so much hostility today, Faben?" Dawes looked like she's slapped him. "We aren't playing games out here, Dawes. If I tell you to do something, you do it. That's how Woodsmen operate in the field, and if you don't understand that, I can't send you to the Lodge." She stared sternly at him until he got to work. The way Faben watched her apprentice gather up sticks roused Chuggie's curiosity. Her mouth hinted at a smile, though her eyes were difficult to read behind her yellow glasses. She was up to something, and he had a hunch it'd be entertaining. As Dawes brought her the sticks, Faben laid them out in a twenty-foot circle. Her brow furrowed with concentration as she went about the task. Dawes looked on with bewilderment and a touch of worry. As if trying to stay on her good side, he took some of the sticks and helped complete the circle. Chuggie folded his arms and leaned back against a boulder to watch the show. Faben grabbed Dawes by the shoulders. "Stand right here," she said, positioning him a few feet outside the circle, halfway between her podium and the circle's center. She planted herself in front of her podium and read from her book. Dawes squirmed and cast worried glances over his shoulder. Faben spoke strange words and with gestures drew invisible symbols in the air. Black smoke filled the circle. A sound like crackling energy emerged from the smoke. "Who summons the Mighty Gargulak?" a voice boomed. Dawes cringed and turned to flee, but Faben halted him by pointing a finger and raising her eyebrows. "It is I, Faben Brassline, who has called you to this realm. O Gargulak, will you accept these offerings?" Chuggie squinted into the cloud of smoke; his eyes went wide with anticipation. He couldn't make out a figure, but Dawes looked ready to bolt â€" like he'd explode if a moth landed on his shoulder. Chuggie held back a laugh. "What offerings?" Gargulak boomed. "I haven't got any offerings," Faben responded. "I have questions, and you can have as many as you like." Chuggie laughed as Dawes trembled and quaked and backed away from the creature. "Then I do not accept. Release me." The smoke began to collect and congeal. Gargulak took the shape of a tall man, easily twice Faben's height, with eight smoky wings. He smiled, revealing rows of huge, sharp teeth. Playful madness danced in his eyes. "Make your offering, or be destroyed!" A whirlwind of autumn leaves swirled around the circle. Dawes put his shaking arms up to protect his face. Chuggie wondered how long Dawes' bladder would hold out. "What can we sacrifice to you, vengeful demon?" Faben asked. She glanced at Chuggie with a bright smile. He nearly lost it when she winked at him. Gargulak lowered his gaze slowly to Dawes. As the demon's eyes turned to narrow slits of glowing yellow, Dawes' eyes stretched wide with alarm. The demon smiled, displaying his sharp teeth. Dawes' mouth formed a tiny, frightened "O." Chuggie guessed the kid wanted to run but couldn't make his legs work. If this didn't shut him up, nothing would. Gargulak grew taller and thicker inside the circle, pointing a long, clawed finger at Dawes. "Faben Brassline, how much blood pumps through that man? Enough to fill my chalice?" "Oh, plenty of blood," Faben answered. "Plenty of blood. He'll fill your chalice, certainly." "Boy!" Gargulak shouted at Dawes. "Come closer." Dawes turned his gaping, disbelieving eyes to Faben, his mouth a quaking cave of terror. She gave him a serious nod, and Dawes stepped closer to the growing demon like a man stepping up to the gallows. The kid swallowed hard as he craned his neck up to look into Gargulak's mad smile. Faben moved behind Dawes without making a sound. "Now give me your hand." The demon held out a barbed, oily claw. "Come on, give it to me!" With a startled yelp, Dawes jumped back. He bumped hard into Faben and yelped again. He spun around and gasped as he looked into Faben's face. Like a fox, she smiled, then shoved him. Dawes stumbled backward, flailing in terror. He tripped on the sticks and landed flat on his back at the demon's feet. Gargulak peered down at the horrified sacrifice and let loose a deafening howl of laughter. Massive, smoky hands snatched Dawes up. Gargulak's wings beat at the air as he lifted off the ground with Dawes in his arms. He flapped his wings and rotated. The demon spun faster and faster. The summoning circle filled with a column of whirling smoke. The leaves blowing about the clearing spiraled into the circle. Crows cawed and followed the leaves into the smoke, adding their screams to the turmoil. "Please, please!" Dawes screamed. "Faben, how could you betray me?" His words fell apart and became unintelligible sobs. They melted into a continuous high-pitched shriek. Chuggie fell to hands and knees. He cackled uncontrollably and pounded the dirt with his hand. Part of him felt bad for Dawes, but not a very big part. The wind in the clearing receded, and the cloud in the circle dissipated. Dawes spun down to the ground. His hoarse wails tapered off as he touched gently down on the ground. He curled into a shaking ball and clamped his hands over his eyes. Gargulak re-solidified. His shape stayed the same, only much smaller. The demon now only stood as tall as Faben's chest. "Thank you, Faben." Gargulak gave up the ominous sounding voice. He sounded more like a man getting ready to tell a dirty joke. That was exactly the appropriate sacrifice." Chuggie's laughter turned into a coughing fit, but he still pounded the ground. "O, Gargulak," Faben smiled as she dried her eyes, "we thank you for your generosity." "You know something, Brassline?" Gargulak chuckled. "You are an amazing bull-shitter." "Of course I am," Faben said. Dawes scrambled to his feet and scurried away from the demon. In doing so, he broke the circle of sticks. Dawes' mouth fell open. He looked from the breach to the demon. "Oh that." Garulak waved his hand dismissively. "Symbolic. Didn't you learn anything in summoning school?" Clutching his chest, Dawes' voice cracked as he drew a knife and pointed it at Faben. "You maniac! Why would you do that to me?" Faben raised her hands to Dawes, palms up. She shrugged. "How else are you going to learn?" Chuggie couldn't stop laughing. He tried to get to his feet with the help of a nearby boulder and had to hold onto it to keep from falling down again. Dawes threw a rock at Chuggie. "You think this is funny? My heart is about to explode, and you pig fucking whores are laughing about it! You planned this all along!" Chuggie gasped once to catch his breath, then sat back against a boulder and lit his pipe. "Now, Dawes â€"." "You rat! Why did you make me come here? To humiliate me? Mock me? What's next, Faben?" Dawes spat on the ground. Faben grabbed Dawes by the shirt and pulled him close. "Do you think I pushed you in the circle to play games, boy? Do you think a Woodsman plays games? I pushed you in because you have to be tested. You have to face a creature bent on your destruction to see what you're made of. Seconds ago, you believed you were going to be torn apart by a demon. And now you know how truly unprepared you are. Lucky for you, Gargulak couldn't harm a fly." "Hey!" shouted Gargulak. "Could too." "Next time you won't be so lucky." Faben released Dawes and shoved him away. "Next time, hopefully, you'll be able to keep your wits about you." Dawes hung his head in submission. "All right, break's over, kids." Chuggie got to his feet and dusted himself off. "Still got a ways to go before lunch." Faben turned to the demon. "Listen, I need to know what manner of creature we're going to face." Gargulak sighed. "How would I know, Faben? This is your world, right? I don't show up here asking what vile creature lives in my yard. That would be pointless. You'd have no way of knowing that." "All right then," Faben raised her hands. "That will be all, mighty Gargulak. Thank you for all you've bestowed upon us mortals. I release you back to the dark realms from whence you came." "You know something, Brassline?" said the demon. "Someday I'm going to figure out how to summon you to my world. Won't that be a laugh?" Gargulak burst apart, leaving behind a cloud of smoke soon erased by the breeze. The three mounted their goats and resumed the trek. Dawes barely said a word as they plodded up the forest trail. At first Chuggie found the quiet refreshing, until, from the corner of his eye, he caught Dawes wiping tears away. Plenty, it seemed, went on inside the young man's head. If the kid was smart, he was busy questioning everything he thought he knew about the life of a Woodsman. After a few more miles, the goats became restless. Soon they stopped and refused to go further. They bleated and reared up until their riders dismounted. Chuggie sniffed the air. It was almost as if the goats smelled something strange up ahead. "Hey kid, you speak goat?" Chuggie asked Dawes. Dawes shook his head. The kid still wasn't talking. Sure would have been handy to know what the goats were all riled up about. In any case, the goats refused to budge another step to the north. "Something's up." Chuggie peered up the path. It got tighter and darker ahead. "You think we got trouble?" Faben asked. "Animals know." Chuggie led his goats over to a fallen tree and tied them up. He rummaged through his gear and pulled out a pair of hatchets. Faben and Dawes tied their goats next to Chuggie's. Faben swung her summoner's podium in the air, while Dawes stood next to his goat and stared at his feet. "Gear up, Dawes. We need to be prepared to move fast." Faben swung her podium one last time, then tucked it under her arm. "I'll stay here and guard the goats," Dawes said without looking up. "What?" Faben tilted her head. "A wolf or something will eat them if we just tie them and leave." "Only gonna get worse from here, Faben," Chuggie said. "If he don't want in, he shouldn't be in." Chuggie hoped she would leave the kid behind. He'd be nothing but a liability.  Faben took a step toward Dawes. "If you stay here, how will I see how you fight? How will I see your grit and guts?" "You won't." Dawes shrugged, looking back down at his feet. "For me to endorse you to the Lodge â€"." Faben began. "Screw your Lodge!" Dawes blurted out. "I can't go on, don't you see? I'm going to die if I go with you!" He opened his mouth to say more, but no words came out. "Come on," Chuggie said to Faben. "Daylight's burnin'. Sort him out another time." "All right, listen." Faben grabbed Dawes by the shoulder and shook him for emphasis. "If we aren't back in a couple hours, you ride on home. I mean it. Get your ass back to the city by nightfall. Get it?" She let go of him and followed after Chuggie. Chuggie glanced over his shoulder. He'd never seen a face that looked so relieved to be left behind in the woods. Chuggie and Faben went forward on foot. They didn't say much until they'd put some distance between themselves and Dawes. "Better off without him," said Chuggie. "You're probably right, but it's damn disappointing. I spent a lot of time working with him. Damn disappointing." Faben hacked down a sapling with her podium and kicked it out of the way. Ahead of them, the brush thickened. Chuggie dropped down on his knees and crawled through the jagged tangle of leafless branches. "You backing me up, Brassline?" Chuggie whispered. A branch snapped back and whacked him in the butt. "Yep." Faben said. Chuggie tore through the thicket of brambles and underbrush. They crawled toward a clearing ahead. Chuggie and Faben tumbled into the open as if the forest spat them out. As soon as they emerged, the brush closed behind them. The jagged branches interlaced to form a nearly solid wall, leaving no sign that they'd ever been there at all. "Won't be going back that way any time soon." Chuggie scratched his chin. "Branches ain't supposed to do that." Faben nodded in grim agreement. As they stood up straight and dusted themselves off, they found themselves in an ash-gray sea of waist-high grass. A thick fog filled the clearing, allowing only fifteen or twenty feet of visibility. Above, the sky looked like well-hammered sheet metal, and the sun made no attempt to break through. Telling east from west was as impossible as telling north from south. He turned in a circle, absorbing the scene. This place radiated malevolence and misery the way fire gave off heat. Squinting into the mist, his skin crawled, and he knew this was exactly the place Haste wanted him to be. Rows of gray posts stretched off into the fog, and Faben tapped the nearest one with her podium. "What's this, Chuggie? It's petrified." "Faben," Chuggie breathed her name. He put his finger to his lips and hurried to her side. He leaned down and looked at a post. "If I'm right, these posts mark graves," he whispered. The fog settled down on them as the ominous silence soaked into Chuggie's bones. "What happened here?" Faben asked through clenched teeth. Chuggie grabbed his anchor and unwound some chain. "Desecration happened here. That's what."  ⊠⊠⊠ Dawes couldn't stand sitting next to the goats. Their constant state of terror was contagious. The only thing worse than being next to the goats was not being next to them. Being near them beat being alone. He built a small fire, but it did little to reassure him. Every little sound made him jump. He kept seeing the Gargulak demon out of the corner of his eye. "Damned Faben," he muttered to himself. No, not Faben. The stranger in the stupid hat, it was all his fault. Faben had always treated Dawes fairly until that bastard got her ear. Soon as that guy came along Faben shoved him into a circle with a fucking demon. This stranger was ruining everything, including any chance Dawes had at ever joining the Woodsmen â€" and of winning Fey Voletta. Dawes added more and more wood to the fire, leaving openings for air. He added the dried weeds that sprouted all around, but nothing made the fire grow any bigger. He got to his feet to look for more fuel. He froze. A woman in a gore-soaked white dress stood some twenty feet away from him. Blood gushed from the mangled mess of meat that should have been her face. She stared at him with bulging eyes. She floated slowly toward him. Her ghostly hair blew back as she came. Her ruined mouth opened and let out a shriek that pierced Dawes' eardrums like daggers. Dawes stumbled backward and tripped over a rock. On his back, he was helpless as she hovered above him. He could smell her blood, her meat, and her breath. Her wail cut into him. The bloody woman drew back, then surged down at him with a shriek. Instead of crashing into him, she simply vanished. Dawes gasped and panted. Alone, unable to leave, and too terrified to stay, he trembled on the ground next to his dying fire. Soaked in sweat, Dawes listened to the sounds around him. Which were real and which were imaginary? He'd lost the ability to tell. Chapter 13  Chuggie and Faben crept through the fog. Chuggie paid careful attention to his anchor and chain, trying his best to keep their noise to a minimum. "Keep your eyes peeled." Faben clutched her book of summoning in one hand, and in the other, she wielded her podium. "What do we do now?" Chuggie shook his head. "Somebody knew all about the state of this graveyard, they just never thought to mention it. What we're gonna do is get that purse an' hack our way outta here. Then we're gonna go back to town. When we get there, I'm gonna bust some fuggin' heads." A tiny creature no bigger than a rabbit growled up at Chuggie through long needle-sharp teeth. It skittered at him, then turned to escape in the mist. Chuggie launched a hatchet. It struck with a crunch before the little monster could make another sound. They inspected the little broken beastie. It looked like rotten meat packed onto a skull. Long teeth jutted from its wide mouth like a bouquet of quills. Chuggie couldn't decide if it had eyes or not. Another tiny, needle-toothed monster hopped up from the weeds. It growled, snapped its teeth at Faben, then fled. "After him!" Chuggie clutched his hatchets and ran after the beast.  ⊠⊠⊠ Dawes flinched at everything. When a leaf fell from a nearby tree, he cringed. When the goats bucked against their ropes or kicked at the ground, he jumped. A boy stepped from behind a tree into the clearing. He walked toward Dawes with slow, unnatural jerks like a puppet and stopped at the fallen tree next to the goats. He stared at the bucking and braying animals with dead, emotionless eyes. "W-what are you doing, little friend?" Dawes asked with white-knuckled grip on his knife. The boy shook violently from head to toe. He emitted a childish growl and took five convulsing steps toward Dawes. Dawes scrambled away, trying to get behind the little fire. The boy grunted as though his mouth were stapled shut. Dawes breathed heavy as he watched the boy step behind a tree. The ghost boy never stepped back into view, but his growl sounded from every direction. Twigs snapped behind Dawes, no matter what direction he turned. This was all Chuggie's doing. He'd manipulated the entire situation. The stranger intended to abandon him there with the goats. For all he knew, Chuggie had already murdered Faben. He'd come back any time now to finish Dawes off. Dawes struggled for the concentration Faben had taught him. If he could focus, he could cast a circle and summon a guardian spirit. He could ward off any bloody-faced ghost or twitching child-spirit that came to call. A burning human head floated ten feet off the ground a few yards away from him. It stared at Dawes. He found himself staring back. The flaming head faded, and a faceless woman floated into view crying, "Where's my baby?" This all made it quite difficult for Dawes to concentrate.  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie and Faben followed the little monster as closely as they dared as it ran along the row of posts. A small wooden structure, no bigger than Shola's storehouse, emerged from the fog. The creature scurried inside. "It's like a little chapel," said Chuggie. "Bet you fifty bucks this wood came from dug up coffins." "Why don't you see if your purse is in there?" Faben said, getting into a defensive crouch. Instead of a door, thin strips of wood hung from metal rings like vertical window blinds. Chuggie pushed them aside and peered in. A pile of human teeth lay on the ground in front of a coffin-wood altar. He couldn't make out exactly what sat atop the altar. Entrails maybe. Shelves lined the walls. Every surface was thick with the needle-mouthed beasties. They welcomed Chuggie with angry chittering. Chuggie pulled his head back. "No purse," he said. "Whaddya say we burn this thing down quick?" Faben nodded with a grin. She stabbed the foot of the podium into the ground and set the book upon it. Turning to a page with a ribbon marker, she spoke the words of an incantation. The ground undulated as dark red beetles crawled out of the earth. Faben waved her arms directing the beetles toward the desecrated chapel. The beetles swarmed over its surface, acting as one organism. Their collective chirping formed an expectant tone, as if waiting for their next command. "Nowâ€Åš burn," Faben growled. At her word, the beetles erupted in a whoosh of red flame. Inside the needle-toothed creatures shrieked and thumped off the walls. Three ran out of the fire. Chuggie threw a hatchet into the first, bashed the second with his anchor, and crushed the third underfoot with a leaping stomp. They'd escaped Faben's flames, but not the wrath of Chuggie. "Firebugs, Faben?" he chuckled. "Are you yankin' my chain?" Faben flipped her podium in the air and caught it with a smirk. Chuggie and Faben stepped back as the blaze grew. A stink like burning hair and garbage filled the air. One leg forward, one leg back, knees bent, Chuggie readied himself for anything that might charge from the fog. When nothing charged them, the pair ventured further into the Desecration following the row of petrified posts. They left a trail of trampled weeds in their wake as they advanced through the soupy fog. It had gotten so thick they could barely see the next post in the row. Chuggie hoped he wasn't leading them in a circle. Another desecrated chapel, roughly the same dimensions as the one they'd just destroyed, emerged from the haze. Chuggie and Faben crouched down low and moved forward as quietly as possible. "You wanna look inside and check this one?" Chuggie asked. "No, you did really well on the last one. I'd hate to break a lucky streak." She stuck the podium into the ground and placed her book upon it. She found a page she liked and gave Chuggie a go-ahead nod. "Fire's not going to work on this one, Faben." Chuggie scraped the blade of his hatchet against the wall of the chapel. It was constructed from old, battered headstones. He crept up closer with Faben covering his back. Strips of dried human skin hung from hooks where the door should have been. Glove-like fingers with hair sprouting from the knuckles dangled just above the ground. Blackened flesh clung to the backside of the skin strips. Before parting the curtain and looking inside, Chuggie checked behind the little building. With anchor held high, he snuck to each corner and leapt around it, ready to bash any attacker with his hardware. He encountered no opposition and gave a thumbs up to Faben. Carefully, carefully, Chuggie stuck a finger between the hanging strips of skin and eased them apart. He leaned close and peered inside. His eyes couldn't focus in the dark, but his ears registered a rising drone. A fly landed on his face. When he swatted it away, his elbow bumped the skin curtain. A raucous buzz poured from the doorway along with a cloud of fat, black flies. He stumbled back, coughing as he waved them off. He tore off the curtain of skin and flung it away. Inside the gravestone chapel, he saw no goat-face purse. Instead, he saw three piles of rot. And those piles seemed to be taking notice of him. Human leg bones stuck up from their faces like calcified crab eyes. Large, long teeth curved from their jaws, opening wide to reveal thick, black tongues. Chuggie realized the jaws had once been human ribcages. The things lowered themselves like putrefying jungle cats getting ready to pounce. They twitched and shook, as if getting ready to leap. Chuggie jumped back. "What is it?" Faben's eyes grew wide â€" not fearful, more like she was thrilled. Standing close to the wall next to the door, Chuggie held his anchor over his head. He waited, poised to strike. The only thing that came out of the door was a hissing, gagging sound. "More of the little snappers?" Faben asked. Chuggie shook his head. Just loud enough to be heard, he said, "These are bigger. They got ribs for teeth and leg bones for eyes." Faben tilted her head and squinted at Chuggie. "What is it?" "I'm gonna bring this building down." Chuggie tapped his anchor. "Keep your eye out. Something comes out the door or outta the fog, you blast 'em with fire balls or lightning balls. Some kind of balls." Faben glared at him. "I'm not laughing," she said, "on the outside." She cracked a little smile and put out her hand to stop him from walking away. "The building might not burn, but the shit inside it will. Get back, I'll send in the bugs." Once more, she summoned the firebugs, and they teemed into the little chapel. With a twitch of her lip, Faben commanded them to burn. A jet of red fire shot out the doorway. She'd just saved Chuggie about ten minutes of exertion, and he appreciated that. One after another the desecrated headstones caved in. The beasts inside that were still alive snarled and roared as the stones crushed their bones. Faben slung her book over her shoulder and pulled her podium from the ground. "What now, Chuggles?" "My guess is we keep movin' along this row. I don't think it's a grid. I think all the rows'll meet in the center." He wished he was more clear-headed. Even for a creature like Chuggie, a Desecration was a bad place to be defeated. "You sound like you have experience with this," Faben said. "All theoretical," he answered. "I knew this guy a long time agoâ€Åš but that story'll have to wait." "So what do we do?" she asked. "A Desecration always has a poison core. We find that, we find the wannabe god that runs this place." Chuggie cocked his head to the side, listening. "If my goat-face purse is here, that's where it'll be." "Do you think Haste brought it here?" "I believe it's here, but he didn't bring it. Folks don't walk in and out of a place like this. I'd say the purse was drawn." "I'll be honest," said Faben, "I don't know much about Desecration." Chuggie nodded. "For a Desecration to take place, a demon, a Gooch, rises up and takes root in hallowed ground. Abandoned cemetery like this'd be easy pickins for a Gooch. I bet Stagwater used to bury their dead right here, didn't they?" "As long as I've been there, they've always cremated the dead and poured ashes in the river." Faben pushed her glasses up, so she could rub her eyes.  "A Gooch thinks he's a god, so there'll be a temple in the middle." Chuggie squinted into the fog. "Everything's a circle." "Theoretical experience, my ass." Faben put her glasses back in place. "Alright," Chuggie said, "I think I might'a destroyed one a few years back. But that was a long time ago, and my memory gets fuzzy. Coulda just dreamt it. But, I'm pretty sure I know what to look for. We've got to get to the center." "I guess the cakewalk is over." Faben clutched her podium tight. "We'll get some real work in soon enough." Chuggie couldn't wait to get back to town. Some folks back that way needed a fuggin' slap. They crept on up the row of posts with fog-damp earth muting their footsteps. Chuggie tensed at every sound. If some tiny beast hadn't alerted the Gooch to their presence, the smashing of the temple most certainly had. A jagged, beehive-like pyramid emerged from the haze. Its surface squirmed like boiling mud. Chuggie and Faben stole up to it. The pyramid was formed, not of stone and mortar, but of decomposing flesh â€" flesh that somehow still lived. Decaying faces snarled, and mouths stretched open in silent screams of agony. Limbs, some without skin, melded together to form a vein-like network. The veins throbbed with something like a pulse. The pyramid hive of a temple oozed black slime like unholy sweat. Goo slid down the sides to pool around its base in a shallow moat. Slick stone stairs rose up one side of the pyramid. Chuggie halted, looking from the moat, to the steps, and back to the moat. "Up we go, Brassline." "You're going to climb that thing?" He nodded. "It's our way in." "I can't wait," she replied. She looked down at her clothes with a frown. "Yeah, I'd say tomorrow's gonna be laundry day. Maybe I'll buy you a pretty new dress for your troubles." He patted her on the shoulder and stepped toward the mountain of slime. "A pretty dress? Ha. You buy me a Steel Jack shockspear." Faben kicked a rock into the goo. They waded through the muck and started up the steep, slippery steps. Oozing mouths bit at them, muddy eyes stared, and gnarled hands clawed. A bony hand with pustules and blisters reached out and snatched at Chuggie's ankle. He drew back and kicked at it. Missing his mark, he slipped and nearly tumbled down the side. Faben steadied herself with her podium as she slogged up step after sloppy, slimy step toward the top. The temple's top was a broad, flat surface with a column rising from each of its four corners. The columns stretched into the fog, making their actual height impossible to determine. The faces that formed the columns writhed and twisted. Bones, sticks, and feathers stuck in their slime-filled eye sockets. The air hung heavy with the smell of their fear and hatred. "Can we help these things?" Faben asked. "No, I don't think we can." "Then can't we show mercy and kill them?" "Look close, Brassline. They're dead now." While that wasn't entirely true, the desecrated were much more dead than alive. They were beyond salvation. In the middle of the columns, a gaping tunnel spiraled into the depths of the pyramid. Chuggie peered down the hole. Faben inched up to the edge. "We've got to go down there, huh?" "Just you," Chuggie grinned. "I best stay up here and guard the entrance." Chapter 14  The tunnel plunged like a twisted corkscrew into the heart of the pyramid. As they descended, the air grew heavy with the moist, fungal smell of rot. Firebugs like giant glowing roaches clung to the damp walls. A swarm of the bugs latched onto Faben's podium, turning it into a torch. Another swarm clustered on Chuggie's anchor. He carried it like a lantern. Twisted and distorted faces covered the walls. Unlike the faces outside, the expressions of terror were frozen and unmoving, as if carved from stone. After climbing down a seemingly endless expanse of grotesque passageway, Faben and Chuggie discovered a massive chamber with a high ceiling. Some dark conjury held up the ceiling in place without the support of columns. Bones covered the floor like a jagged lake. Antlers stuck up like stunted trees. "Do you know what this place is?" Faben whispered. "Some kinda cathedral?" said Chuggie. "Or maybe the Gooch's workshop. This is where we'll find what we're afterâ€Åš if we're going to find it at all." "I don't like this," Faben planted her feet wide as if she didn't want to take another step. "What's to like? Just get ready to summon something. I'll go ahead." Chuggie crouched down and crept into the chamber. The loose bones underfoot clacked and clattered. As he looked back to check Faben's progress, a gurgling, malicious snicker filled the chamber.  ⊠⊠⊠ Kale drew a deep breath as he stepped through the front door of his house. What horrible mess had the orphan created today? Kale pushed down his annoyance and smiled. It wouldn't be much longer now, and he'd be free of the brat. Olin sat on the floor in Kale's study with paper and coloring sticks spread all around him. He drew pictures of animals on Kale's linen rag letterhead. The embossing alone was worth as much as anything that putrid kid or his whole extended family ever owned. Kale bit back his rage. He could feel it building up in his stomach and shoulder muscles. "You're not allowed in here," Kale choked out the words. He would have rather snatched up his letter opener and cut out the little bastard's heart, but he remained calm. Soon enough. "I couldn't find any paper anywhere else." Olin smiled but didn't look up from his work. "Come on," Kale grabbed Olin's arm and lifted him to his feet. "I don't want you in here. Let's take the drawings and the pencils and go to the kitchen." "Okay." Olin picked up his things and followed Kale. As he climbed up in a chair, he asked, "Am I in trouble?" Kale forced his face into a smile. "Of course not, boy! You know, tonight is a very big night for you." "Really?" said Olin. "What are we doing?" "Tonight you get the surprise I've been telling you about." Kale tousled the boy's hair. It took a great deal of restraint not to yank out a handful. "I can't wait," Olin said. "How is your face feeling?" Kale made his voice sound sympathetic and fatherly. Olin's hand slid to the tortugy mask hanging from his waistband. "It's okay. The ice cream helps." "Then let's get you some more ice cream." Tonight there'd be no loose ends, no meetings, no interruptions â€" no drunken drifters to interfere with his plans. As soon as it got dark, all of Kale's hard work and planning would finally pay off. He couldn't wait for the sun to go down.  ⊠⊠⊠ "Light, Faben! Now!" Chuggie hollered. Across the chamber, the Desecration's tyrant pounded heavy fists into the bony floor. Fragments shot out in all directions, and dirt fell from above. "Light!" Faben shouted. Her voice wavered with anxiety. A pinprick of blue flashed and expanded. It burst, spraying gobs of liquid light that clung to the walls and dripped down. In the dim blue glow, a colossal pile of darkness, nearly large enough to fill cathedral-like space, crawled across the bone-littered floor. The creature pulled itself up onto squatty, bowed legs. Its bulbous head bobbled atop its wide, round body, giving it the appearance of a shadowy infant almost twenty feet tall. One huge hand held onto the wall as if to balance itself, and the other clawed at the air. Its gurgling wet laughter decayed into a wail of rage. All around it, a swarm of decayed abominations climbed to their feet. In the dim light, their silhouettes looked like warped and gnarled human bodies fused with animal parts. Their grotesque, unnatural shadows bleated and bellowed and moaned at Chuggie. "Are you seein' this, Faben?" Chuggie hollered. "I'm seeing it," Faben called back. "Is itâ€Åš a baby?" "Biggest one I ever saw." Chuggie fought for solid footing. The gurgling, hiccupping laughter stopped. The giant baby roared as though someone had taken his oversized, fetid pacifier. "Whoâ€Åš invade?" The Gooch lurched into the light. A hideous quilt-work of dead flesh and horrified faces comprised its body. A matted fur sash hung across its chest. From it hung skulls, pelvic bones, and spines, along with daggers and helmets. And â€" a purse with the face of a goat. "I see it!" Chuggie waved to Faben as he yelled. "I see the purse! He's got it strapped to his chest with a bunch of other shit. Get me a clear run, and I'll rob this baby blind." Faben swung her arms like a conductor leading an orchestra. "Not long now," she called. "That's a good thing, Faben." Chuggie's mouth fell open. The Gooch grunted and groaned as he pushed a rotting deer, antlers and all, out of the opening between his legs. When the mock-childbirth was over, the Gooch picked up the thrashing, desecrated animal and licked it. Behind Faben, a little creature like a rabbit crossed with an owl hopped out of the shadows. It darted around, sniffing Faben's leg and chirping with alarm at the Gooch. It latched onto her calf, screeching like a monkey and clawing like a cat. Chuggie glanced at Faben and did a double-take. "What the hell is that little thing supposed to do?" Faben grimaced as the little owlish rabbit creature's claws pinched her. She re-situated it and gave it a swat on the nose. "It's a binder." Still holding the squirming deer monstrosity like a slimy teddy bear, the Gooch's hulking hand flailed until it grasped a handful of what looked like dead vultures. It stuffed them into its gaping maw, cramming them deep down its throat. Choking and snorting, it swallowed them. The Gooch unleashed a sound, half belch and half roar. It echoed off the walls of the chamber. Chuggie whirled his anchor over his head as the Gooch's shadowy horde stalked toward him. The smaller minions were able to climb over the bones with more speed. The larger ones had to wade through, often tripping and stumbling. As soon as the first one came within range, Chuggie flung the anchor and pulverized it. It tumbled backwards, limp as a dead fish. Chuggie trudged through the skulls and the bones in a constant struggle to keep his footing. A girl with a rotting cow udder for a head crawled at him on all fours. Scapula bones stuck out like a duck bill from the place her mouth should have been. Chuggie hacked at her neck with his hatchet, and black grease squirted from the wound. The hatchet slipped from his grip and sailed into the shadows. He drew the other hatchet, chopped the rest of her head off, and stomped it until it broke open. The Gooch dropped the desecrated deer, and it flailed its hooves until it got its feet on the floor. Its dead gaze bored into Chuggie from eyeless sockets. As if on a signal from the Gooch, it charged past its lumbering comrades, somehow surefooted atop the bones. Chuggie swung. His anchor smashed into its skull, crushing its head into its rib cage with a spray of stringy slime. The deer's broken body tumbled back, landing in a twitching pile. "How's that coming, Faben?" Chuggie shouted. "It'sâ€Åš done!" The binder whimpered and dug its claws into Faben's leg. A dark cloud formed above Faben and churned like a sack of hungry wolves. The cloud puffed apart, leaving a seam of light in the air like frozen lightning. With a deafening crack, the Moon Dreg burst forth. It howled like a nightmare hound and clawed at its own flesh. Spines and spikes protruded from its metallic black skin. A row of leathery wings down its back beat at the air. A long, forked tail lashed behind. Beneath its beady, deep-set eyes, nostrils flared in its short snout. It gnashed and snarled with teeth so large and plentiful that it couldn't close its mouth. "Do my bidding, and earn your freedom!" Faben hollered. "By the ghost of my father, Aono Brassline, I command you! Attack my enemy!" The Moon Dreg bellowed like an ox on fire and flew up to the ceiling. "What are theseâ€Åš new toys?" asked the Gooch. Chuggie hurled his remaining hatchet at a donkey-thing that loped toward him on bony, stilt-like legs. The hatchet stuck in its neck causing it to trip and crash face first into a stony point jutting from the bones. He quickly retrieved the hatchet and gave the stilted ass a flurry of chops to the face. "I come for that goat-face purse." Chuggie pointed to the Gooch's belt. "How about you just give it to me?" "Mine!" said the Gooch. His giant baby hand, covered in the rancid black sludge of desecration, clapped over the purse. Hearing the demonic roar overhead, Chuggie looked up to see Faben's demon swoop into a savage dive. The Moon Dreg smashed into the Gooch like a demonic missile. The two of them crashed into the wall. The Dreg's many wings stabbed and clawed at the Gooch's body. Their mighty arms hammered and tore at one another. Deafening roars filled the cave. Rocks and boulders sprayed in all directions. The titanic wrestling match between the Moon Dreg and the Gooch raged on as Chuggie crept in close. The Dreg dove behind the Gooch, wrapping its arms around his neck. The Gooch clawed at the Moon Dreg's arm and spat slime as he screamed. The roaring Gooch slammed backward into the wall over and over. The Dreg held on, swiping at the Gooch with the talons on its feet. The Gooch kept pounding backward. Dust and gravel tumbled from the ceiling with each impact. Even their roars seemed to do battle, amplifying the chaos of the moment.  "This place is coming down!" Chuggie charged at the Gooch with all the drunken determination he could muster. Stones and dust crumbled down from the ceiling. A boulder crashed into a pile of bones, pulverizing them in a blast of fragments. Chuggie's trophy, the goat-face purse, hung just feet away on the Gooch's sash. He scaled the putrid baby leg, but it was like climbing a bucking ox. He pushed off the Gooch's thigh and lunged at the sash. He wrapped his fingers around the braided tendon and human scalps and whacked it with his hatchet. The blade wouldn't slice through the sash. Shola's freedom was in his hands. He hacked away, but he couldn't cut it free. He held on as the Gooch heaved backwards against the Moon Dreg. The Moon Dreg, in turn, choked the Gooch even harder while gnawing on the back of his head. Dangling from the sash right next to the goat-face purse, Chuggie saw an ancient-looking dagger carved from bone. He lurched for it. He managed to cling to the Gooch's stinking chest by snatching at the tendon sash. In his flailing, he grabbed the bone dagger. Touching it sent a jolt of energy up his arm. He wrapped his hand around its hilt and forgot all about the hatchet. The dagger pumped vitality and clarity into his core. He flicked the blade at the Gooch's sash. His free hand shot out and snatched the goat-face purse. He had his prize, right there in his hand! Shouldn't there be a flash of golden light to mark his success? Or perhaps a triumphant horn sounding from on high? Instead, Chuggie's mouth filled with blood. The Gooch slammed his baby fist into the Dreg and wailed as his tendon sash slipped. He snatched up the loose end of the sash. At close range, Chuggie looked into the Gooch's eyes â€" slime-covered skulls peering out between leathery lids. A chill shot through him as cold as the grave of an unwanted bastard left to die in the woods. The Gooch was hell-forged and malevolent as any creature Chuggie had ever encountered. Chuggie leapt away. With the dagger in hand, his mind was clear, quick, even sharp. Thanks to his new found clarity, the reason for this was obvious: this dagger had power. It gave him not just simple acuity of thought and razor-edged wits. Chuggie felt fast. He felt dangerous. And he felt something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Retreating from the Gooch with the purse and the dagger, Chuggie found he could see how things connected. Invisible geometry tied everything to everything else. He saw how a tumbling stone was about to bounce. He saw the air tremble each time the Gooch slammed the Dreg into the wall. He wound the chain's slack around his left forearm, providing a bit of armor. The anchor dangled from his hand by the last couple chain links, ready to club his opposition. Faben's demon released its grip on the Gooch. The Moon Dreg soared into the air and circled for another diving strike. In that instant, the Gooch flung an armload of bony spikes at Chuggie. He saw how the spikes would fly through the air. He saw where they would hit. He ducked and shielded himself with the chain on his arm. "Get down, Faben!" he yelled. Blood poured from his mouth. As Faben's podium sliced off the head of a desecrated monstrosity, the spikes flew into her. They pierced her and knocked her back. She screamed as the Moon Dreg crashed once more into the Gooch. The Gooch's howl drowned out her wail of pain. An instant later, every fissure and crack in the chamber came alive. The Gooch's desecrated army poured in. Revolting abominations lurched and crawled over the bones like deformed, decayed insects. A group of rotting goat-men raced to their master's aid. Swarms of the needle-mouthed creatures skittered from the shadows and charged. Chuggie, with the goat-face purse around his neck, scrambled toward Faben. As though she didn't feel pain, she yanked the bone spikes out of her shoulder and stomach. Chuggie skidded to Faben's side. "Gotta get up, gotta get up! We got what we came for. We gotta roll out." "What took so long?" Faben asked, hunched over. She slung the book over her shoulder and used her podium to get back to her feet. As she pulled an especially long bone spike from her stomach, the binder demon screeched and hopped away. It ducked into a shadow and vanished. The Moon Dreg took immediate notice, released its hold on the Gooch, and turned toward Faben. It fell from the air as it ripped its wings off. With leaps and savage bounds, it roared and plundered through the Gooch's minions. Any of them that got in the way were stomped, skewered, or slashed to pieces. As it tore its way to Faben, the demon chomped bites as large as coffins out of itself from one arm, then the other. In its charge, it flung blood in all directions. Meat and gristle flew as it ripped off and consumed its own legs.. The Moon Dreg flopped down beside Faben in a quivering, twitching pile of gore. It continued to devour itself until the only thing left was a trail of bloody meat and bone with a snarling head on one end. "My blade!" boomed the Gooch. "It's mine now," Chuggie shouted. "Go back to sleep." "You steal the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu! It is mine!" The Gooch wailed so loud the room shook. It stomped toward them, spraying bones and skulls with each massive step. Chuggie and Faben rushed back the way they'd come. The firebugs took flight and blazed a trail up the tunnel. "Went better than I expected," Chuggie said through the blood pouring from his mouth. "How bad are you hurt?" "A scratch." Faben moved with astonishing speed up the winding tunnel. Were it not for the dagger in his hand, Chuggie doubted he could have kept up with the wounded summoner. The Gooch's roar echoed after them, along with the ear-splitting footsteps of his charging soldiers. They met no resistance during their ascent, though Chuggie'd been ready for it. With his left arm wrapped in his chain and the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu in his right hand, he was ready to devastate. They reached the open air atop the pyramid. Chuggie peered over the side as he searched for more desecrated attackers. "You're injured," Faben said, staring at the blood bubbling from Chuggie's mouth. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips. "Nah. It's this dagger here. Makes blood run outta my mouth." Faben gave him a curt nod and got back to business. She set up her podium and opened her book. Just like before, she conducted an invisible orchestra, muttering things Chuggie couldn't make out. She reached into her satchel and produced a pouch of salt. She emptied it into her hand and threw it into the air. A rattling sound came from somewhere. The air in front of Faben split apart, and her summoned creature slid down to the temple top. A short, fat lizard-man wearing a little suit of burlap stomped his feet and rattled out curses at the top of his lungs. He wore little black goggles over his eyes and snarled up at Faben with his fangs exposed. On his shoulder, he carried a wooden barrel with a cartoonish flaming skull painted on it. Chuggie studied Faben as she conjured. Back in the Gooch's altar-chamber, he'd thought she was hurt bad. It looked like that bone spike went all the way through her. Then she'd sprinted up the tunnel like a wolf after sheep. Now, as she summoned a new creature, she didn't act injured in the least. Deciding she must be fine, he regarded the angry little lizard-man. "What is that, Faben?" "It's a tentahk," she said. "It goes boom." "I'm gonna touch it." Chuggie put a finger out and moved toward it. The little lizard-man rattled and hissed the closer he got. "No, you're not." Faben put a hand on Chuggie's wrist to stop him. "Fine," he grumbled. To the tentahk, she said, "Go down that tunnel. The first thing you meetâ€Åš" She pointed to the barrel. "Understand?" It rattled, snarled, and ran down the tunnel. "We have to go." Faben grabbed Chuggie's arm and darted to the stairway on the side of the temple. Chuggie, half running and half sliding, followed. By the time they reached the bottom, they'd built up too much speed to stop. Faben used her podium to vault over the slime pool. She swung the podium with a flourish as she turned. Having no staff of his own, Chuggie barreled into the muck. A sheet of black ooze soared over Faben's head, hovered there, then dropped. "We made it," Chuggie said. "Can't believe how covered in sludge I got!" Faben wiped the slime out of her eyes and scowled at Chuggie. "We should â€"." An explosion from within the desecrated temple shook the ground. One section after another of the structure caved in. A rising moan sounded from everywhere, as if the blast wounded the Desecration itself. Without another word, Chuggie and Faben ran into the fog. They stopped a ways from the temple, but thanks to the mist, they couldn't tell how far. Chuggie wiped the blood from his chin and spat into the dust as Faben leaned up against a post. "So why does that dagger make you bleed out the mouth?" "Dunno," he replied. "Just does." "So, put it down." "It makes me focused. And I see the hidden geometry," said Chuggie. "Chuggifer, I don't know what you're talking about." Faben bent over with her hands on her knees and spat some blood of her own. "The dagger makes me fast. It's the only way I could keep up with you." Chuggie wiped his mouth again. "Well, you're in luck," she coughed. "I think you'll be able to keep up without it now." Chuggie watched her reach a trembling hand inside her shirt. She grimaced as she touched her stomach wound. When she pulled the hand out again, it dripped with blood. "Did I get a little blood on you there?" "Not to worry, Chuggles. It's just a scratch." She smiled up at him. Chapter 15  A rumble pulsed through the ground. Trees shuddered and boulders vibrated. Dust filled the air. The sound came from every direction. Half-man, half-goat, creatures thundered into view. Like an infestation of rats purged from a sewer, the tiny needle-mouth creatures surged in behind them. Faben cried out and pointed, but Chuggie already knew. "Shit, we're surrounded." Faben plunged her podium into the dirt and opened her book. With blood streaming from his mouth, Chuggie charged into the midst of the monsters. Their decayed, lurching forms scuttled to see which could clutch him first. The bone dagger infused him with deadly speed and pinpoint precision. His right hand slashed with the blade while his left, clutching his anchor, shielded him. In his usual state of mind, he didn't have anything like this kind of control over his limbs. He grinned a bloody grin as he tested the limits of his newfound ability. Desecrated goat-men flew through the air as Chuggie bashed them with the anchor. He sliced others to pieces as they charged. As soon as he finished off one, another took its place. More and more swarmed from all directions. Faben clapped her book shut and snatched up her podium. She spun it in a figure eight up around and over her head. The weapon sliced through the snarling, snapping creatures and cut them into neat little portions. "Were you just summoning?" Chuggie yelled as he swung his anchor. "That's right." Faben lopped off two heads with a single stroke. "Did it get lost on the way here?" Chuggie shredded a quintet of the little needle-mouths as they flew through the air at him. A scream, as if from an enormous bird, blared from above. The sound swelled and expanded until it obliterated the sound of the goat-men. Faben laughed as she hunkered low to the ground. Chuggie, puzzled by her actions, followed her example. Severed heads with flames spraying out the back plummeted toward the ground. They screamed with demented laughter as they fell. With a sickening crunch, they struck the ground. The heads exploded with a flash of lightning-white light, ripping nearby goat-men with bony shrapnel. The head-bombs blasted a path through the mob. Faben and Chuggie rushed through. Within moments, the desecrated throng regrouped and resumed its pursuit. Chuggie's gore-caked anchor plowed through one after another of the dead-eyed devils. He and his partner slaughtered scores of the monstrosities, but the numbers never seemed to deplete. Desecrated minions raced to be butchered in endless, rancid, waves. "How are we getting out of this?" Faben called between swings. Sweat drenched her face and she wasn't swinging with the same enthusiasm. Chuggie could see the way. With his perception enhanced by the dagger, it couldn't have been clearer if the Gooch had painted their escape route in blood. "This way," Chuggie yelled as he led on, slashing and swinging. "We need a diversion," Faben shouted. She waved her hands in the summoning gestures, and poured vials of powder on the ground. She screamed herself hoarse until a pair of bone hounds, dog-shaped skeletons the size of horses, materialized in the center of the mob. They rampaged through the decayed masses, chomping and stomping. With their desecrated pursuers occupied, Chuggie and Faben ran until they put some space between themselves and the scuffle. "It's not enough. We need more." Faben skidded to a halt and spun around. Without book or podium, she raised her hands in the air. With more passion than a maestro she waved her hands. The ancient words poured from her lips with the fierce vitality of a summoner at war. With the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu clutched in his fist, Chuggie perceived the invisible energy of Faben's words. He saw them converge overhead. He understood the shape they were becoming. Chuggie felt the very air cringe as the Gooch's minions caught up to them. The thing materialized and hovered in midair. The head and wings of a raven stretched out from the body of a serpent. Gravity grabbed the black stone that made up the body of the raven-snake, and it crashed to the ground. Dozens of the Gooch's soldiers were crushed into a smear on the creature's stone underbelly. Chuggie turned back just in time to catch the collapsing summoner. "Tookâ€Åš took a lot out of me." Faben grimaced. "Let's get you out of here," said Chuggie, supporting his friend as they got moving again. "Why didn't you use that thing on the Gooch?" "Because it turns into a statue," Faben wheezed. "Can't be sure when, either. When it gets sick of fighting, I guess." Faben coughed blood on herself. "Hard to control, too. I've seen what happens when those things turn on a summoner." "Let me guess, it cooks the summoner a nice meal? Takes her to the track and gives her some bettin' money?" Faben coughed a weak laugh. "Screaming. Lots of screaming." "Well, that does sound like a hoot." Chuggie glanced back and saw nothing but fog. He listened, but couldn't hear anything. "They'll be after us again soon." They slowed down and Chuggie opened the front of Faben's jacket, trying to see the extent of her wounds. His mouth had leaked so much blood it covered most of his own front side. He couldn't tell if Faben had bled all over herself, or if the blood on her shirt was from him. The invisible geometry he perceived on her stomach told him her injury was quite serious. They reached the edge of the desecration. The thorny bushes that had closed up when they entered were too thick to push through. Chuggie slashed an opening with the dagger. Spitting blood every few seconds, he tore through the brush with fury. Faben dragged herself along behind Chuggie, holding onto his jacket as though it was a life preserver. As they passed through, the branches closed up behind them. Chuggie hacked until finally they stumbled out of the thick, thorny brambles. Faben breathed hard and clutched her stomach. She leaned against a tree, slid down, and landed with a thump. Chuggie tucked the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu into his belt and hunkered down in front of her. "Feeling better yet?" His tried his best to make his voice upbeat and cheerful. He wiped at the blood on his chin. "Let's see this thing," Faben said weakly, reaching out for the goat-face purse. Chuggie handed it to her. Faben ran her hands over it, smelled it, looked at it from all angles. She unclasped it. "I advise against that," said Chuggie. "What's in here?" "Ruin." Chuggie spoke the word ominously. "Or so I'm told." "Then you keep it." She passed it back. "What about this knife here?" They both looked at the dagger in Chuggie's belt. "The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu," Chuggie said. "Dunno what it is, but my mind's sharp like a razor when I hold it. I'm so sloppy drunk all the time, but not when it's in my hand. But the clarity is more than clear-headed sobriety, mind you. Much more. I can make out invisible geometry, the lines and curves connectin' everything to everything else." "What do you see when you hold the knife and look at the purse?" she asked. "The purse glows without light. It has an energy. They both do. Not good or bad, just powerful. Dangerous, each in their own way." "Like a viper." Faben jerked in a full-body cough and spat blood. "The deadliest snakes don't know good or evil either, but they'll kill you in seconds if you aren't careful." Chuggie nodded thoughtfully. "All right, Faben, get up. We have to get you back to town to see a doctor or somethin'." "Chuggie," Faben wheezed, "take my book. Get it to the Lodge of Woodsmen. You can give my podium to Dawes." "Oh, come on. I'm not listening to your last will and testament. Those dead bastards are coming after us. We gotta go!" Chuggie put his arm around her waist and started to lift her, but she pushed him away. "Give me my book, andâ€Åš open it to an empty page." She could barely hold her bloodshot eyes open. Chuggie opened the book and placed it on Faben's lap. She pulled a pen from her shirt pocket and dunked its tip into her stomach wound. Blood coated the instrument. She scratched it across the page. Chuggie squinted at the writing, but he couldn't make out the words. Her penmanship grew progressively more weak and sloppy. He looked into Faben's exhausted face. A trickle of sweat ran down her pale, blood-flecked cheek. "Chuggie," Faben whispered, "take the book toâ€Åš" "I will, I will. You have my word. You die; I'll take it to the Lodge. Now get to your feet. We got miles to go, Woodsman." "Thank you, my friend," Faben said. "Thank me? Don't thank me, Faben. You're hurt bad, and it's 'cause you decided to help me. Now get up!" Chuggie's voice came out twice as harsh as he intended. "Don't bury me in Stagwater. I hate that place," Faben said. Chuggie grimaced and shook his head. Faben patted Chuggie's arm, gave a little smirk, and winked like she was up to something. She turned her gaze back to the book and began to write again. As the light left Faben's eyes, her hand dragged a line of blood-ink off the page. Everything is a doorâ€Åš. For a long moment, Chuggie could do nothing more than look stare into her dead eyes in disbelief. He wrapped his arms around his dead friend and shed tears that his skin absorbed as soon as they fell. "Thanks," Chuggie whispered. Chuggie drew a deep breath. He grabbed Faben's book, snatched up her summoner's podium, and lifted her body on his shoulder. She could have been a bag of feathers, for all he noticed her weight. Her limp silence made him feel as cold and empty as a hollow log on the forest floor in the dead of winter. He carried her back to the clearing where they'd left Dawes. When he found Faben's apprentice once more, the young man looked pale and shaky. His eyes were large and hollow and haunted. The boy looked like he'd just seen a ghost. "What have you done?" Dawes wild eyes blazed. "You killed her!" "Calm down, boy. I didn't kill her. But the thing that did could be followin' me, so we have to move." Chuggie kept his voice calm "You killed her for her book!" The kid pointed a finger in Chuggie's face. "No, I did not." Chuggie laid Faben's body down in the tall grass. "Then give it to me!" Dawes face became fury-red as he screamed the order. He reached out for it. "Faben wanted you to have this." Chuggie tossed the summoner's podium to Dawes instead. Dawes fumbled it, dropped it, and snatched it back up. His hands trembled, nearly dropping the podium as he brandished it at Chuggie. "Give me the book! Give it to me!" Chuggie rested his hand on the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. The invisible geometry came back in a flash, and so did the quick, dangerous feeling. He perceived Dawes' panic as a small, invisible coffin about the kid's head. He could do nothing more for the young man. Dawes had conquered himself with fear, and now he aimed to conquer Chuggie. With blood pouring out of his mouth once more, Chuggie lowered his head. "I knew a guy back in Knuckle Harbor, used to go around with this turtle shell everywhere he went. It never left his hand. Even slept with the damn thing. A couple of sailors decided they wanted to take it from 'im one night. Know what happened to them?" Chuggie stepped forward slowly, head down and mouth dripping blood. His eyes locked with Dawes' eyes. "He took every finger they laid on that turtle shell. Every damn finger." Chuggie took another step toward Dawes, and the kid took two frantic steps back. "If you think you can get this book away from me, you come and take it. She asked me to take it somewhere, and I intend to do that." Dawes charged, lifting the podium over his head. He tried to swing it, but Chuggie moved in close. With one hand on the dagger and the other around Dawes' throat, he bared his bloody teeth. They looked into each other's eyes. An understanding was reached. Chuggie tossed Dawes aside. Rummaging in his satchel, Chuggie found the old church key and put it in Faben's pocket. It might protect her from Desecration, might not. He had to try. With no help from Dawes, Chuggie built a hasty cairn for Faben. Chuggie knelt next to the stone pile. "Maybe someday, a little further down the road, I'll get another friend like you, Faben." His hand squeezed the spine of Faben's book. "But I doubt it." Chuggie lashed his goats together and hopped upon the strongest of them. He spoke to Dawes without turning around. "Stay here or follow me. I'm leaving." Dawes stood up, took three steps, and spat at Chuggie. "Murderer! She was going to make me a Woodsman, and you murdered her!" "I wouldn't hang around here long, kid." Chuggie kicked the goat into a run and left Dawes behind.  ⊠⊠⊠ The first goat either passed out or died from exhaustion. Chuggie poked it with a stick five times, but still couldn't tell if it was alive or dead. Either way, it wasn't moving, and Chuggie had places to be. He mounted the second goat and drove it on toward Stagwater as fast as he dared. Blood dribbled down his chin as he swatted the goat with the side of the bone dagger. Chuggie rushed up to the northern gate of Stagwater. The snorting goat skidded to a stop just inches from the lone guardsman outside the gate. "Halt!" cried the guardsman. "By order ofâ€Åš why is your mouth bleeding like that?" "I got good luck," Chuggie said. "Now let me in. You know who I am." The guardsman looked up to his comrades on the tower. They stared back and made no response. "I'm sorry, sir," said the guard. "I have to confiscate everything you're carrying. I need that book, that satchel, that dagger. I'll take that purse, and I'll take that chain." Chuggie narrowed his eyes. "You aren't taking any of it." "I'm sorry, my orders â€"." "You open up this gate!" Chuggie shouted up at the guardsmen on the tower. "Sir," said the man in front of Chuggie, "if you don't give it over willingly, I have to arrest you." Ever so slowly, Chuggie moved his hand back to the hilt of the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. His mouth filled with blood, and he felt the quick deadliness return as if he'd turned into a hyper-intelligent jungle cat from Hell. "I told you to hand it over," the guard said, poking a finger at Chuggie's chest. In a swift and subtle flick, Chuggie severed the guard's finger. The shocked man watched it drop to the ground. He fell down to retrieve the severed digit as Chuggie stepped over him and up to the gate. The three guardsmen on the tower shouted for Chuggie to stop as they slid to the ground on ropes. One ran to the aid of their nine-fingered comrade. The other two brandished their spears. In three slashes, Chuggie sliced a barrel-sized hole in the gate's crisscrossed iron bars. He somersaulted through and dashed toward the center of town. Before the guardsmen could climb through after him, he'd sprinted fifty yards.  ⊠⊠⊠ A siren wailed. The sound of it rose up from Stagwater and rippled over the swamp. By the time it reached the south end of the swamp-bridge, it had a faraway, dreamlike quality. For a moment Kale looked back at the city. He expected to see plumes of fire and smoke, but saw only the near-dusk skyline of Stagwater. Something was wrong, though, or the sirens wouldn't be sounding. It didn't matter. Stagwater would have to get by without him for the next few hours. "What's that noise?" asked the boy. "Nothing we need to worry about." Kale turned away from the lights of the city and led Olin into the forest. "Are you gonna tell me where we're going now?" The kid seemed as giddy as if he was on his way to the fair. His incessant questions had grown beyond tiresome. "I told you, we're going into the woods," Kale sighed. "But why?" "To see the future," Kale answered. "Please, son, no more questions. When we get there, everything will be clear." Whenever Kale called Olin 'son,' the boy smiled and did as he was told. Pathetic. Kale was glad for it, though. He needed to concentrate tonight of all nights. He couldn't make a mistake. An error this evening could get him executed. Behind him, Olin skipped and ran in zigzags across the trail. He made animal sounds as he bounced off trees and flung sticks into the brush.  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie bolted down the center of the street with guardsmen struggling to catch him. Oxen reared up as Chuggie passed, spilling carts and coaches. People on goats hustled to get out of his way. Mothers snatched children off the sidewalk and pulled them to safety. Tearing past Stagwater's citizenry, Chuggie almost pitied them. To be more precise, he resolved to pity them later. For now, more important business required his attention. Faben's life was worth more than Haste's, more than Haste's goons' lives, more than all of their lives together. His only thought was to square that debt. By the time he reached the city square, the guardsmen chasing him were falling behind, but a half dozen more waited in the square with Fitch. Four carried hookswords, and two hefted Steel Jack-designed shockspears. They flanked Fitch, stiff and serious in their black and red uniforms. The cleric, dressed up in his fine silk vestments, looked feeble and pampered like a man who'd never fought his own fight. He smiled his crocodile smile. "That's far enough, Mot Losiat," Fitch called out in a loud and clear voice. Chuggie stepped forward pointing with the dagger. "Get your boss and your other little pal Kale. You get 'em out here now!" Chuggie sprayed blood with each word he barked. "They aren't available, my drunken drifter friend." Fitch gestured for the guards to close in on Chuggie. Hookswords and shockspears rose like cobras ready to strike. The guardsmen with hookswords stepped in close, and the ones with shockspears crowded behind. One reached out a hand to grab Chuggie, then, as if he thought better of it, pulled it back. "You boys best give me room to breathe." Chuggie cranked his head right and left, cracking his neck bones. He turned to Fitch. "We got us some business to settle. A little debt owed. I'm collecting today, understand?" Fitch raised one hand in a halting gesture, and pointed at Chuggie with the other. "There is but one debt owed, and it is the devotion of the soul to the light. The man who looks away from the guiding beacon shall lose his way and never be found." "What the shit's that supposed to mean?" Chuggie spat. "I see scripture is lost on you." Fitch's voice carried a taunting lilt. "You pledged to deliver to us any artifacts you recovered. List your inventory." Chuggie growled, "What I'm deliverin' today ain't what you had in mind, boy. Put your trust in that. I told you I want Haste and Kale down here. Get 'em down here." "Oh, it looks like you've brought us plenty. I see that dagger you're holding, that boat anchor, that purse, and that large book hanging off your shoulder. What else? I think we'll need those clothes and boots, as well." "You want this dagger?" Chuggie held up the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. "I'll give you the fuggin' dagger. Sharp side first, junior." He snapped his head around to eyeball the looming guardsmen. "You can go to jail, or you can go to the crematorium, drifter." Fitch pushed in close enough that Chuggie could see the pulse in his throat. "Now hand over that knife before I have these nice men slaughter you in the street." The guardsmen kept up their stony-faced appearances. They had discipline, sure, but none held their weapon with a steady hand. "Where's Non?" Chuggie said. "Get him out here, too." He held the knife to his chest at an angle, ready but not threatening. Rage crackled through him like lightning. He looked down into Fitch's dark eyes and imagined them bursting. He concentrated hard on the thought, hoping the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu had given him the ability to explode eyes. Fitch's eyes didn't so much as tear up. "The purse is mine." Chuggie's voice grew louder as he spoke. "That was the deal. You know I had the anchor before I went on your little treasure hunt. The book belongs to Faben Brassline. The only thing here you'll get is this knife, and I already said I'd give it to you." "What's in that purse?" Fitch shouted. His eyes grew glassy like some sort of madness had taken him over. "Tell me, you drunk!" "Look inside and see!" Chuggie barked back. He couldn't help being a little curious himself, but he didn't dare look. Without removing the purse, he held it up for Fitch to examine. Fitch snatched at the purse, keeping his eyes fixed on Chuggie's. "Feels light, but I think there's something in here. Maybe it's something you don't want us to see, eh?" Chuggie ground his teeth as blood filled his mouth. He readied himself. If Fitch tried to tear the purse off him, he'd take his chances and commence slashing with the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. Fitch didn't try to tear the goat-face purse away. Instead, he lifted the latch. "Before you do that, tell me something." Chuggie huffed and puffed. "Did you sons of whores know you sent me to a desecrated graveyard? Did you know that when you drew me my little map?" A guard poked a humming shockspear in his direction. Another brandished his gut-ripping hooksword. The weapons didn't scare Chuggie. These guardsmen were just doing their jobs. He hoped to avoid killing them. Fitch gave a cruel smile. "If we knew or we didn't, I'd say it hardly matters now. You're here, and you're being arrested." "And why's that?" Chuggie asked. "For threatening the lives of citizens of Stagwater, obviously," Fitch sneered. "Now, let's see what secrets you're keeping in this purse, shall we?" Chuggie's expression became an odd mix of fury and curiosity. Furiosity, he would have said. He watched with great interest. As Fitch peered inside the goat-face purse, the smirk melted from his face. His mouth opened wide. The purse slipped from his fingers. His hand moved automatically to the gold senfen hanging around his neck. His wide, frozen eyes stared straight forward, and that wounded, thousand-yard stare caused a wave of panicked shuffling among the guardsmen. They backed away from Chuggie and shook their weapons at him. One snapped his fingers in front of Fitch's eyes, then grabbed the magistrate by the shoulders and shook him. "What's he done to you, sir? What's he done?" The guard turned back to Chuggie. "What'd you do, fiend?" Chuggie ignored the guardsman and studied Fitch with great interest. Fitch parted his lips into a drooling, toothy smile. Slowly, he pushed his tongue out between his teeth. His neck muscles strained as he pushed his tongue out as far as he could. His jaw muscles flexed as he bit down. Fitch's bottom jaw worked back and forth, as he sawed through the meat. The guardsmen stared as if dumbfounded as Fitch's tongue fell from his mouth. It bounced off his foot and onto the cobbles. There it sat, purple and bloody and covered in dirt. Fitch took slow, toddler-like steps in the direction of the bridge. The guardsmen froze, too shocked to stop him as he broke into a run. With arms flailing, Ronymous Fitch bounded through the square. His maniacal shrieks of laughter echoed through the air.  ⊠⊠⊠ Rorid, Priole, and two other guardsmen raced into the square on their wargoats. Six guardsmen surrounded the five-horned drifter. He was covered in blood. Rorid couldn't believe his eyes as Fitch dashed away, stripping his clothes off as he went. The garments left a dotted trail in the street. Soon all Fitch wore was a pair of dainty shoes and the gold senfen around his neck. "Get to the magistrate," Rorid ordered the other men on goatback. "Where are the Steel Jacks?" Priole asked. Where indeed were the Steel Jacks? Something wasn't right. The Steel Jacks were always present when there was trouble in Stagwater. Why not today? Fitch bolted toward the bridge with the speed of a lunatic fleeing an asylum. Rorid and Priole drove their animals hard as they pursued the cackling magistrate, but his lead was too great. "What the hell is he doing?" Priole called out. "Hell if I know," Rorid barked. "But we better damn well stop him." Rorid hoped when the time came he'd do the right thing. Would he save Fitch if Fitch needed saving? He didn't know. Fitch clattered onto the bridge, then jolted to a stop. His shrill laughter drowned all other sounds as he stared down at the rocky, river's edge below. Still laughing, Fitch clutched his senfen. With the pointed bottom of the medallion, he gouged into his eye. His entire body strained as he forced his eye from its socket. He yanked it free, leaving the torn optic nerve hanging down his face. "Fuck!" Priole yelled. Rorid spurred his goat. Side by side, they raced onto the bridge and stormed toward Fitch. Inches away from the naked man, they reined their animals to a stop. Rorid leapt from his mount. "Mr. Fitch, you have to stop now." At his side, Priole hissed, "Pile of shit. Die!" Fitch dropped the first eye onto the planks of the bridge and went to work on the other. Rorid lunged toward him, then stopped himself. He stared in disbelief. Fitch tore his eye out, and laughed even harder. He popped it into his mouth like a gumdrop and chewed like it was his last meal. With nerves dangling from each socket, he turned to address the guardsmen. "Aaaah! Gaaah!" Yanking the senfen free of his neck, he added, "Guhug! Guhug guguk!" Fitch dove over the rail, shrieking with maniacal mirth. Rorid and Priole ran to the rail. Abruptly the laughter stopped. Fitch's naked corpse lay broken on the rocks far below. The gold senfen shone brightly next to his bloody hand. Nearby, the river rushed on as though nothing had happened. "Holy shit," Priole said. "That right there, is my kind of justice." Rorid turned away from the horrible sight. "What are you going to put in your report?" the younger man asked as he too turned away. Rorid shrugged. Priole raised his boot. "Oh, please don't." Rorid put out a pleading hand. Priole stepped down on Fitch's uneaten eye. Eye jelly squirted onto the wood. "What did you say, sir?"  ⊠⊠⊠ "Halt!" shouted a guard. "Stop that man!" shouted another. Chuggie, with a tight grip on the dagger, ran away from the town square. The guardsmen gave chase, but none could match his dagger-enhanced speed. Some threw spears at him. Others fired arrows or darts. The chain wrapped around Chuggie's torso protected him well. Projectiles lodged in the links and jutted from his back. Without his armor, he'd have had half a dozen mortal wounds. Chuggie raced beyond the industrial buildings, nearing the Carnietown slums. Curious citizens came out to investigate the disturbance flying down the street. Sirens filled the air of Stagwater. Chuggie ducked into an alley, and, realizing he'd found the rear entrance to The Gulping Goat, darted inside. Covered in blood and filth, he ran past the whores and up to the bar. "Now, see here," said the barman, "you get your dirty hide out of my place!" "Get me a bottle," said Chuggie. "An' you get it fast." Chuggie dug in his satchel for some cash, and smacked it down on the bar. The bartender's eyes lit up. He ran a hand over his well-greased hair and twiddled the ends of his mustache. Chuggie stabbed the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu through the money and into the bar. "Get me," Chuggie growled as he lurched toward the man, "a bottle." With trembling hands, the bartender reached for the closest bottle he could find. When Chuggie saw it was nearly empty, he slapped it out of the man's hand. Rage poured into him as if he were a pitcher under a tap. "I never did get your name, pimp." Chuggie growled. "Mucklen," sputtered the barman. "Well, Mucklen, you're the worst bartender in the history of useless bags o' shit." Chuggie yanked the dagger free of the bar as a compulsion took hold in his mind. As if guided by cosmic puppet strings, Chuggie buried the dagger in the bartender. He tried to tell himself he did it for Faben and for Haste and for justice that'd been denied, but that wasn't exactly right. Mucklen's mouth fell open. A long keening wail spilled out of his mouth. Chuggie grabbed the dagger and yanked it free. A spray of blood splattered the bar. Was this simply a release of built up hatred? Or maybe a symbolic killing of Stagwater's nearest avatar? He wanted Mucklen to explode in a ball of fire. He wanted Faben's ghost to come drag the man away. The bartender, gasping like a fish, tried to cup the spilling blood in his hands and force it back into the gash. Throughout the bar whores screamed like the damned, filling the place with sounds of terror. Chuggie reached over and grabbed a bottle of rum, tucked it into his satchel, and dashed out the front door. He looked up and down the street. It was empty. Chuggie allowed himself one more admiring look up at The Gulping Goat's sign. Had he ever seen such a glorious work of art created by the hands of men? Certainly not. With no time to steal the masterpiece, Chuggie tried to memorize every line and color. Truly, the artist's murder was a blow to the arts. Maybe Shola could help him understand why he'd done it. He shouldn't have murdered that man, and he knew that. He had no excuse. The bartender simply had terrible luck. The sensation of hatred had been so clear and pure and irresistible it had been like Chuggie'd had no other choice. He had wished to stab Haste and Kale in their hearts. Maybe hatred was a living thing, like a mangy dog that wouldn't go away. Chuggie saluted the sign and ran on. Weaving through the junk-homes of Carnietown, the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu showed Chuggie the way to the gate. The gate stood open as he raced toward it. For an instant, it seemed like he'd be able to pass through uncontested. The tower guardsmen spotted him, however, and the ranking officer shouted orders to close it. The heavy iron lattice slammed to the ground, booming like a thunder. The tower guards manned their weapons, letting loose their barrage of arrows and darts. Chuggie managed to avoid their projectiles by the seat of his filthy pants. A cable net sailed at him from the tower. He dove just out of its path, rolled, and hit his feet at a full run. Guardsmen zipped down to the street on a pole. Their goat-riding confederates charged ahead. When he got to the southern gate, he treated it to the same remedy as he'd given the northern gate. Three fast hacks, and he'd cut his exit. Chuggie dove through the hole. His jacket snagged on a bit of jagged lattice. He couldn't get through. One of the guardsmen grabbed Chuggie's leg, and the others jumped in to help. Together, they heaved. Chuggie kicked, but felt himself pulled, as if caught in an undertow, back inside the gate. "Lemme go, you goat rammin' frog-dicks!" As Chuggie bucked and swore, one of the guardsmen leaned in to get an arm around his waist. The goat-face purse flopped up onto Chuggie's back, and in the fray, the flap flipped open. The guardsman looked inside, entirely by accident, and instantly released his hold. The guard screamed, swung around on his fellows, and lunged for the nearest man's neck. The others lost their grip on Chuggie. Chuggie scooted through the gate. He got to his feet on the other side. The poor bastard who'd looked into the purse busied himself by gnawing his fingers off, one by one. Between digits, he cackled the same shrill laughter as Fitch. His comrades wrestled him down and shouted up to the men up in the tower. "I didn't do that!" Chuggie yelled. No one replied or even looked his way, so he sprinted out onto the plankway that crossed the southern swamp. "Ready the puff!" The guardsman's voice carried out into the bog. "Sir! Puff is ready!" "Fire!" Chuggie heard the "puff" mechanism snap. The puff was a gift to mankind from the Steel Jacks, who had no qualms about giving men better tools for killing each other. From the city wall, a cloud of lead balls arced high into the air. Alien design made the lead balls wobble in their descent. A special texture worked with the wobble, allowing the balls to claw their way down faster than should have been possible â€" a bit of otherworldly sorcery, perhaps. Chuggie'd be shredded if the "puff" of lead rained down on him. Only slug-plate armor, of which he had none, would stand up to the weapon. Chuggie dove off the plankway, landing among the reeds in murky, chest-deep water. He worried about Faben's book for a moment before deciding the former Woodsman would have protected the pages against water. Whatever the case, he was wet. The book would have to look after itself for the time being. Chuggie dove under the bridge before the lead rain touched down, but even the bridge couldn't guarantee his safety. He jammed The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu into his belt so he could search beneath the water. He found a good-sized stone and held it over his head as projectiles thunked into the bridge above him. Just as he thought, scores of the lead balls hammered straight through the bridge. They hit the water with little splashes and chipped away at the rock protecting him. In an instant, it was over. Chuggie dropped the rock into the water and drew the dagger. He sloshed back up onto the plankway and resumed his getaway. A little further, and the trees would hide him from the guardsmen. He'd still be in range of the puff cannon, but if he got lucky, they'd miss. If he got very lucky, they'd decide not to fire again. A contingent of guardsmen crashed through the broken gate and onto the bridge. As they approached the damage done by the puff they slowed. One man stepped forward. The plank crumbled under him. His fellows caught him before he fell through the hole. Chuggie bolted for the trees. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, he made it deep into the woods before stopping to listen. He didn't hear anything behind him. Putting the knife back into his belt, he sat against a tree and caught his breath. Wiping his face, he saw the whole world had been painted red. At first, he guessed the dagger-vision played a trick on his eyes, or maybe it was even the effects of being so close to the goat-face purse. Looking west, Chuggie saw the sun setting through the trees. It wasn't a trick after all. As night approached, the sunset painted the forest blood red. Chapter 16  The Darkness Stirs. Shadows planted in years gone by have breached the soil and seen the sky. The traveler drags the darkness on. The weak are failed by the strong. Leaders know not what's been stirred. They misread and misspeak the word. "Ah, Fey Voletta, you're here," said Non. His buzzing voice echoed off the metal walls in the Steel Jacks' inner sanctum. "What was all the commotion outside earlier?" Fey Voletta lifted her robes to keep them from dragging across the filthy floor. "It seems your friend Norchug Mot Losiat returned from his hike to the north." She raised an eyebrow. "Go on." "Our sources tell us he left this morning with two others. He returned alone. Reports say he broke through the northern gate, stormed through the town square, and broke through the southern gate. Somewhere in there, according to rumor, he used powerful sorcery to murder Ronymous Fitch." "What?" Laughter exploded from her lips. "He killed Fitch? Tell me more!" "Mr. Mot Losiat, apparently, found the purse he had gone in search of. Magistrate Fitch looked inside it and went mad. He dove off the bridge onto the rocks below. Multiple guardsmen witnessed the event." Non raised his hand, then wiggled two fingers like legs to simulate the fall. "Where were you during all of this? Shouldn't you have been there?" she asked. "I watched discreetly. No laws were broken, so we did not interfere. The vandalism at the gates was too small an offense to warrant our involvement. Fitch's death was clearly suicide." Non's eyes brightened when he spoke of the fallen magistrate. Fey Voletta smiled like a summer bride as she pictured Fitch leaping to his death. "Ah, well, did Chuggie get anything else from his little expedition?" "As a matter of fact, he did," Non seemed to smile. Steel Jacks always looked like they were smiling, but Fey could swear that the corners of his metal mouth turned up just a little bit more. "Something that may interest you, Miss Voletta. We are told he carried a dagger made of bone." "A dagger made of bone?" She rolled her eyes. "Like he found a snapped-off goat leg and sharpened it?" "Using the dagger, he cut through the northern and southern gates with little effort." Non clasped his hands together over his chest. "You should know he bled profusely from the mouth and moved with unnatural speed." Fey Voletta pursed her lips. This blade might be worth a look. "Can we see him?" "Doubtful. It is very unlikely he will return to Stagwater. Mr. Haste and his men saw to that." Non moved closer to the young woman. "Steel Jack autonomy in Stagwater has eroded completely. We insisted that the magistrates deal Mot Losiat fairly. Instead, they drove him away. We planned to persuade him to join us, improving our abilities to protect the city." "Well, what do you want me to do about it?" Her shoulders slumped in disappointment, and she glared at a spot on the floor. Inside her robe, her hand squeezed the handle of a knife. "As always, be attentive. Perhaps a little more so. And please, Fey Voletta, no killing." "You can't keep a predatory cat like me trapped in a box with rats forever. Sooner or later there is bound to be a mishap." She grinned, pulling her hood down to cover her eyes. "Do not worry, kitten," said Non. "We will find you some rats to play with before long."  ⊠⊠⊠ In the blood-red forest south of Stagwater, Chuggie crept as quietly as he could. He'd stashed the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu in his belt, and he was back to his normal, tipsy state. He rinsed the iron taste of blood from his mouth by swigging the stolen rum. Without the bone dagger in his hand, every muscle in his body burned with fatigue. The intensity of that mind-state was fading, and he was glad to have some relief. Chuggie listened to the sounds of the forest. Nearly camouflaged by the chirp of birds and the wind rustling the leaves, he swore he heard voices nearby. A man's voice rose and fell. In the intervals, he heard a woman, or maybe a child, pleading. Given the recent events in town, he should probably run the other way. But if someone needed help, helping them out might be just the thing he needed to make himself feel better. The cold-blooded murder of that bartender at the Gulping Goat wasn't sitting right with him. Remorse bloomed in the pit of his stomach like a coffin rose. Chuggie had done some things in his time that he wasn't proud of, sure. Even killed a guy, or three, when they needed killing. But the inky black tentacles of evil that gripped him back in that bar, nothing like that had ever happened before. The shame of it spilled over in his mind like ale suds from a broken tap. As Chuggie crept deeper into the forest, the voices grew louder. The man's voice was definitely angry. The other voice was definitely muffled and pleading. Sneaking closer, he climbed over stumps and crawled under deadfall. He stopped at the base of a huge blown-down tree. When the tree had gone over, its barrel-thick trunk stayed intact. The roots had torn out of the soil, leaving a pit bigger than any house in Carnietown. Chuggie squeezed past it and inched closer to the voices. He held his breath and strained to hear. His heart skipped as he recognized a man's voice. "It's no time for fear, boy," Kale said. "Now is the time to be brave. Didn't I tell you this would be scary at first?" Kale had a boy tied between two trees. All the kid's weight hung from his wrists and shoulders. "Please, sir. It hurts," the boy sobbed. Kale pulled a rope and lifted the boy higher. "Now, Olin, I don't want you to think that I don't have sympathy for your situation." Kale's voice became friendly, as if he was trying to soothe the child. "I'm a grown man, son, and I see things you can't. Sacrifice is necessary for the good of everyone. When I was a boy, if I'd had the chance to sacrifice to help others I would have been proud. You should be too." "P-please let me go, sir!" Olin begged. "Please-please-please! I'll be good! I'll be good!" "My son, I wish I could make you understand what I'm doing â€" truly understand in your heart. You'd see this is for the best." Kale gagged the boy, and Olin's shaky sobbing rose to a muffled crescendo. "You, my young friend, will have a seat among the angels for your sacrifice. Let me assure you of that." Kale began readying a simplified torturgy harness and attached it to the boy's neck and chest. "In order to lift Stagwater to the heights she deserves, I must use the Pheonal trance. I want you to know how grateful I am to you, Olin." "That's enough right there." Chuggie stepped into the glade. "Cut 'im down before I cut you down." He walked slowly toward Kale, holding the bone dagger behind his back. Kale spun around, startled. His expression changed from surprise to joy as he recognized Chuggie. "What are you doing here, drunkard?" Chuggie put his other hand on the anchor. "Same as you, I guess. Came out to do some killin'. But I s'pose we can make a deal. You let him go, I'll let you go. You don't have to die like your buddy Fitch." "Sure, sure. Did you kill the city guard as well? What about the Steel Jacks? Are they dead, too?" Kale let the tension off the rope and sidled over to his ax. "Shit, who am I kiddin'?" Chuggie drew the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu once more. Hungry rage built inside as the dagger-vision fell over his eyes like a veil. "You're dyin' here tonight. I passed your sentence, and I'm sendin' you to whatever hell you can find. No more talk." Chuggie stomped toward Kale, blood pouring from his mouth. Kale picked up his ax and whirled it over his head. "This is going to be easy." He smiled like a wolf who'd found a limping lamb. Chuggie could open the goat-face purse and show Kale whatever madness hid within. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu could have Kale's head and limbs off his torso faster than a bee could sting. Hell, with the dagger in his hand, Chuggie could fling his anchor through Kale's chest and out the other side before the bastard took another step. But Chuggie had something else in mind. Kale deserved something special. Kale charged and swung the ax. Chuggie sidestepped with ease, and the ax blade drove into the dirt. As Kale yanked it free, Chuggie sliced the magistrate's shoulder with a casual flick of his dagger. Kale swung the ax horizontally, and it glanced off Chuggie's chain. The momentum of the miss spun Kale around. Without exerting himself much at all, Chuggie slashed his blade across the base of Kale's neck. Kale sliced with the ax in a flurry of rage. Chuggie avoided every blow with ease. He spat a mouthful of blood at his grunting attacker. Kale's time was up. Chuggie swung the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu at the ax, severing the blade from the handle. Kale stared with a horrified look on his face as the ax blade sailed off into the brush. He looked down at the ax handle in his hands. Holding it up defensively, he scuttled backward a few steps, then turned to flee. Chuggie narrowed his eyes and heaved his anchor, striking Kale between the shoulder blades. Collapsing into the brush, Kale squawked like a wounded bird. With Kale incapacitated, Chuggie hurried to the whimpering boy hanging from the trees. He cut the kid down and sat him against a stump. "Wait right here, okay, boss?" Olin wept into his hands, completely ignoring Chuggie. With one eye on the trembling child, Chuggie hurried over to the broken pile of Kale and checked for a heartbeat. Kale still lived. Chuggie dragged him across the clearing by the ankle. The man moaned a little, but seemed to lack the strength to resist. His head thumped the ground. Rocks and sticks scraped his face. Dirt and leaves embedded in his clothes as Chuggie dragged enemy to the foot of the fallen tree. He let go of Kale's foot and lit up his boar-tusk pipe. "Before you go," Chuggie puffed, "I'm gonna let you clear your conscience." He tucked the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu back into his belt. His usual drunkenness washed over him in a dizzying flood. In a voice so low Chuggie could barely hear it, Kale said, "Doing thisâ€Åš for the goodâ€Åš of the city." Chuggie blew smoke at Kale. "Oh, this? Nah, I don't have questions 'bout this scene here. I know what this is. I'm wondering about the creature north of town. Do you know what's up there?" "Of course not. We â€"." "I'm gonna share something with you. A good woman named Faben Brassline got killed up there. Maybe that coulda been avoided had you bastards given me all the details." "Who?" Kale coughed. "Faben Brassline. She was a Carnie. Some o' her blood's on your hands." "A Carnie? Ha! Good riddance." Chuggie disagreed with Kale and expressed it by stepping on his neck a bit. "Did you know there was a desecrated cemetery up there? Infested by demons 'n shit? Be honest right here." Chuggie took his foot off Kale's neck and kicked him in the ribs. When he finished coughing, Kale said, "We send our undesirables there. Youâ€Åš you were supposed to die there." "Yeah, you tried that twice. What about the Steel Jacks? Do they know about it, too?" "No jurisdiction there." Kale could barely speak, but his eyes were alert and filled with hate. Chuggie contemplated Kale's confession, snorting smoke out his nose. "Letâ€Åš let me go," said Kale. "Your wounds are far too serious. The humane thing is to put you out of your misery." Chuggie gave a squinty-eyed grin. "See, I saw this big pit right here, and damned if I didn't think of you." Kale wriggled uselessly on the ground, gasping and grunting. He couldn't make his arms work. Chuggie paced around the pit. "Y'see, long ago, and I'm just speculatin' here, a storm blew an acorn out of a tree. Miles from here, this was. The acorn landed right in this spot. As luck would have it, that little acorn grew into a sapling. It always dreamt it would find its own special way of makin' the world a better place. As it grew big an' tall, it told all the other trees an' bushes that destiny waited just ahead. They laughed an' told it that big trees make lumber or firewood, an' not much else. Well, that ol' tree ignored 'em all. It just waited for destiny to come a-stumblin' along." "No, please!" Kale wailed. "There'll be hell to pay, drunk!" "Then, not too long ago, another storm came along and blew that tree over. It was so big and strong it pulled its roots out of the ground. That's what made this big pit right next to you. The rest of the forest â€" even the damn moss â€" laughed at the tree. They said it'd been a fool the whole time, an' now it was gonna rot away on the forest floor. But, guess what?" Chuggie leaned in close. "I have money," Kale blurted out. "I'll make you a rich man!" "This tree has a destiny. It is making the world a better place. Do you feel that? It's givin' me chills! All the other trees are congratulatin' your tree, Kale." Chuggie grabbed fistfuls of Kale's shirt and lifted him up face to face, close enough so Kale could smell the blood on Chuggie's breath. "You were diggin' a grave for that little boy when I found you, but there's only one grave in the woods tonight. It's yours, Kale, and no man dug it. The world dug your grave. It's waited for you long enough." Chuggie thought of Faben as he heaved Kale into the pit. Maybe revenge was an empty gesture, as many brilliant minds had said. Sure as shit made Chuggie feel better, though. Kale thudded flat on his back. He gasped for breath. His mouth worked but no words came out. Chuggie stood without making a sound and gazed down into the pit. Above him, the trees scratched at the dark, red sky. Kale almost had his voice back and drew a long, difficult breath. He started to blurt out one last curse when he got a face full of dirt. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu cut through the tree's massive trunk in eight well-aimed chops. The roots creaked and crunched as they made their way back into the hole and sealed it up. It wasn't a perfect fit, but it would do. It may have been the wind, but Chuggie swore he heard Kale's muffled screams. He spat some blood on the makeshift grave, then returned to the terrified boy. Chapter 17  The sun left behind a furnace-red glow that painted the forest a deep burgundy. Six crescent moons loomed overhead like elders bent in a conspiratorial cluster. Angry, purple-gray clouds crawled across their faces. The ghosts didn't come near Faben's resting place. The drunken bastard had left a church key in her pocket, which was probably the reason they stayed away. But the darker it got, the closer the spirits came. Ghosts convulsed and bucked through the tall grass as if they were connected to torture devices. Some screamed and wailed, which made Dawes' skin crawl, but the silent ones were worse. At least with the screamers, he knew where they were. The creepers pressed in closer and closer as the darkness descended. Some of them grabbed for him, others just stared. A little boy with a stretched and twisted version of Dawes' own face pedaled through the clearing on a tricycle. The squeal of his rusty chain played an ominous theme for his own personal horror story. Dawes didn't know how long the church key would hold them back. He'd need warmth, light, and any little scrap of security he could get. He eyed up all the wood on the ground. He needed a fire. Dawes took a hesitant step away from Faben. He dashed forward and grabbed a piece of firewood. "The master is coming," a voice whispered in his ear. Dawes spun around to see who had spoken. A ghost wearing Faben's face grinned at him. Its smile grew and distorted as its eye sockets deepened, becoming a hideous caricature of a jack-o-lantern. "What do you want?" Dawes screamed, scrambling back to the cairn. "Just leave me alone. Leave me alone!" "We want your blood, little man!" a voice chortled from the trees. Dawes gasped but couldn't catch his breath. That voice belonged to Gargulak. A chill touched his core, but then a revelation hit him. "This isn't real!" Dawes laughed and pointed at the ghosts. "You're another test! You're a test, and I beat you!" Dawes fell to his knees and pawed at the stones of Faben's cairn, tossing them aside. The drunk, no doubt nearby, was certainly watching the whole scene with great amusement. Dawes uncovered Faben's face, then her torso. Once her arms were free, he sat her up and gave her a shake. "Faben! I won this time!" He laughed. Her shoulders felt a bit stiff as he shook her. All around, the ghosts froze. "Faben?" He shook her harder. "You can drop the illusion. I passed your test!" Dawes felt reborn. She'd shown him the absolute depths of fear, and he'd climbed out on his own as only a Woodsman could. He cast all doubt aside and imagined telling Fey Voletta about this day. A tiny shadow darted though his peripheral vision, but it disappeared before he could get a good look. Something to his left â€" he turned. Something to his right â€" he turned again. Behind him â€" he spun. Dozens of little, snarling creatures skittered out of the shadows. They surrounded him. The forest came alive with the sound of things moving in through the leaves. Trees snapped as something big pushed them down. He snatched up Faben's podium, ready to face this new test like a Woodsman. "Put down toy," rumbled a deep but oddly infantile voice. A hulking, shadowy form stomped from the forest. Dawes froze, trying to access something â€" anything â€" useful Faben may have taught him. Not one single thing came to mind. The little, needle-mouthed monstrosities crawled up his legs and drug him to the ground. Their needle teeth bit deep. Each bite erupted in a geyser of agony. They pinned his muscles to his bones. Trying to move was useless. The monstrous shadow lumbered up to his circle of safety and stood over him, stinking like rotting meat. Faben had outdone herself this time. Dawes' vision faded as the black fog of unconsciousness dragged him down.  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie carried Olin through the woods as the red sky turned to black. The six crescent moons grouped above were a good omen, he decided. The night clouds reflected Stagwater's orange city light as if ten thousand jack-o-lanterns lit the town. Getting away from the city felt like climbing free of quicksand. The boy clung to his neck. The deeper into the woods they pushed the harder the boy shivered. Chuggie had hoped they could make it all the way to Shola's, but poor Olin just wasn't in any condition for a late-night hike. When the path opened up into a clearing, Chuggie set the boy down and wrapped him up in his coat. The kid looked like a dirty little refugee. His teeth chattered and weary tears trickled down his cheeks. Chuggie tried to think of ways to soothe the little fella. He nearly offered the kid some rum, but then he remembered he wasn't supposed to give alcohol to children. What the boy really needed was a fire. Chuggie located a hefty dead log for them to sit on. He set to work gathering sticks and twigs. "Hey, kid," Chuggie said, "you thinkin' about helpin' me gather up this firewood?" "Iâ€Åš I don't know," Olin sniveled. "Well, how 'bout I get the wood and you cook the food?" "I don't know." "You said your name's Olin, right?" "Yes." "Olin, you got nothin' to be afraid of." Chuggie paused to look at the shivering child. "Mr. Kale said that, too. He said I was safe. He said it might feel scary at first, but that I'd feel better when it was over." Olin pulled Chuggie's coat around him and sobbed into the sleeve. Chuggie gritted his teeth. He hoped Kale was still alive under the blow-down, maybe trying to claw his way out. If anyone deserved a slow deathâ€Åš. "Kale is gone, boss. I made sure he'd never come back." Chuggie struck a match, lit the bundle of sticks, and blew until the kindling ignited. "You wanna know what's gonna happen to you, is that it?" asked Chuggie. The boy nodded and hugged his knees. "We're goin' to my friend's house. Her name is Shola. She's been held prisoner in the wilds by that Kale bastard and all his friends. We're gonna jailbreak her, then the three of us are off to find a new home." Olin lifted his head when Chuggie mentioned a new home. His mouth nearly formed a little smile. "That's right, and it'll be someplace warm. Someplace with water. A place where the women hardly wear any clothes at all." Chuggie nudged the boy with his elbow. "Now I want you to lie down and close your eyes. You had yourself a pretty awful day, by my accounting. I think you earned some rest. I'll be right here." Olin lay down in the grass but didn't close his eyes. Instead, he squirmed and watched Chuggie stoke the campfire. Lighting his pipe, Chuggie listened to the night sounds of the forest. In the distance, an owl hooted. Something small, probably a hare, rustled some leaves. He heard nothing that troubled him, save for Olin's occasional full-body shudder. Eventually, the boy broke into full-powered sobs. "Alright, junior. Pipe down a minute," Chuggie said in his most soothing voice. "Listen, you quiet down some, an' I'll tell you a story. How'd you like that?" Olin's sobbing reduced to light sniffs, which Chuggie took as a yes. "You ever hear of The Boy with the Wooden Face?" Chuggie asked. Olin shook his head. "It's a story about a little boy, kind of like you. Want me to tell it to you?" Olin nodded. "All right. You're gonna have to bear with me. It's been a while since I last told this one." The smell of campfire smoke filled the little glade. What could go wrong around a campfire? Nothing, that's what. What gods there were must have smiled upon Chuggie and the boy as these moments of smoky peace were granted. The fire popped and danced as Chuggie began his tale. Chapter 18 The Boy with the Wooden Face  Once long, long ago, Down by the sea shore, There lived a fam'ly Both happy and poor. There were Mom and Dad, Five children, as well. It's the youngest son Whose tale I now tell. The boy's name was Clyde. At dawn he was born. His happy parents Felt blessed on that morn. Ten fingers and toes, His health seemed quite good. But oddly, his face Was quite made of wood. As he grew, little Clyde Felt diff'rent and strange. He hoped that one day To normal he'd change. And like I mentioned, The fam'ly was poor. To make it each day, Each one had a chore. Clyde, ev'ry morning, Went berry picking Out in the patches Full of thorns pricking. And that's how they lived 'Til one lucky day, Dad found a job with A fortune to pay. He'd be the first mate On a cargo ship, To return in two months From an ocean trip. Sad farewells were said, And the ship went to sea. One month passed slowly, Then two and then three. The fam'ly was scared, And nervous and sad. Would the tides return Their kind, loving Dad? They went on each day, All doing their chore. Mom went ev'ry night To stand by the shore. Each day little Clyde, With little wood face, Brought back his berries To his family's place. Daily, he picked them Though bushes were few. He oft had to look For patches anew. Each day he ventured Further from his home, On into the woods Where troubles may roam. One day our dear Clyde, So deep in the trees, Hunted for berries While filled with unease. So deep in the woods, He was lost a tad. Hungry from hunting, Snacks had to be had. His basket was empty, But some berries were found. Clyde set his basket Right down on the ground. To keep his little basket From blowing away, He put stones in the bottom While he enjoyed his berry buffet. When his belly was full, With a stretch and some groans, Clyde got to picking, Forgetting the stones. With a full berry basket, And ready to walk, Clyde was surprised When he heard a voice talk. He spun round to see, That above on a limb, A silky-voiced blackbird Was speaking to him. "Hello, friend," the bird said, "What's that you carry? A basket, I see, And it's chock full of berries." "It's for my family," Said the wooden faced boy. "We're poor and we're hungry, But berries bring joy." The blackbird hopped closer. "Yes, berries you hold, But what if your basket Was instead full of gold?" Said Clyde to the blackbird, "Then I'd be rich indeed. Now please excuse me, I've a family to feed." The blackbird said, "Wait! You misunderstand. I'm a magical bird. One wish I may grant! All you must do Is catch me, you see? Wish for a fortune! Easy as can be! So, what do you say? Don't you have a dream? I can see that you do, Your wood eye has a gleam." Clyde thought of his family, His wood mouth gave a grin As he thought of his father Coming home to his kin. Said Clyde, "I don't trust you. Unless you have proof, I'll say thanks for the chat, You feathery goof." Clyde turned to leave. The bird gave a squawk. "It's not enough for you That a blackbird may talk? All right, my young friend, Please stand a step back, As I speak magic words, Zim Zummy Zarak!" And poof! Just like that, The sky turned to green. Said Clyde, "That's amazing! The best trick I've seen!" The sky went back to blue As the blackbird replied, "So how about that wish That I long to provide?" "It's a deal," said Clyde, And without one more word Launched his wooden faced body In a blur at the bird. The boy barely missed. The bird just got away. "You nearly had me!" The bird was heard to say. "I've no doubt that shortly You'll catch hold of me. You'll have your wish granted, Most definitely!" With one hand for the basket And one for the bird, Clyde chased his wish, Never deterred. At the end of the day, He'd chased the bird far. The wooden faced boy Had grown tired as tar. He started to pout, He started to weep. Said the blackbird, "My boy, You just need some sleep. In the morning, you'll wake. You'll be fresh and fast. I'm sure you'll catch me And get your wish at last!" Clyde had a bad feeling, But he was quite spent. He ate him some berries, Then to sleep he went. When he got to snoring, The blackbird flapped down. He feasted on berries Near the boy sleeping sound. The bird ate his fill And flew back up the tree, Chuckling quietly at His cruel trickery. In the morning, Clyde woke. He knew he was lost, And also in trouble, Oh, Mom would be cross. Just then the blackbird Walked right within reach. Clyde lunged at the bird, Who escaped with a screech. "I told you, I told you, Today is your day! Soon you'll have your wish And be on your way!" The chase then began, And like the day before, The boy got close often But nothing more. At the end of the day, With no success in the chase, He was so far from home, His wish would go to waste. So lost and so distant From his family was Clyde. "I'll have to wish myself home, Not my father!" he cried. As night fell, the blackbird Felt his energy fade. Once more the boy's basket He set out to raid. Like this it went on, Three days in a row. The boy got ever closer, Just a tad bit too slow. The blackbird led on, And the wooden faced boy Chased his wish sadly. He'd forgotten all joy. But he knew, yes he did, He no longer had a choice. His only hope was to nab That bird with the voice. On the fifth day, the forests Gave way to plains. Tall grass replaced trees On wide, flat terrains. The day after that, The grass was gone, too. And the rocks and the dirt. No cloud was in view. The wooden faced boy Didn't know, but he saw The Black Marble Flats Of Kuna Din Bah. They stopped on the edge, The boy and the bird. The bird began talking, And here's what was heard: "My wooden faced friend, You've plenty of heart. You're brave and you're bold. You're clever and smart. I can't flee much further, You'll have your wish soon. It will surely be granted By tomorrow at noon. I've no trees to rest in, And I can't stay in flight. Let's wait 'til morning And rest one more night." With a heavy old heart The boy of wood face Did as he was told And, for now, gave up chase. Like always, that night, The blackbird got creeping And feasted on berries While the boy was sleeping. But when morning came, The boy was up early. The whole situation Had him feeling surly. He was up 'fore the sun, Quieter than a snail, He crept close to the bird And leapt with a wail. His hands wrapped around The bird for a second, But he couldn't hold on When the bird got to peckin'. The blackbird escaped and Flew some ways away. He said, "That's the spirit! You'll catch me today!" Clyde followed the bird. The day had begun. The only thing missing Was the sunny old sun. The sky was flat gray, And black was the ground, That's all that there was For miles around. Clyde looked to the north, Or was he facing west? He regretted each step Of this foolish quest. Just then, at his feet, The black marble shook. Ten hasty steps back Was what the boy took. Up from the ground, A top hat came spinning. Beneath it a head With big, sharp teeth grinning. An armless, fanged man Spun up from the ground. He snapped his jaws fierce, Twisting up and back down. It took just a second, Then he disappeared. Not a mark on the ground. Above, the bird cheered. With basket in hand, Clyde ran away, zoom! Suspecting the blackbird Had led him to his doom. The further he ran, the more Things looked the same. How he hated that bird For its devious game. And every few minutes, From black stony ground Up spun the bad men Snapping jaws all around. The wooden faced boy Was starting to tire To escape those Black Flats Was his only desire. After the long day, The sky had gone dim. And the spinners stopped coming To bite after him. Clyde laid on down On the ground that was stone. For a moment he wondered Where the blackbird had flown. That's when he heard it. The blackbird was back To taunt him some more And to steal his snack. Said the bird, "My young friend, Please let me explain," But the wooden faced boy Couldn't hold his disdain. "Be quiet, you bird! You've led me out here To feed to those devils That I've come to fear! Your lies and your tricks Have served you so well, But you'll get no more kicks When you're roasting inâ€Åš" Well, the boy didn't finish. He let his words ring. He needed his strength For what morning may bring. He slept softly that night, As the blackbird crept in To rob him of berries With a blackbirdy grin. What the bird didn't know, What he couldn't see, Was that inside the basket Were no berries to eat. Instead, at the bottom Were only the stones, Placed there without care When Clyde had been alone. The bird pecked a berry, But the berry was rock. In pain and surprise, He gave out a squawk. The noise woke the boy, And with a startled gasp Clyde closed up the basket And latched up the clasp. Inside the basket, The bird lost his nerve. Said the boy, "Quiet down! It's what you deserve! Now grant me my wish Before your situation Goes from bad to worse, End of the conversation!" "My friend," said the blackbird, "I never meant ill. Those spinning men forced me Against my birdy will!" With a harsh wooden scowl, The boy gave reply, Saying, "Whatever your reason, Little care I. Deliver your promise, And give me my wish, Or you'll wish you had. You'll be sleeping with fish!" Said the blackbird, "Alright! I'll do as you say. Just tell me your wish, And we'll get underway." Said Clyde, "My wish Is for my family and me To be reunited At our home by the sea." The bird said, "That's fine, Just let turn me loose." Clyde said, "No way, bird. I'll have no more abuse. When you grant my wish, You'll be free of that basket. Otherwise, little bird, It will serve as your casket!" With a scared gulp, The bird changed his tune. He squawked magic words: "Zap Zimmy Zappoon!" With a flash of lightning And a thunderous boom, The two were transported From the black marble gloom. At his home Clyde appeared Out of thin air, Startling his mother Right out of her chair. She shouted his name And scooped him in her arms, Relieved that her boy Was home safe from harm. "Where have you been?" She asked with a tear. He said "I was tricked By this blackbird right here." He held up the basket And told her the tale. As she listened, his mother Had gone a bit pale. "Hello!" came a voice From outside the door. It was Dad! He'd returned! Together once more! From then on they lived Happy as you can get, With a basket-bound blackbird To keep as a pet. As Chuggie finished, he saw Olin sleeping peacefully. It was a good thing he told the version of the story he had. Usually, the family killed and ate the bird. Chapter 19  Fey Voletta followed Non into Haste's office. Under normal circumstances, she'd never be persuaded to visit the fat pervert so late in the evening. Non had something up his metal sleeve, tonight. The sweaty, red-faced slob didn't bother with a greeting. "Why weren't you in the square today, Non?" "Nice to see you tonight, Mr. Haste. Thank you for seeing us." She could barely bring herself to look at the disgusting pile of a man. Instead, she looked around at Haste's awful stuffed animal heads. What a pleasure it would be to see Haste's head up there with them! "No laws were broken in the square," Non said. "No laws?" Haste's voice cracked, and his jowls quivered. "A Stagwater magistrate was murdered!" "The death of Fitch was a suicide." Non clomped over to Haste's desk with heavy footsteps. Haste shook a fist in the air. "Play your games, metal man. Soon Stagwater's laws will make a loyal servant of you and your kind." "We serve law, not men," replied Non. "Steel Jacks are thorough in our undertakings." "You let a man destroy our northern gate, slay a magistrate, then continue on to destroy our southern gate without any interference at all. Thorough failure, as I see it." Haste dabbed sweat from his face. "I don't know, Non. Mr. Haste is acting pretty hostile to a law enforcement officer." Fey Voletta turned and batted her eyelashes at Non. To her chagrin, Non waved her off with a little glance and a twitch of his big metal shoulder. "You've read our contract with Stagwater. We are required to serve as long as we are welcome." Non took a quick step toward the Chief Magistrate. "We serve only as long as you cooperate." Haste squirmed in his chair. "What is your point, Non?" "Part of our service includes developing means and tools to expand our abilities." "I don't have time for this tonight. I'll send you my correspondence tomorrow." Haste waved a dismissive hand at the Steel Jack. "Non â€"" Fey Voletta started, but he shushed her again with a sharp wave of his little neck-hands. "We planned to enlist Norchug Mot Losiat," Non's voice buzzed louder. "We hold you responsible for his disappearance." "We can discuss this tomorrow." He pointed Non and Fey Voletta toward the door. "You're on thin ice tonight, Non." Fey Voletta studied Non closely, looking for some sign that he had a backbone somewhere in that metal suit. How could he take this sort of treatment from such a pathetic man? Steel Jacks were such magnificent beings, sadly restrained. The feeling was like seeing a frost lion caged at a zoo, sedated and fat. Such creatures were built for greater things.           "You are under arrest for interfering with Steel Jack operations. Will you come peacefully?" Non's voice rang in Fey Voletta's ears. "That's better." She smiled and drew her weapon, unable to hide her elation. Haste leapt to his feet, knocked his chair over, and jabbed a finger at Non. "You're out of your mind! I run this town. I am Stagwater!" "A Steel Jack may not choose which laws to enforce," said Non. Fey Voletta licked her lips and raised her knife. "Let me take care of him, Non. Please?" "What?!" Haste shrieked. "How dare you?" "I like your initiative, kitten, but his crime is not a capital offense. We do, however, hope his sentence will beâ€Åš transformative." Non turned back to Haste. "Will you come peacefully?" "I'm not going anywhere!" Haste bellowed. His round, red face shook as he jumped to his feet. Non stepped around one side of the desk, but Haste went around the other. Whichever way the Steel Jack went, Haste kept the desk in between them. "My conjury protects this city!" Haste snatched up a silver platter lid from the food service next to his desk. Did the slovenly pervert think he could use it to fight off a Steel Jack? Fey Voletta giggled at Haste's impotent attempt at self-defense. "Without me, there's nothing to hold the Gooch at bay. This entire shit-pile town will be plunged into Desecration!" "You believe you control the creature to the north?" With one hand, Non flung the massive wooden desk across the room. It crashed into the far wall, shattering as it destroyed the plaster. Expensive pens and other desktop accessories flew around the office. Haste stumbled back, tripping over his chair. He thudded on his ass, smashing his arm through a glass-top end table. He shrieked as the glass tore into his chubby hand. His breath came in heavy wheezes as he scuttled and clawed across the floor. Unfortunately for Fey, Haste's shirt untucked. His gut and ass crack hung out for all to see. She almost gagged, but decided to laugh instead. The sorry son of a bitch deserved all the humiliation he got. As Non stalked across the floor with slow, heavy steps, Haste cowered in the corner like a frightened child. He pulled on the curtain and tried to hide behind it but only succeeded in pulling the curtain rod off the wall. It cracked him on the head, and his hands waved in front of his face like they were blocking tiny, invisible punches. The dignity of his position had become as broken and splintered as his desk. Non reached out to restrain Haste. "You've gone too far, Non! You're going to pay for this! I am the Haste!" Non stuffed a gag in his mouth. Haste's eyes grew wide with surprise. Non had Haste's wrists bound behind his back in an instant. He went to pull a black bag over Haste's head, but Fey Voletta grabbed it from his hand. "Allow me, Non." She beamed up at her pal. Non stepped around behind Haste and held the fat man still. She pulled her hood back and shook out her hair seductively, smiling at the blubbering magistrate. Fey Voletta pretended not to notice as he blew a line of snot onto his upper lip. "Oh, Haste," she cooed. "My little honey bear. Finally, I can enjoy your company." He grunted and moaned behind the gag as she pulled the black bag over his head and cinched it tight at his neck. "I think I like him better this way," Non buzzed at Fey Voletta. "Seriously, Non, can I please gut this rat?" Fey Voletta smiled as she ground her heel on Haste's toe. The sack of Haste squealed. "I am sorry, kitten. You may not." Non placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. As the Steel Jack dragged the whimpering man away, Fey Voletta pouted. She never got to disembowel anybody.  ⊠⊠⊠ The giant putrescent baby sat with eyes closed and legs crossed as if in meditation. At its right, Dawes' goat lay broken and dead. At its left, Faben's goat did the same. Dawes wished he'd never even seen Fey Voletta. If it hadn't been for her, none of this would have happened. More than that, he wished he'd never thrown in with Faben Brassline. The old summoner had failed him completely. He hoped she had found an appropriate hell in which to spend eternity. These thoughts came in flashes between the red-hot waves of fear surging through him as, inches away, a huge demonic infant loomed over him. "Blood!" roared all the lesser creatures all at once. "Who is god?" the demon rumbled. "Gooch!" cried the lesser beasts. "Gooch is god." The Gooch got to its feet, stomped over to Dawes, and kicked a spray of dirt in his face. He picked up the dead goats and shoved them down his throat. The Gooch clawed at the air above Faben's cairn. The church key still repulsed him. The little monsters pulled their needle-teeth from Dawes' muscles and sank them in again. Each puncture caused a fresh symphony of pain. He would have screamed, but he had neither the energy nor the voice. As hard as he tried, he couldn't get to Faben. A chill enveloped Dawes as the Gooch t snatched him up. When he looked into its slimy skull-eyes, he felt an endless void staring back. The Gooch's unholy gaze filled Dawes with a sense that he hung just over an abyss of pure madness. The Gooch opened its mouth, and the stink of opened caskets poured out. Dawes thrashed in the massive hand. His muscles cried out in anguish where the tiny things had bitten him His weak struggles were nothing in the grip of the monster. Could this really be his time to die? "Not this way," he pleaded. "Not this way." The Gooch shook him and said, "You serve the Gooch." The abomination shoved Dawes into his mouth and swallowed him whole. Dawes slid down his gullet and fell, but not into the sloppy, wet pit of a giant stomach he expected. He fell through darkness as black as a grave. He fell through pain as sharp as a sea of razors. He fell through death. The wails of the damned blared in his head sounding like horses being eaten alive. Shapes formed in the emptiness. Everyone he ever met flickered before his eyes. His parents. Fey Voletta. Faben Brassline. Behind them all, another face waited in obscurity, as if it tried on each of the others as a mask. He died again and again, fading back into existence between each death. Death came faster and faster and faster. His alive-dead-alive-dead mind came to grasp the truth: life is a sacred candle-flame, and he'd squandered his. No! It was taken! The little candle-flame of his soul had once been honest, pure and beautiful. They wouldn't let it shine bright! His failure made him fall faster through the darkness. He switched between life and death like the beating of a heart, alternating once a second. Twice. Five times. Death and life shot through him so fast that they merged into one force. His mind and soul turned gray. They made this happen. That hidden face behind it allâ€Åš he knew who it belonged to. Of course. The whole time, one being watched all. His fear was gone. His flame had been extinguished. His only duty â€" protecting the tiny gift, holding it sacred â€" had failed. He deserved â€" longed for â€" oblivion. Not oblivionâ€Åš a new god. A god to touch. A god who conquered death. A new flame flickered at his core, oily, like burning fat. It stuck to his spirit like unholy tar. He could never be rid of it. This flame had waited only for him since time began. Mine now. He was free from choices and desires. His new god stripped them all away. His soul had been Desecrated. Gooch gives dark blessing. Dawes fell to the ground, transformed. Matted, bloody goat fur covered his deformed, asymmetrical body. Snapped-off goat ribs stuck out at odd angles from his arms and legs. Angry, eyeless goat heads bleated on either side of his face. "I serve," choked the desecrated Dawes. His new god, the Gooch, cast its gaze on Faben's body. Stones covered only the bottom half. Wanting to please his creator, Dawes ran to the cairn. The Gooch wanted Faben, and Dawes served the Gooch. Dawes reached for the key in Faben's pocket. Agony pulsed, like electricity, through his body. The Gooch roared in pain. Dawes couldn't bear the thought of his master's suffering. He pulled his hand away. "There are more," said the Gooch. "We go to the man city." Of course! Stagwater teemed with things for the Gooch to devour. Dawes' entire body trembled with ecstasy at the thought of an entire city sacrificed to his god. To please his lord, Dawes took up the summoner's podium and slid the curved blade across his stomach. Casting the podium aside, Dawes pulled the gash open wider for his god's approval. The needle-mouthed skitterers watched eagerly. The Gooch nodded. The skitterers leapt at Dawes' midsection. Each chomped a mouthful of flesh and tried to make off with it in different directions. Dawes didn't flinch or try to stop them. He didn't make a sound as they strung his guts out. As his little brethren dragged his intestines through the weeds, Dawes could only watch with anticipation. He felt everything, every tear of tissue. He reveled in it. He felt his esophagus being pulled from his throat and grunted with pleasure as it ripped clear. If it pleased the Gooch, it pleased Dawes. He stood before his new god, gutless. "I serve," Dawes croaked. Chapter 20  Chuggie stoked the campfire while the boy slept. The little runt was completely hidden under Chuggie's coat. He'd have looked like a pile of laundry if it weren't for his breathing. For a moment, Chuggie considered just picking up the sleeping boy and carrying him to Shola's, but there was no need to make things any harder on the boy. If things went the way he planned, they'd be marching south along the river as soon as they had some breakfast in their bellies. Olin would need real rest before they left. To pass the time, Chuggie picked up Kale's slug-plate satchel. He'd had reclaimed it for the forces of justice. Kale wouldn't need it where he'd be spending his days. Chuggie dumped out the contents. He found money, which he set aside. A box of matches, a few pencils, a tobacco pouch. Wedged into the corner so tightly he almost missed it, he found a ledger. By firelight, he began reading the handwritten entries. Apparently, Haste had plans to seize control of Stagwater and turn it into a major hub of opium pine production. But the notes said nothing about the effects of opium pine. He hadn't tried any himself inâ€Åš shit, it must've been decades. The experience had been fuzzy to begin with, he knew that much. In his state of prolonged intoxication, he could scarce remember anything at all about what the stuff had done to him. Apparently, these goons were using it, along with torturgy, to get into Pheonal trances. As if knowing the future ever did anybody a damn bit of good. From the looks of it, Kale's plan was to wait for Haste to do all the hard work, then hijack his operation. That sure sounded just like Kale. But Kale didn't have all the pieces. He needed to use torturgy to enter the Pheonal trance and learn the last step he'd have to take to make his plan work. Chuggie looked over at the sleeping boy. Olin was to be the last piece of Kale's puzzle. Chuggie had a lot of regrets, but burying that prick alive would never be one of them. Inside the cover of the ledger, Chuggie could feel raised conjury marks. There were three moons, four stars, and one sword. Evidently, Kale had locked the journal to keep human hands out. Since Chuggie wasn't exactly human, he'd been able to open it and read with no problem. But a fellow's conjury should disappear when he dies. Chuggie looked down at the writing on the charmed pages. Kale was still alive. Chuggie's left hand went to his anchor. Had Kale clawed his way free of the blow-down? He listened to the sounds of the pre-dawn forest. He heard wind-rustled leaves, early morning songbirds, and Olin's growling stomach. He didn't hear twigs snapped by feet or the cough of a man who'd been buried for hours. The fire popped and gave Chuggie a start. He looked down at Kale's notebook and watched as the words unwrote themselves and disappeared from the page. Chuggie tossed the journal into the fire. It flopped open, and he watched the fire crawl up the paper. Kale was dead â€" now. Chuggie spat on the burning journal. He thought of pissing on it, but smelling urine in a fire was no way to start one's day. A blazing yellow sun peaked up over the horizon. Chuggie filled the slug-plate satchel with his own belongings. He let the sun get a bit higher before waking Olin. He found a good stick to poke the boy with, then decided on a more gentle approach. He shook Olin's leg until he heard him groaning under the coat. After Olin sat up, he moved closer to the fire, wrapped himself tighter in Chuggie's coat, and yawned. He scratched various itches about his head and torso. Before long, they set off toward Shola's. Chuggie moved too fast for the groggy boy, so he swung him up on his shoulders. Olin grabbed onto his horns. "If I'm carryin' you, you'll have to protect your own damn self from branches." "I will," said Olin. "Don't go to sleep up there." "I won't." "Better not piss down my neck, either." Olin giggled. After a while, the boy started to get heavy. Chuggie thought a bit of conversation would take his mind off his burning muscles. "What do you wanna be when you grow up, boss?" Olin paused for a moment as if giving the question some thought. "I want to be a Steel Jack." "What? Why you wanna be a Steel Jack?" "Because they're big and they're strong, and they can do anything they want." "Well, that's not exactly true," said Chuggie. "They can only enforce the laws. They don't get to make them. They don't get vacations. I don't think they even sleep." "Why?" Olin asked. "Because they aren't from this world." Chuggie judged from Olin's silence that the boy didn't know much about the Steel Jacks at all. "See, about two or three centuries ago, I guess it was, this big crack split open in the ground by a town called Tetracardi. These monster things called terpeskoa came just a-pourin' out of it. Folks tried to fight 'em off, but they were too damn many and too damn mean." Chuggie swung the boy down and set him on his feet. "You gonna walk for a while and let ole Chuggie's shoulders recuperate." Chuggie stretched his arms out. He and Olin tramped along the trail side by side. "What happened to the terpis cows?" Olin found a stick to whack trees and bushes with. Chuggie nodded. "The Steel Jacks came through the rift little while later and helped fight the terpeskoa. They said somehow this crack opened up, all by accident, and the terpeskoa monsters all just filed right through by the hundreds." "Wow, really?" Olin began picking up leaves and impaling them on his stick. "It's a little more complicated, but that's the meat of it. Sounds fishy, don't it, boss?" Olin shrugged. "I guess so." "So after that, the Steel Jacks told the people here in this world that they couldn't go back through the rift. The terpeskoa were mostly gone, so they had nothing to do here. This king-type guy told 'em they could stay if they served the laws of mankind. So now that's what they do. Can you believe it?" "Yep." "A city like Stagwater goes up and finds the Steel Jacks in Tetracardi. A squad of Steel Jacks comes and makes a deal with the city. Then the Steel Jacks are the law." "I could do that," said Olin. "Well, it's not all action. They gotta inspect houses to make sure they're built right. Roads, too. And the cities usually write up strict rules that apply just to Steel Jacks." "That's boring stuff," said Olin. Chuggie had plenty more to say about Steel Jacks, but little boys didn't care about world domination conspiracies. Or did they? The two of them trekked along, not saying any more for a long time.  Chuggie's heart nearly burst when he looked up and saw the little house on the cliff. A thin wisp of smoke rose from its crumbling chimney, and gangly scarecrows stood sentinel in the yard. He wanted to sprint, but he kept himself composed for the boy. "This is where she lives, the lady I told you about. See those scarecrows over there?" Chuggie pointed. "I see them," Olin answered. "They can walk on their own." "Really?" The boy's eyes grew wide. "Really," said Chuggie. "Give 'em a wide berth. I don't trust 'em too much. Don't tell anybody I told you that." Shola stepped out from behind the house with an armload of kindling. One of her scarecrows, the one with a red shirt and a block of wood for a head, flapped his arms and pointed. Shola turned. Upon seeing Chuggie and Olin, she froze. Her arms went limp, and the wood fell to the ground. "Chuggie!" she yelled, breaking into a run. "You came back! You came back!" Chuggie braced himself for impact. Shola dove through the air and crashed into his chest. They both tumbled to the ground as Olin inched away from the commotion. Shola pecked a frenzy of kisses onto Chuggie's face and neck. He laughed as he tried to restrain her. "Hey, come on," he said. "Why are you covered in blood?" she gasped. "What happened to you?" "Shola, meet my new friend Olin." Chuggie turned her face toward the boy. "He was in a little trouble when I found him. I helped him out, and I said we'd take him with us." She stood, brushed herself off, and stepped toward Olin with a hand held out. "Hello," she said, shaking his hand. "Feel that grip! You're handsome and strong." She scooped him up in an excited hug. Olin's face filled with worry. His body relaxed, however, as Shola squeezed him to her bosom. As her breasts pressed against his neck, that worried frown was replaced by a bashful grin. His arms hung loose, then wrapped around her waist. Chuggie stood with a smile and straightened the things hanging off him. "Makin' a move on my woman, boy?" Shola led them to her little cooking fire. She sat them down and served them big slabs of pork rib. "What happened to you?" Shola flitted around giving them cups of this and ladling spoonfuls of that onto their plates. "What was it like in town? Did you have enough money?" Chuggie just smiled at the boy. Olin smiled back, and they chewed in unison. Olin stuck out his tongue at Chuggie with a wad of chewed meat on it. Chuggie did the same. "Why are you all bloody? Were you injured? Where'd you get this satchel? Is that a dagger?" With a full belly, Chuggie groaned and leaned back. The cool morning air held nothing but possibilities. After they ate, Shola prepared a hot bath for Olin. She took the boy by the hand, undressed him and watched as he climbed into the tub. "You know what to do?" Olin nodded and grabbed the soap. Shola sat down next to Chuggie and took his hand in hers. "I didn't think you'd come back." Her eyes lingered on the goat-face purse hanging from his belt before she looked in his eyes. "Said I would." He squeezed her hand. "I know, but I'm stuck here alone. I started to think the worst as soon as you left." "The purse you sent me after, it wasn't in town." Chuggie let go of her hand and grabbed the purse. He held it up and studied it. The leathery goat-face smelled as old as it looked. It was even cracking apart in places. "I got this for you. A little something I picked up." He held the goat-face purse out to her. Shola tucked her hands at her sides. "Well, where did you get it, then?" Her eyes locked onto the beady-eyed goat-face. "I fought for it in a graveyard Desecration." "Desecration?!" she hissed. Her arms twitched as if she struggled to hold them still. "I got this knife there, too." Chuggie pointed to the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu but didn't touch it.  "A good woman died so I could bring you this purse. Faben Brassline's blood bought you this thing." Shola turned her face away. "I didn't mean for anyone to die." "I know that's true. Ain't your fault. If anyone's to blame, it's that Haste bastard. If I could get my hands around his neckâ€Åš" Chuggie put a hand on Shola's shoulder. She buried her face in his chest. He expected heaving sobs, but none came. She held still against him, not making a sound. "All right, let's get moving. How do we use the purse? How do we set you free?" "Not just yet," she whispered. After they got Olin out of the tub, Chuggie carried him into Shola's little house and placed him on her bed. They bundled the exhausted boy in blankets. "Why don't you rest up a while?" said Chuggie. "You're gonna need your strength when we hoof it out of this place." He gave the boy's foot a gentle shake. Eyes half shut, Olin answered, "I can't sleep unless you tell me another story." Chuggie smiled. "If that's what you need, that's what you'll get." Shola stroked the boy's hair, and then moved aside so Chuggie could sit on the bed. She found a seat amongst her carefully balanced household clutter. "Years and years ago, I used to fish a creek by this town called Stonerose. The fish in that creek weren't very big, but there was tons of 'em, and they damn near leapt into your hands. They tasted better than any fish ever caught, too. I always supposed it had to do with the minerals in the water combined with the types of plant life along the creek's edge. That's a fascinating topic right there, but it's one that'll have to wait for another time. "One day I was out catchin' some lunch when I saw this hawk out of the corner of my eye. I tossed a stick toward him, hopin' he'd leave, but he just sat up on his branch eyeballing my catch. I yelled at him, I gestured offensively, an' I threw more sticks. Nothin' scared him away. Using superior intellect, I baited my hook with a minnow and cast it at the hawk. Sure enough, he swooped down and plucked it from the air. "I reeled that hawk in, fighting it like I would a fish. I got it in my net, measured it, the whole bit. The hook wasn't in his mouth too deep, so I pulled it out. It was still in my net at this point, mind you. The hawk started talkin' to me, which surprised me greatly, as the only hawks I'd ever known had all been mute. He told me â€"." "He's asleep now," Shola said. Her interruption flustered Chuggie for a moment. He stared at her, blinking, until his mind caught up. "Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?" "Some other time. You sure like stories about birds." The rejection stung a bit, but she walked over and took him by the hand. She led him outside to the cliff's edge and laid him down on the gravelly ground. The cool morning breeze swirled about them, hinting of snow. She slid out of her clothes. Chuggie drank in her autumn flower scent as she ground against him. The pillows of her breasts pressed warmly against his chest. She moved up and down, unbearably slow. Her nails dug into his shoulder. For Chuggie, nothing else in the world mattered. These moments, embracing his witch-lover, made all his troubles drift away like smoke in a dream. They caught their breath, body heat cooling in the wind. "Chuggie, you're filthy and covered in blood." "Only slightly," he murmured. "You've been bleeding," she said, sounding more interested than concerned. "Nah, it's this dagger. When I hold it, I get this blood runnin' out my mouth." It sat on the pile of his clothes, and he reached over for it. As he held it to demonstrate, a crimson trickle emerged from his lips. The speed and violence of the blade's influence surged through him. He perceived the invisible lines of connection everywhere he looked. Dark sparkles surrounded Shola, blocking the lines. Part of the spell upon her, he guessed. He saw her aged body superimposed over her youthful form. The spider tattoo on her hip pulsed gray-black-gray-black. She took the Bleeding Jaws from him, and his mind sloshed back to fuzzy, drunken normalcy. "There's somethin' else," Chuggie said. "I kinda killed a guy." "You kinda killed a guy?" Shola waved the dagger around, but her mouth didn't bleed. She tossed it back to his pile of clothes and started putting her own back on. Chuggie got dressed, too. "Didn't have much reason. The guy was a lousy bartender, but he didn't deserve what he got." "What did you do?" she asked. "I stormed his bar an' stabbed him in the heart." Chuggie picked up the dagger, slid it back into his belt, and spat some blood. "Killed 'im for a bottle o' rum." "Maybe your new blade made you do it." she said. "I'd advise against using it too much. In fact, I think you should throw it over the cliff." She reached for it, but he blocked her hand. "Fine, let's clean you up." Shola tugged him along behind her over to the well. She dunked a rag into a water basin and held it out to him. "What about this purse?" Chuggie took the rag and rubbed his face. "What do we have to do?" "I must go alone to the tree I showed you. The blood maple with the oleostex eye hanging in it. With the help of my scarecrows, I should be able to lift whatever spell or curse holds me here." "Then we can go?" His words were muffled by the rag as he scrubbed. "Yes, then we can leave." "I want to leave today," Chuggie said. "I don't know what's brewin' in that town, if they're going to search us out or what. Best to be gone before we find out." "My scarecrows?" She took the rag, rinsed it, and began washing his neck. "They stay here." He unwound his chain and took off his shirt again. He draped his aching arms over her shoulders. By the time Shola scrubbed Chuggie clean, Olin had awoken and ventured outside. Chuggie sat with Olin by the fire as a worried-looking Shola went inside her house. He could hear her carefully balanced piles of junk topple over in a clattering chain reaction. She emerged a few minutes later with an armload of charms and scrolls. Without speaking to Chuggie or Olin â€" without even glancing at them â€" she collected the goat-face purse and walked away. Eight spindly scarecrows trailed behind her as she set off for the blood maple. "What's she doing?" Olin threw handfuls of grass and leaves into the fire. Chuggie held his fire poking stick in the flames until the tip started to burn. "Well, boss, Shola used to live in Stagwater years ago." He waved the stick around as he spoke. The flames went out, and the hot coal of the tip glowed brighter the faster he waved it. A trail of smoke followed wherever he swung the glowing point. "She said some stuff some folks didn't wanna hear, so they brought her down her and chained her up with conjury." "Mr. Kale and the Haste did that?" asked the boy. "I don't know if they did it," Chuggie said. "That was a long damn time ago. Maybe Kale an' Haste were around, but I can't say if they were involved." Olin stared at the ground, most likely thinking about Kale and the attempted torturgy of the night before. Chuggie poked him in the belly. "But it's all about to be behind us." Chuggie smiled and tussled Olin's hair. "We're leaving this rotten place as soon as she's done back there." The boy looked sadly down at his old torturgy mask. It'd be hard for him to leave that life behind, no matter how terrible. All things fear the unknown. Chuggie opened his mouth for further consoling when he heard Shola screaming in the distance. "Sit tight." Chuggie ran toward the blood maple. Shola's name echoed in his buzzing head, and he feared the worst, the unknown. Chuggie skidded to a stop at the foot of the tree. Shola writhed on the ground. Around her, she had laid out a circular pattern of sticks, furs, and stones. Hand-spun rope made a spider web within the circle. Raw, bloody skin ringed her neck. Chuggie ran her. "Are you alright?" He dropped to his knees. "Are you alright, lady? What happened?" "It didn't work," she whimpered, wrapping her arms around his neck. Once again, she buried her face in his chest. Once again, he expected heaving sobs and a shirt soaked in tears, but he got neither. "It has to work, Shola. It has to work. What can I do? You want me to climb the tree and bring down the oleostex eye?" In response, a scarecrow stepped forward and held out the eye. Chuggie waved the scarecrow away. "What next? Come on, what can we do?" He shook her too hard. "What can be done has been done," Shola said in a monotone. "No. We been through too much. We're leavin' this place, and we're leavin' now. You say the bonds aren't broken? Fine, I'll go to Stagwater. I'll go there, and I'll make them release you!" Chuggie let her go, jumped up and started stomping back to the house. Shola staggered to her feet, ran to catch up, and fell into step beside him. "You can't go," she pleaded. "They'll lock you up for sure! Then what?" Behind her, the grinning scarecrows gathered up her things. "Then so be it. I ain't quittin'." "Maybe I just need more time," she said, holding out the goat-face purse. "Get that away from me," Chuggie marched out of the woods and into Shola's yard. "That's yours. I don't want nothin' to do with it. I saw a man look inside. He stripped off his clothes, chewed off his tongue, and gouged out his eyes. Then he dove off the bridge onto some rocks. I didn't check, but I assume he died from the fall. That, or the impact." "I'm not laughing." "Neither am I," he said. "I saw another guy look in it, too. He didn't do much better than the first. I'll take this here bone dagger, though. I think some folks in town want it. If I can't use it to bargain for your freedom, I'll use it to persuade 'em in other ways." Chuggie gathered up Kale's satchel, Faben's book, and the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. Olin's face froze in trepidation. He held a handful of leaves, but he no longer seemed interested in watching them burn. He stood up but didn't run to the grownups.  "They will arrest you on sight, if what you told me is true." Shola grabbed his sleeve with both hands. "Then they'll take me to the Steel Jacks, and that's just who I want to see." "What if they don't?" "Don't worry about that. Those metal bastards'll know I'm in town soon as I arrive." He grabbed up a bucket of rainwater next to the house and guzzled from it. Chuggie waved the boy over. "Boss, I need you to help out. Shola has to pack a few things for the trip, but she can't take much. You help her. Make sure she doesn't try to bring along too much shit. You can handle that, right, son?" "I guess so." The boy looked down at his shoes. "Good," said Chuggie. Turning back to Shola, he looked her in the eyes. "She's got one eye blue and one eye white â€" the lady knows how to love me right." Chuggie kissed the witch fiercely, pulled the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu from his belt, and headed north at a dead run. Chapter 21  Huffing and spitting blood all over himself, Chuggie crossed over the swamp south of Stagwater. He expected some kind of attack â€" perhaps a blast from the puff cannon. No attack came. Nearing the edge of the plankway, he saw why. Two Steel Jacks stood guard outside the gate. Workers had fastened boards over the opening he'd hacked in the iron. It was obviously a temporary solution, since a raiding horde of sleepy sheep could push through it without much trouble. Chuggie slowed to a walk, so he could catch his breath before meeting the alien law enforcers. One of them stepped forward to meet him. "That you, Non?" Chuggie called out. "Welcome back to Stagwater, Norchug Mot Losiat," said the Steel Jack. "My name is Zeb. How can I â€"." "Take me to Non." "As you wish, sir. Step this way, and you may ride in my coach." "I'm in a hurry, Zeb," Chuggie said, climbing inside. "How do we get this buggy up to top speed?" "We sit back and hold on." The Steel Jack sat opposite Chuggie, and the vehicle accelerated toward the town center. A few minutes later they arrived at the dark Steel Jack barracks. A wide door on the side of the building opened so the coach could enter. Once the door closed again, Chuggie and Zeb stepped out of the vehicle. Every wall of the interior was covered in metal. Even the floors were metal, scuffed and scratched from Steel Jack footsteps. Cool white lights from sconces and chandeliers, all ruggedly utilitarian, illuminated the place. The smell of grease hung thick in the air. "Non is downstairs in the foundry. Please follow me." Zeb guided Chuggie down the maze of metal stairs. They entered a large, dimly-lit workshop. Exposed ductwork hung from the ceiling, and glowing red cylinders clung to the metal walls. At the center of the space, Fey Voletta spoke with Non. Her head snapped around to see who interrupted their conversation. She looked ready to kill. When she saw Chuggie, she pulled back her hood. A wide, sunny smile replaced her angry scowl. "Why hello, future husband," Fey Voletta said. "I wondered when you'd come to your senses and take me away from all this. Why are you covered in blood?" "Non, I want answers. I want 'em now." "It will be our pleasure to provide you with any information we have," Non buzzed. "The exiled woman, Shola â€" what's holding her prisoner?" "Is that truly where you wish to begin? I see you are carrying a slug-plate satchel. It looks one of a kind. Where did you get it?" "Don't play games with me," growled Chuggie. He hadn't thought much about the satchel, and Non raised a good point. If anyone else recognized it as Kale's, Chuggie might have to answer all kinds of questions. "I would never dream of it," Non replied. "We are quite glad to see you again."  "You knew damn well me an' Faben Brassline was headed into a fuggin' trap. Haste sent us into a Desecration, and you sat there smiling while he did. You knew all along." "That statement is false. We never knew what lived there." Chuggie smacked his fist against his palm. "Did Haste?" "I don't know," said Non. "Perhaps you should ask him." "Because all of you seem pretty happy to use the Desecration to get rid of people you don't want around." Chuggie stomped his foot. "Please do not group us with Haste or his people. We are nothing like them. They kept it secret from us while restricting us from investigating it. Our jurisdiction ends two hundred feet from the outer edge of the city wall. That is the letter of the law. We are bound by it. Those laws were drafted by Haste and his men, to be sure." Non folded his big arms over his chest. Above his head, his little arms clacked their metal fingers together in a slow rhythm. The only rhythm Chuggie heard, however, was the pounding of his heart as the fury bubbled up inside him. "Fine, you didn't know." He clenched his fists. "Now release Shola." "Give us a moment to tell you some other things before we come to that wretched scenario." Non's voice was frustratingly even and calm. "That wretched scenario is the only thing I care about right now." Chuggie punched his fist into his palm again. "Of course, but you do not have all the facts. Come for a short walk. I will answer all your questions to your satisfaction, I assure you." Non walked to a wide sliding door and pushed it open. For a moment, Chuggie just glared at Non. "Fine, damn you, I'll come along. Let it be known, Steel Jack, I don't like what you're doin' to me here." Fey Voletta stepped toward Chuggie. "I could do some things to you that you would like." Chuggie rolled his eyes, shook his head, and followed Non into the dark hallway. Fey Voletta fell in behind and slapped Chuggie on the ass. "So, Chuggie," she purred over his shoulder. "Where should we honeymoon? I thought the Thunder Islands would be nice. It's not like we'd want to sleep anyway." Chuggie brushed her hand away without turning to look at her. "The Thunder Islands aren't bad, if you don't mind little sea crabs crawling down the back of your leave me be, I'm here on serious business!" Footsteps and giggles echoed down the dim, metal corridor. As a gesture of contempt, Chuggie lit up the boar-tusk pipe and began smoking. He walked in the middle, flanked on either side by the girl and the Steel Jack. "Where are we going?" Chuggie puffed. "Just up here." Non pointed. "You will have to forgive his appearance." "Whose appearance?" Non gave no reply as the hall ended in a large room with ox-sized anvil at the center. A chubby, naked man lay upon the anvil, motionless except for his breathing. Clamps on his wrists and ankles held him. He wore a muzzle that, Chuggie imagined, the man didn't put there himself. "Who's this asshole?" Chuggie asked. Fey Voletta slinked to the anvil and held up the fat man's unconscious head. "You don't recognize him?" Chuggie looked close, but the muzzle smooshed the man's fat face too much for identification. "This is your old pal Haste," Fey Voletta let go. The man's head thudded against the slab and lolled to the side. "Oh," was all Chuggie could say. He stared at Haste, trying to comprehend the scene. "You arrested him?" "You should have been there." Fey Voletta giggled. "You would've laughed and laughed. He squealed and pleaded and kicked, but Non frog-marched him out of there like a naughty schoolboy." "I don't want anything to do with him, or you, or this town, all right?" Chuggie squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. "He got my friend killed. His people exiled my lady an' tied her out to die. I want her set free, an' that's all." "Stagwater is about to change, Norchug Mot Losiat." Non clomped over to the anvil and looked down on Haste. "This man's agenda will soon be erased." "I told you, I don't give a squirt o' piss about that! I want the witch released, and I want to be gone from this place." "Witch? Chuggie, you didn't tell me she was a witch." Fey Voletta stepped between Chuggie and the Steel Jack with her hands on her hips. Chuggie sidestepped her. "You people know plenty about her. There's no reason to deny it."  "We know your witch is building an army of automatons. She uses them to abduct people." Non's voice buzzed quietly as he leaned close to Haste. "Impossible." Chuggie waved a dismissive hand. "How much do you know about her?" Non's little neck-hands curled into fists on either side of Haste's head. "Do you know with certainty that you can trust her? Have you seen her ambulatory constructs?" "Amblatery what?" "Walking dummies that do her bidding." Non stood straight. "She's got a handful of scarecrows, if that's what you mean. They can walk around a bit, but she just has 'em carryin' water and gatherin' firewood." Unease spread through Chuggie's guts like a swarm of agitated centipedes. He knew Shola, and he knew Non was lying. Or did he? "Do you think she could have more than a handful?" asked Non. "She has been out there in the wilderness a long time. Is it possible she hides them?" "I don't know." Chuggie's eyes darted around the floor. "I don't think â€"." "The clothes you wear," said Non. "Are they yours, or did she give them to you?" Chuggie closed his eyes and shook his head. "You wear the boots of a dead man," Non laughed Chuggie opened his eyes and looked down at his boots. He felt dizzier than usual. Fey Voletta pressed close to him and batted her lashes over her big, green eyes. "The purse you found north of the city, that was for her, wasn't it? To set her free?" "To set her free so we could leave this place. She ain't plannin' no attack on the city!" Chuggie's mind reeled. Some of it certainly made sense. The clothes, the money. There'd been places she hadn't wanted him to look. But the invisible rope on her neck! He'd seen it himself! Fey Voletta put a hand on his arm. "Sorry, handsome. You've been duped." "I ain't handsome, and I ain't duped," Chuggie snarled, but his voice wavered with doubt. "If she's building an armyâ€Åš I left a kid with her. A boy." "Oh, Chuggie, say you did not!" Non buzzed synthetic laughter. "Like giving a fly to a spider!" "What did you say?" Chuggie thought of the spider tattoo on Shola's hip. "A fly to a spider, Norchug." Non tilted sideways. "Does that mean something to you?" Chuggie threw his arms in the air. "Listen, you metal-skinned shitbird. I was supposed to bring her the purse. Once she was free, we were going to head south. When I was on my way back with the purse, I stumbled on your guy Kale torturin' a little boy in the woods. I saved the boy and went to her. The purse didn't work, so here I am demanding her freedom from you." "Have you looked inside the purse?" Non tilted to the other side. "Not me. I'm no idiot. Fitch did. And a guardsman." Chuggie remembered his pipe and puffed at it furiously. "Ah, yes. And how did that work out for Mr. Fitch?" Non turned his gaze back to Haste. "As you know, they're still scrapin' him up from the rocks beneath that bridge." Fey Voletta spoke quietly in Chuggie's ear, "I hope she hasn't made your little boy look inside yet." "You saved the child from Kale's torturgy and left him with the witch. You saved him from a bad fate and delivered him to a worse one. Didn't you ever consider that perhaps she is free and fooled you into believing she is not?" "No!" Chuggie barked. Fey Voletta smiled in mock-sympathy. "For the boy's sake, I hope he's already dead. These people who are into torturgy? They're a sick lot." "Stay on with us," Non said, "and you can help save this city from the witch. That would be appropriate justice. After all, you're the one who armed her with a powerful weapon." "If what you say is true, then this city made her into a monster. They deserve what she gives them." Chuggie didn't mean that. Most of Stagwater's citizens were innocent. "If you stay on with us, we'd be in your debt, even if you stayed just a short time. Our gift to you is here." Non gestured to Haste. "I gotta get back to her," Chuggie groaned. "Anything you want to do to him?" said Fey Voletta. "We'd help you get some real tasty payback for your dead friend." "You damned vultures. You knew everything from the start." Chuggie growled and kicked over a heavy metal box. "Now I gotta make sure that boy's safe!" He stomped out of the room, gripping the anchor at his chest. "Well, now what?" Fey Voletta's words echoed down the hall as she spoke to Non. "We leave this place as soon as the barge is loaded," the Steel Jack answered. "We are no longer in the service of Stagwater. Pack your things." "Do we still serve the law?" she asked. "Or can I have some fun with Stagwater's rat population?" "Soon, kitten." Chuggie increased his pace as he heard feminine footsteps trotting behind him. "Wait for me, Mr. Grouch," Fey Voletta called out. "Sweet bleedin' hell, how many times do I gotta tell you no?" "Relax," she said. "Non asked me to make sure you find your way out." "Oh." "What don't you like about me?" She giggled as she took his arm. Chuggie sighed. "You're wearing a thin white sheet. You're cute, dangerous an' you act like you got a thing for me. Trust me, there ain't much I don't like about you. But I'm out of commission. Off the market." "Well, you'd better start being nice to me. Much more abuse like this and the wedding's off!" "I'm in no mood," he grumbled. "Oh, shush, grumpy. I'll get you a stupid goat when we get on the street, and you can run on back to your witch. You won't save the kid, though. He's probably already dead." "I can't think like that." Chuggie walked faster. She squeezed his arm. "We're leaving too. I'm probably not supposed to say anything, but it won't matter in a few hours. Besides, who are you going to tell?" He raised an eyebrow. "Leaving? Steel Jacks had enough of Stagwater?" "Magistrates interfered in Steel Jack affairs. To Non, that's some kind of contract breach. I give Stagwater two years of dwindling life before all the people are either dead or gone. Humans need law. Without law, there is no civilization." "Not law. Without beer, there's no civilization," he corrected. "Ha! See? You are in the mood for joking." "What?" he asked. "That's not a joke." "Oh. Well, what about your new dagger?" She bumped him lightly with her hip. "You tell me, you're the blade worshipper." "Can I hold it?" she asked. Chuggie leaned away from her. "No." "Does it have a name?" "The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu, I'm told. I took it off the Gooch up in the Desecration." "Can I at least look at it?" "No," he said. Then, contradicting himself, he drew the dagger and held it up for her to see. As always, blood dribbled down his chin. Fey Voletta's eyes flashed wide and bright looking at the bone blade. He turned it this way and that so she could see it, then slid it back into his belt. Wiping the blood from his mouth, Chuggie said, "Are you happy now?" "I'd be happier if you gave it to me." He pulled his arm from her grip and put some space between them. "Oh, come on now. I'm not going to try and take it from you. It probably wouldn't do anything for me anyway." She grabbed his arm again. "It sounds like it's pretty devastating in your hands, though. I only wish I could spend more time with you and your dagger." "She only loves me for my dagger," Chuggie mused. Fey Voletta laughed. A few moments later, they stepped out on the street. Fey Voletta left him in front of the building while she fetched him a goat. A minute later, she returned pulling a bleating beast. She had flecks of blood on her pristine white robe. Chuggie chose not to ask any questions. He mounted the goat and rode off with a wave. "Until next time, lover man!" Fey Voletta called after him.  ⊠⊠⊠ Arden Voss, being a surly bastard of a man, got no response upon ringing for his nurse. He often called for emergency assistance when he only needed a pillow fluffed or a blanket picked up off the floor. His long history of false alarms made his calls easy for the staff to ignore. But this time, Arden's pillow and blanket weren't the problem. His blood boiled, but his fingers were almost too cold to move. His vision went bright and dark, fuzzy and clear. He moaned and drooled while he tried to get to his feet. His legs turned to rubber. He fell. On his way to the floor, he bounced his head off his reading table, dislocated his knee, and broke his left wrist. He gasped for air as a cold layer of sweat squeezed from his pores. The end had come, and he knew it. He closed his milky eyes and tried to block out the pain. He drew from it, absorbed his own suffering to enter the Pheonal trance one last time. He'd spent so much time there in life; his hope was to live there forever after death. If his body died while his mind walked that path, just maybeâ€Åš. Swirling abstraction plunged his mind into the Pheonal realm. Light poured from above and darkness from below. They met in a swirling sphere of opposite forces. Light and dark, fire and ice, earth and air, love and hate, pleasure and pain, everything and nothing. The sphere grew, churning faster and faster. Tendrils snaked out from it, a thousand faces at their tips. The faces opened their eyes with expressions of terrified confusion. Panic and horror soon followed as the tendrils whipped violently in the void. The darkness grew below the sphere. Arden Voss felt its gaze on his soul. A creature of the dark stretched its oily claws toward the sphere and tore pieces away. With each rip of the claw, the light lost ground. Eyes the color of blood peered at him from the dark, pulling his soul like a magnet. Another claw shot out toward him, snatching his awareness the way an owl snatches a mouse. It peeled his mind like screaming fruit. Back in tangible reality, his body quaked and kicked. Shrieking like the damned, Arden Voss shed his mortal coil alone on the cold floor. His mind, however, lived on in the Pheonal realm â€" the tortured plaything of a dark power â€" a power creeping ever closer to Stagwater. Chapter 22  The sky grew darker and darker as the day faded, and the clouds churned in the growing wind. The air carried a charge of electricity, and the occasional fat raindrop splatted on Chuggie's brow. He lashed the goat to a tree at the edge of Shola's garden and scanned the perimeter. The quiet emptiness of the yard made the hairs on his neck stand up. No sign of Shola or the boy. Three of the witch's scarecrows surrounded him without making a sound. Chuggie drew his dagger. They closed in as a fourth ambled in the direction of the blood maple, no doubt to warn Shola of Chuggie's presence. "It can't be true," said Chuggie, but he didn't believe his own words. In a flash, the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu tore into the advancing scarecrows. He ripped figure eights that carved the wooden men into thirds. Then he dashed after the fourth scarecrow. He tackled it and pinned it to the ground. It bucked and clawed, even after Chuggie tore its arms off. The dagger let him see that the scarecrow had the same black sparklers he'd seen surrounding Shola. A frenzy of clacking and thumping erupted from around the bend. Mixed in with the ruckus, a rasping voice growled in a language he couldn't understand. A pair of pumpkin-headed scarecrows leapt from the shadows. These weren't the same ones that did Shola's chores, however. These were thicker, sturdier, and taller. Their proportions were closer to a Steel Jack's than a man's. They sprung at him, but Chuggie rolled below their meat hook hands. In a single fluid motion, he thrust the bone dagger and cleaved the closest one in half. The other scarecrow kicked at his head. Chuggie grabbed what passed for the thing's foot, and yanked the scarecrow off balance. The wooden automaton landed on its back, flailing. Immediately, it began scrambling to its feet. Chuggie chopped off its arms, then its legs. He sidestepped the jerking remains. A bonfire danced at the center of the clearing, surrounded by a ring of torches. The fire illuminated an entire army of the heavy scarecrows. Chuggie felt like he just stepped into a pool of quicksand. Hundreds of the savage-looking scarecrows all stomped their feet in eerie unison. Their arms waved about, knocking against each other. Most disturbing of all, each wore human clothing. If Non was right, these clothes were taken from the witch's torturgy victims. The garments had been stretched or torn to fit in any way they could. Some of the scarecrows wore tiny pants or little dresses, children's clothes, around their necks. Shola fluttered her arms in front of a raging fire. She was no longer youthful and lithe. She wore the same clothes as when he'd left her, but they hung off her withered body revealing the scaly and wrinkled flesh beneath. Torchlight flickered off her face as she croaked her ancient chants. Olin heaved heart-rending sobs. Pinned up to the blood maple, he hung much the same way he did when Chuggie first found him with Kale. This time, however, there were no ropes or chains. Four dead-eyed scarecrows held Olin's arms and feet. They took turns pulling him in different directions. Shola screamed torturgy magic in her hoarse witch's voice, waving the goat-face purse about as she did. Even to someone who didn't understand her words, her hatred was unmistakable. Chuggie saw all he needed to see. He broke from a jog into a sprint and streaked past the scarecrows. Shola turned as he approached. He dove through the air and slammed into her. They rolled together in a lopsided wrasslin' match. Using his own patented wrasslin' holds, Chuggie twisted around and got behind her, getting to his feet but keeping her on her knees. One hand clutched a thick knot of her hair. The other held the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu to her neck. "Tell 'em to back off," Chuggie snarled in her ear. With a wave of her hand, Shola commanded her scarecrows to back away. "Have 'em let the kid down, too. Nice an' easy, or I feed you your tits." Shola gestured at the scarecrows holding the boy. They dropped him roughly and lurched off to join the others. Olin curled up into a ball and trembled beneath the tree. "I thought for sure they'd have arrested you," she croaked. "What have you done?" As he rasped in her ear, it was all he could do not to bite it off. She gave a coughing chuckle. "All is pre-ordained." "No, we choose." "Even you murdered a man," Shola chortled. The sound was old and rancid. It crawled into Chuggie's ear and curled up like a maggot. "You have no choice when the evil enters you. How else can you explain it?" "Guess I can't, but that don't mean I didn't have a choice. Now make your guys lie down." He pressed the blade against Shola's neck hard enough to draw a trickle of blood. Shola raised her hands, and all the scarecrows dropped to the ground. "Stagwater is a cesspool," she said. "If the gods won't destroy it, I have to take matters into my own hands." Chuggie pulled Shola to her feet by her hair. "So you wanna play at bein' a god. Sure wish you'd told me that in the beginning." "Spare me your puppy love!" hissed the witch. "How can you be so old and so naÃÅ»ve at the same time?" "Maybe I am old." He yanked her over to where Olin huddled beneath the tree. "Maybe I'm naÃÅ»ve, too. I'm also lightning fast, deadly as drakana, and madder than the Hell of Screaming Teeth." She cackled. "You won't kill me in cold blood." "Why not?" He wrenched her face to point up at his. The blue eye he'd loved so much was replaced by a rheumy impostor. "Because you love me," pleaded the voice of young Shola. The sound of her youthful voice hit him like a three-ton hammer. It was all for her. What a puppet he'd been! He'd wanted it all to be true, so much so that he blinded his own damn self. He was Drought! How could he expect to hold anything close and have it live? "I loved you!" he hollered in the rising wind. "We were going to leave this place and take Olin with us. Instead, you're torturin' him?" "My power is growing." Her youthful voice tore through him. That voice clawed at his heart like a raven tearing at an eagle's nest. "Stagwater burns tonight. You can't stop it. Nobody can." "Never fuggin' loved me," he spat. "You're pathetic," she said. "Love is a whorehouse. It's a sick lie and a sad curse, shat down upon the world by laughing gods." "Olin!" Chuggie put the witch on her knees again. "Are you okay, little man? I need you to get up. We have to leave, boss!" The boy made no response.  Shola's old crone voice returned. "Olukhia sagosmet thungrol gothraga!" Olin yelped and flopped on the ground. "What did you just do?" Chuggie yanked her hair back, exposing more of her throat. "Your young friend there now believes you're going to kill him!" Her laugh bubbled out of her, more a cough than a chuckle. Chuggie drew a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and smashed his anchor across the back of her head. He swore he felt her skull crack. She gave a bird-like squawk and thudded to the ground. He raised up the anchor, ready to bring it down on her brow to make certain she'd passed on. But he caught a hint of her autumn flower smell and couldn't drop the blow. He saw her in his mind, dancing naked under the autumn sun as red and gold leaves fluttered down around her. Only the wind and the crackling fire disturbed the silence of the night. The scarecrows remained as still as the witch, but Chuggie kept a wary eye on them as he rushed to Olin and gathered him up in his arms. "Say somethin', boss!" Chuggie shook the boy, but he got no response. "We're gettin' you outta here, kiddo." Chuggie, with Olin in his arms, rushed away from the witch and her horde. If he could get back to his goat, he could get Olin to safety. He didn't get far before he heard Shola groaning behind him. He should've killed her. He'd hoped she'd be unconscious until well after they'd made their escape. "Kill them!" Shola's lunatic voice rang out again at full force. Dashing through the dark, Chuggie felt Olin squirming against his chest. "No," the boy screamed. "It's alright. It's me, Chuggie." "Noooo!" shouted Olin. "What's the matter with you, kid? I'm tryin' to get you out of here." "Youâ€Åš," said Olin. "You brung me here. You brung me to this place." "I didn't know, I swear," said Chuggie, struggling to keep hold of the boy. Olin's response was only to scream and try even harder to kick free. With dagger-sight, Chuggie perceived Olin's heart beating heavy and fast. The boy's mouth foamed, and his eyes rolled around like a wounded warhorse. He breathed short, rapid breaths, each a desperate gasp. Olin was in shock, and Chuggie could offer no comfort. Chuggie understood that if he held onto Olin much longer, the boy would likely die in his arms. He might swallow his tongue or hyperventilate. His heart could simply give out. In any case, Chuggie had to let him go. He let the boy stand on his own and took a step back. It pained him greatly to do so, but he told Olin, "Run!" Olin took a nervous step backward. A flurry of leaves swirled around him. Chuggie pointed south, saying, "Run that way, and don't look back! You understand me? You have to get away from here!" Olin took three more backward steps. He pulled his old torturgy mask from inside his jacket and clutched it to his chest. "Run, damn you!" Chuggie hollered, stomping a foot at the boy. Olin jumped at the scolding, turned, and dashed off into the dark. As he ran, he pulled the mask over his head once more. Chuggie fell to his knees. Tears streamed down his face, joining the blood trickling from his mouth. Rage and despair bubbled in his guts like lava. The scarecrows stampeded toward him, driven by the furious shrieks of the witch. Chuggie readied his anchor, swinging it overhead in broad circles. One scarecrow raced past him, hot on Olin's trail. Chuggie blasted it in the back with the anchor, and it exploded into splinters. Another tackled him, but Chuggie rolled through the attack. He chopped it to pieces and swung the anchor through two others. The scarecrow mob seemed to forget about Olin as they chased Chuggie through Shola's garden. The goat, still tied where he left it, panicked at the sight of the oncoming horde. It bucked and jerked against its harness, kicking at the air. Shola's unintelligible wails cut through the howl of the wind. Chuggie ran to the goat. It struck out at his head with its front hooves and tried to ram him. He caught it by a horn and held tight, but it yanked away, nearly pulling his shoulder out of the socket. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu fell to the dirt. As the goat tugged him this way and that, the old drunkenness spilled into his mind. The goat tossed him, and he toppled hard to the ground. He tried to shake away the dizziness while his eyes fought to focus. He saw the whitish blur of his dagger and lunged for it. No sooner did he get a hand on it, than a team of scarecrows piled on his back. Their hands of sticks and straw clawed at him. Some used their plank arms to batter him. He pushed and shoved them away even as he strained to draw what moisture they possessed. They tore gashes in his chest and ripped his clothes as bits of pumpkin and gourd mashed into his face. They weren't living thingsâ€Åš maybe they didn't have enough water to make a difference. Before he finished the thought, he noticed the mob on him had grown lighter. He snapped off an arm, then a leg. They grew lighter and more brittle, until the whole bunch of them crumbled on top of Chuggie. He grunted and rolled to his feet. Shola cackled as she rode into the yard on a strange and twisted scarecrow. Instead of a head, it had a seat. Its legs were reinforced, and its arms were long enough to reach the ground. On either side of her, scarecrows of the more traditional variety carried torches. "Now you!" Chuggie He held his hands out toward Shola and pulled at her moisture with all his might. She laughed. "Oh, my dear drunk idiot, you can't harm me. Now come and look inside my purse!" As she opened the purse and pointed it at him, Chuggie pulled harder. She remained unaffected. "That won't work on me, darling. Not anymore. I am protected from you." He saw it then, a webwork of invisible energy wrapping around her and spreading over her scarecrows. He sensed something of himself in the web. A deep moan escaped from him as he realized what it was: somehow, the witch had transformed his love for her into a barrier against him. Had the goat-face purse helped make that possible? She continued pointing the open purse at him. "I'm going to Stagwater, Chuggie. If you don't join me now, you die here." The torch light flickered across her wrinkled, skeletal face. Her eyes glinted madly as they reflected the light of the flames. "Come on, goat. It's time to go back to town." Chuggie turned toward his goat. The goat wouldn't be making the journey back to Stagwater. During his wrestling match, he hadn't only sucked the scarecrows dry. The goat had mummified. Its lips had pulled back, leaving a twisted goat-smile beneath nearly empty sockets. Its skin stretched tight over its ribs, splitting in places. Shola crowed hoarse laughter as Chuggie kicked the goat to pieces. He weighed his options and decided he had four. He could stand there and let the witch kill him. While that relieved him of responsibility, death held no appeal, and there'd be no one to warn the city. He could stand and try to fight her entire army with the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu and his boat anchor. That scenario seemed closely related to the first, and it would probably end the same way. He could fight his way through them and go after Olin. But being near Chuggie would kill Olin faster than the wilderness would. Leaving the boy alone gave him the best chance of survival. The fourth and best option was to get to Stagwater before she did. The Steel Jacks and city guard could repel her attack. Innocents could be saved. They had to be warned. Chuggie looped the chain around his chest and picked up the goat's dried head. The scarecrows formed an ever-growing crescent around him as Shola clapped her hands with glee. She hooted, rocking back and forth atop her creation. He held up the goat head like an offering. "You ever see those guys who wear animal skulls like helmets? Never made any sense to me. If you try to make one o' your own you find out there's all kinds o' pointy bone projections inside, an' the brainpan ain't shaped at all like a man's head. By the time you get it whittled down so it'll fit, it's too thin to give any protection." Chuggie narrowed his eyes at Shola. "If only I had time to nail you to my tree. I can only imagine what your torturgy would unlock!" Shola screeched. "Lucky for you, I have an appointment in town. Midnight has power!" "Then I'll see you there, you mother of whores!" Chuggie heaved the goat head at her. He didn't expect the projectile to pass through her web of protection, but it did. The skull smashed into her with the force of a puff cannon pellet. Her arm shattered with the impact, and she fell to the ground screaming. Chuggie spun and raced north, fast and alert thanks to his dagger. "Open the cave! Gather your brothers! Bring all of my children!" Shola's shrieks filled the night. Wind wailed through the trees as the downpour began. Flashes of lightning occasionally lit Chuggie's way, but he needed no light. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu showed him all he needed to see. Thunder boomed like whole damn sky was collapsing.  ⊠⊠⊠ Fey Voletta sat on top of a cabinet in the Steel Jacks' workshop, hidden among the shadows. "Please, relax, Mr. Haste. We have no intention of killing you. Now stop struggling. You're going to damage yourself." Non loomed over Haste, as did several other Steel Jacks. Haste wheezed and snorted like a hog. He coughed violently as a Steel Jack removed his gag. "This is illegal!" he shouted. "I command you to stand down and release me!" Non leaned down close. "You have no authority over us. Law does not exist in Stagwater. We Steel Jacks are leaving." Haste's voice cracked, "Then leave! We don't need you. We never did!" "I am afraid that is not true. There are forces that wish to attack this city. We could have protected the people here, and we tried to do so. Norchug Mot Losiat, the man you tried to have killed, is a powerful creature indeed. We sought to enlist him with the Steel Jacks. With his help, protecting Stagwater would have been easy. You and your people interfered, however, and now our man is gone." Non scraped a metal finger on the anvil next to Haste's ear. Haste winced. "You should have told us what you knew!" Haste quivered as if fear and anger overwhelmed him. "Made us aware of your plans." "No!" Non boomed. "You have known all, yet you chose to seek greater power. You never acted in service to this city." "It's Kale, isn't it?" said Haste. "He's been plotting against me for years, but I've known all along. Tell your new master Kale that â€"." "Kale is dead," Non said. "Killed in the forest by Mr. Mot Losiat. I assure you, no one is pulling Steel Jack strings in Stagwater." "My conjury protects Stagwater!" Haste shrieked. "My influence keeps this city from chaos! Without me, Stagwater will be a helpless child in the wilderness!" Non forced the gag into Haste's mouth once more. Haste resumed squirming and squealing. "I am not sure how much you really know of the Steel Jacks," said Non. His buzzing voice took a friendly tone. "You see, we have advanced technological knowledge. Sometimes we share that knowledge with mankind. Among our abilities is flesh-craft. The torturgy you use stems from our flesh-crafting techniques. But you humans are so backward. You find one way to use a tool, and you assume that is the only way that tool may be used. It is amusing and sad at the same time." The Steel Jacks surrounded Haste in a tight circle. The lights went down, leaving only the glow of Steel Jack eyes. Fey Voletta leapt silently to the floor and crept over to get a better view. Non's eyes flickered brighter as he spoke. "Tonight you'll receive an advanced tutorial in Steel Jack flesh-craft. I hope the honor is not lost on you." Haste's pig noises reached a comical crescendo. "Oh, do not fear. You will be very much alive when we are through. You will be alive and free to live out the rest of your life however you see fit." The Steel Jacks began their frenzied surgery upon Haste in near silence. His wheezing and grunting was punctuated by the sound of metal tools clinking against porcelain. The smell of human waste and blood filled the room as the light of Steel Jack eyes shone down on Haste's quaking flesh. Fey Voletta covered her nose with her robe as she watched in giddy delight.  ⊠⊠⊠ The creature that had been Dawes trudged through the darkness, a willing scout for his dark god. His re-creator had made him into a creature of grotesque beauty, and he had no more use for a name. Desecrated was the only name he needed. The little ones scurried about him as he pushed through the branches and brambles. Their devotion to the Gooch deserved bloody rewards. The man-city wasn't far now. A few short miles. All that waiting flesh. With a choked whisper, he spoke his prayer, "In death, I serve the Gooch."  ⊠⊠⊠ Midway through Haste's time on the table, Fey Voletta grew bored. "Non?" she asked. "Do you need me down here?" The leader of the Steel Jacks issued a vibratory chuckle. "Do you have other business to attend to?" "I don't knowâ€Åš" she smiled a coy smile. "Perhaps." "Please, kitten, do not let us keep you from your rats." Non shooed her away like a child. "We will summon you when we are ready for departure." Her heart sang as she bounded off. She felt free and joyous, lighter than air. When she stepped out onto the street, she felt like singing. Even the chill wind could have been summer's own breath as it whipped her robe around. There were barely any people on the street to share her joy, so she skipped her way to a nearby neighborhood. She needed an entire family, any family, with whom to celebrate. She approached a house with the name "Stagson" painted on the weathered wooden gate. What better place to begin the celebration of her departure from Stagwater? A man sat at a table in the dining room. As she snuck up onto the stoop, she saw two child-sized chairs. This was definitely the place. Fey Voletta entered, leaving the door open. The raging wind slammed it against the wall. She hid behind a cabinet as the man of the house jumped from his seat. He rushed to the door. "Hello?" he called as he poked his head out the door. "What was that?" called a woman, presumably his wife. "Wind blew the door open." The man pulled his head back in. He locked the door, and tested that it wouldn't blow open again. He took his seat in the dining room once more and resumed reading his paper. Fey Voletta tiptoed up behind him. She slid a long knife from her robe without making a sound. She had the knife in his side and a hand on his mouth before he knew she was there. "Shhhh," Fey Voletta, whispered with a gentle voice. The blade in the man's side was significantly less gentle. As he gasped futilely for air, she continued, "I've stabbed through your liver, up into your lung. I cut through your diaphragm, which is why you're having trouble breathing. I'm sure this is very painful, but I don't want you to make any noise, okay? If you do, I'll do the same thing to the rest of your family, got it?" He twisted his head to look at Fey Voletta. His eyes were wide with shock and disbelief. "Are you alright in there?" the man's wife called out. Her footsteps grew closer. Fey Voletta twisted the knife, and the man wailed. His wife's footsteps broke into a run. "Oh, well," said Fey Voletta, smiling an icy smile. She leaned down and whispered in his ear, "I was going to kill them anyway." She made short work of the wife and debated leaving the children. Was there anything sadder than an orphan? She stabbed her mercy into the two young sons, sparing them the orphan's life. Fey Voletta wiped the Stagmans' blood on a curtain and left the house whistling a happy song. Four was a good start. She wondered if she could get to fifty before Non called her back. Back on the street, she heard the music and laughter of a nearby tavern. She followed the sound down an alley, dancing as she went. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so free, so empoweredâ€Åš so lustful. Death was a love song, a seduction scene between herself and the blades she revered. She heard young, male voices. "Hey!" she called from the shadows. A young man walking with two others heard her and stopped. "Hello? Are you talking to me?" "Of course I am," she giggled. "Come here and help me lift this thing. You look strong enough." The young man shrugged at his friends and walked into the alleyway. "Uh, so what do you need help lifting, miss?" he asked. "My dress," she moaned in his ear. Then to his pals she called, "You boys can run along. I don't think this one's gonna need any help from you two." The friends on the street laughed and clapped each other on the back. "Hurry up, Raph!" one of them said. "You're buying tonight." Their laughter disappeared as they entered the tavern. Fey Voletta planted slow, breathy kisses on his neck until she felt sure they were alone. "Do you know what I want to do to you?" she whispered in his ear, inspiring a shiver. "I have no idea," he answered. She looked into his eyes, bit her lip and giggled. "I want to fucking murder you." Her arm shot out, and a flashing blade slashed across his jugular. The dopey grin stayed on his face for a moment, then turned to disbelief. His hands went to his neck as he gurgled. Fey Voletta pushed him up against the wall and kissed his lips. She sliced open his stomach with another flash of her blade. As he looked down at his wounded abdomen, she reached inside with both hands. She pulled his guts out and threw them at his feet. After he flopped onto his face, she wiped her arms on the back of his jacket. This fellow made five. That wouldn't do. She decided to pick up the pace. Chapter 23  The Darkness Walks. The flame goes out and midnight stalks. Shadows grow and bear dark fruit. Dark new seeds grow strong in root. The traveler can save not one. The darkness brought can't be undone. Leaders have all failed the herd. All is lost in the unknown word.  Rorid sat in the dark, looking out at the building storm. An occasional spattering of rain blew against the window. A shadow moved up his walkway. Rorid jumped up and grabbed the short-sword he kept with the umbrellas. Footsteps thumped across the porch. He flung the door open, ready to kill. "What the hell are you doing?" asked a very startled Priole, his hand suspended, about to knock on the door. "Ah, hell," Rorid said as he lowered his weapon. "It's only you." Priole followed Rorid into the kitchen. "I thought you should know," Priole said, "The Steel Jacks are leaving." "What?" "People say they saw Steel Jacks coming out of the Municipal Building late last night with Haste in custody." Rorid threw his hands up. "So who's in charge now? Kale?" "Nobody's seen Kale since yesterday afternoon, just before Fitch went off the bridge." Rorid shuddered at the memory of Fitch's demise, opened a cupboard, and pulled down a bottle of whiskey. "Fitch kills himself. Haste is arrested. The Steel Jacks are leaving. Nobody can find Kale." He took a pull and passed it to the younger man. "Tell me, what else don't I know?" "Well," said Priole, "none of the other magistrates will come out of their houses. Kale's little helpers, Dan Diori and Jaron Haskall, are calling people into the city square. It's like they're trying to start a riot or something." "Where are the guardsmen?" "All on duty guardsmen are in the square. What are we going to do?" Priole took a swig from the bottle, grimaced, and passed it back. Rorid didn't have an answer. So many things were changing, but change wasn't always for the better. "Run home and tell your wife to pack a travel bag, just in case. I'll have Drexel do the same. If things go bad tonight, we'll steal a boat and follow the Steel Jacks downstream. Meet me at the square in ten minutes." Priole grabbed the bottle from Rorid's hand and took another gulp. He handed it back, saluted, and ran out into the night. Rorid pulled on his guardsman uniform and buckled on his weapons. "Drexel!" he called. "I need you to wake up, son!"  ⊠⊠⊠ Priole waited for Rorid in the square with a shockspear in each hand. Sure enough, the Steel Jacks were busy moving loads of equipment from their headquarters onto a big black barge waiting in the river. And, just as Priole said, Dan Diori and Jaron Haskall were stirring up a crowd. They stood on a dais near the Municipal Building, shouting about conspiracies and treason. "Somebody should stop those idiots." Priole spun the shockspears around his head in a quick, precise arc. "Confronting them could make things worse." Rorid eyed a posse of guardsmen on the dais next to Jaron and Dan. It looked like they'd managed to get themselves some bodyguards. "Why are there so many people out in this storm, anyway?" Priole handed a shockspear to Rorid. From the riverside, the barge's horn boomed, rattling windows all around the square. "Fey Voletta, you are needed at the dock," Non, the leader of the Steel Jacks, spoke through the barge's public address system. People standing close to the speaker clapped hands over their ears. In the distance, dogs howled. Rorid and Priole rushed into the crowd. The citizens looked like frightened children lost in the woods. Not far away, another crowd grew â€" a mob of angry thugs. Shouts and taunts rose up from the horde. "What's the plan, sir?" Priole asked. "We're going to keep an eye on this here." Rorid gestured to the ever-growing crowd. "Things turn ugly, and we're on the next boat down river." Fey Voletta, covered in blood, trotted from the shadows and through the square. She seemed thoroughly happy, and her laughter trailed along behind her. Rorid watched her scampered down to the docks and into the Steel Jacks' gargantuan riverboat. "Now, what do you suppose that's all about?" Rorid asked with a weary frown. Priole shrugged. Together Rorid and Priole elbowed their way through the crowd. "Go to your homes, people!" Rorid called out. "Guardsmen keep the peace in Stagwater!" "Move along!" Priole yelled. No one paid them any mind. The crowd, still growing, crushed toward the little stage. The throng of people buffeted and jostled Rorid and Priole in their rush to get close to the action. Rorid raised his hand and signaled for Priole to join him outside the churning mass of people. They squared their shoulders and pushed themselves into the clear. "Look around, dammit!" Dan Diori shouted from the stage. "They're abandoning us! The creatures Haste and Kale and Fitch said we should trust. They're gone! It's time we people took this city back!" Cheers rose up from the crowd. A bottle flew through the air and smashed through a shop window. "Take the city back!" Someone yelled. Priole's face didn't show any signs of his customary confidence. "This is going to be tough to control." "No," Rorid corrected. "This is going to be impossible to control. Especially when these guys have guardsmen on their side. Remember this all very well, Priole." Rorid rubbed a hand over his face and gave a short nod. "This might be your last night in Stagwater."  ⊠⊠⊠ "Thanks for waiting for me, Non." Fey Voletta walked to the end of the dock. "But you could have given me another ten minutes." "The time to depart is now," Non buzzed. "I only got up to thirty-six." Fey Voletta stuck out her lip in a pout. "Thirty-six is an impressive number," said Non. "For a human." "I'd hoped for fifty, at least." "Do not be hard on yourself, kitten. You did not have much time." Non stepped onto the barge and disappeared below decks. Fey Voletta climbed to the upper platform and stared out at the city. She tried to think of one thing about Stagwater that she'd miss, but couldn't. The boat vibrated as it started to move. She scanned the riverside for Chuggie. So many lives, so few of them taken. Fey Voletta sighed at the thought of all her missed opportunities, but a sudden spray of river water drenched her and jolted her out of her reverie. The barge passed a man standing at the end of a dock. He waved his fists and shouted words Fey Voletta couldn't hear. With a grin, she flung a glinting, spinning blade at him. It curved through the air and embedded itself in his stomach. Screaming, he tripped and fell into the dark, rushing water. As she entered the cabin, Non asked, "Missing Stagwater already?" "Just saying my final farewell," she said. "Thirty-seven." Engines thundered to full power, and the barge sped downriver.  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie heard the Steel Jack barge depart, but he mistook it for factory noise. Bursting through the southern gate at full speed, he was surprised to find it completely unmanned. He didn't dwell upon it, however. His thoughts alternated between his would-be son Olin alone in the woods and the mad witch marching her army to Stagwater. He could almost feel her scarecrows clawing at his heels. He flew by the factories and slaughterhouses, then down an alley into Carnietown. "The city is under attack! Arm yourselves!" he yelled at everyone he saw. "Damn you, arm yourselves!" No one ran for their weapons. Instead, they ran into their houses and locked their doors. The poor flies just wanted to close their eyes and wait for the spider. Running through town, covered in blood and screaming about an army of invading scarecrows, maybe wasn't the best plan he'd ever come up with. He sounded like a madman, but these folks had to listen. He had to make 'em listen, or they were goners. Every last one. On he ran, winding through Carnietown as he made his way to the city square. He raced past the crowd gathered in front of the Municipal Building as he made a beeline for the Steel Jacks' headquarters. Three stone-faced guardsmen manned the entrance to the Steel Jack building. They brandished hookswords, one in each hand. As Chuggie approached, they fanned apart and held their weapons ready to attack. "No need for them swords, boys." Chuggie put his hands up. "I need to see the Steel Jacks." None of the guardsman relaxed. One pointed his hooksword straight at Chuggie's face. "Steel Jacks are gone. Left town for good," a guard with an eye patch said. His good eye looked like it might be worried about this situation. The ranking officer stepped toward Chuggie. "You're the fellow who killed Fitch!" "Sorry to waste your time, boys." Chuggie tipped an imaginary hat. "I'll just be on my way." He backed down the steps. The guard with the tip of his sword pointed at Chuggie turned to his companion. Eye patch shrugged. The face pointer lowered his sword. Chuggie decided now was the time to spread his warning to the crowd. He hurried over to them and pushed his way in. People drew back and stared as Chuggie plowed through. Their buzz of alarm rippled through the crowd.  "Now hear this!" Chuggie shoved and elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. "The witch is attacking at midnight! She has an army of scarecrows and the goat-face purse!" "He's a madman! He murdered Fitch!" a man in the crowd yelled. "Steel Jacks left because of him!" shouted another. "He kidnapped Haste!" Chuggie had no idea he was so famous in Stagwater. "Listen, damn you! She's coming to kill you all! Arm yourselves!" He yelled as loud as he could. Chuggie forced his way to the microphone stand and pulled it down from the stage. As he put the mic up to his mouth, his eyes fell on two familiar faces. "Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt?" His words echoed through the square. "What're you two doin' up there?" Dan bent down and snatched the microphone back. "This man! This blood-soaked son of a bitch, right here. He's the one who caused our problems! He killed Magistrate Fitch. Magistrates Kale and Haste are missing. The Steel Jacks up and left us. All this happened since this man got here!" "You better start listenin' to me, boy. Your city is about to get attacked!" "And don't forget, this crazy man destroyed the north and south gates!" Dan stared into Chuggie's eyes as if throwing out a challenge. "You're in trouble now, Stinkface. I'll â€"." Chuggie lost his train of thought when a trio of guardsmen seized him from behind. As they wrestled him onto the platform, one yanked the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu from his hand. Exhaustion and intoxication plowed into him. The Big Thirst returned. Chuggie could barely think over its call. How easy it'd be to open up and tear the moisture from this crowd. He'd done it before, and he'd probably do it again. Why not now? "You're already dead!" he slurred. "I should jus' kill you all an' be done with it." They'd refused to hear his warnings, and the witch would likely slaughter every last one of them. She'd kill him, too, unless he found the strength to defend himself. If he drank, at least then he'd have a chanceâ€Åš. Two guardsmen held Chuggie's arms behind his back. The third flung a rope over the goose-necked streetlight that shone down on the platform. He pulled it to test its strength, then wrangled the noose around Chuggie's neck. The guardsman who'd confiscated the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu clutched his stomach and fell to his knees. He dropped the dagger between his feet and retched. Dan cast a perplexed look at the puker and yelled into the microphone. "People of Stagwater! A few days ago this man was spying on our town from the hilltop west of the city. The guardsmen in charge didn't arrest him as they should have. They only sent him off into the wilderness. Who knows what he did out there?" Dan flung his arms wide, as if embracing the crowd. It looked like the little stinkfaced shit was starting to enjoy himself. "Since this man got here, all kind of trouble came to our town. How much more of this shit are we gonna take? We gotta stop his attacks on our city!" His eyes darted around the crowd. Chuggie could see the wheels turning in Dan's head. The kid was playing chess with the crowd, moving them like game pieces. Every word that came from his mouth was crafted to play on their fears. Goddamn Stinkface wanted to control them all! "There's a wolf comin' to this butcher shop." Chuggie yanked an arm free and clawed at the noose around his neck. "You're all jus' meat hangin' on the wall!"  "All right." Dan grinned out at the crowd. "Let's hear what Stagwater's number one enemy has to say for himself." The crowd roared its approval. Stinkface held the microphone close to Chuggie's bloody mouth. "Well? Speak up, dead man." Jaron's long, black hair blew over his stupid, smirking face. "I came here to save you all!" Chuggie choked out the words as the guardsman grasped his arm again and tightened the noose. "You don't want my help, s'up to you, but don't you listen to this bastard for one second." The crowd hissed and booed and shouted at the guardsmen to get on with the hanging. "You don't want to be saved? She can slaughter you all, then. I'll drink your blood from the streets and fight her myself!" Even to his own ears, those words sounded crazy, but he couldn't stop them from pouring out. "You in the black coat. You'll bleed out in that doorway over there." Chuggie tipped his chin toward the door of a nearby shop. "You, in the red hat. Your neck is going to be torn open by a scarecrow with a painted gourd for a head. Some of you will be ripped to pieces. Some of you will burn alive. The lucky ones will die quick, but there'll be goddamn few of those." "I think we've heard enough," Dan laughed. Jaron slapped Dan on the back like he was congratulating him on winning a prizefight. As if the slap was a signal, a gust of wind whipped through the square. "Sound some alarms! Defend the fuggin' gates!" Chuggie barked. He did a double take as another mob filed into the square from the south. Their dirty carnival-tent coats told him all he needed to know: the Carnies had arrived. Chuggie couldn't make out what their leader shouted, but it didn't sound happy. Without the Steel Jacks on hand, looked like the Carnies were ready to rise up. The two crowds collided in the middle of the square. Even Dan had nothing to say. His mouth hung open. The mobs surged into each other. People shoved and shouted. Fists flew. Bodies slammed into each other. The screams of the battling masses grew louder as if fueled by the rising wind. Overhead, a crack of thunder signaled the clouds to release the rain. Cold water poured from the heavens. "Lemme down, you cock-faced pigs!" Chuggie flailed and fought as the guardsmen tried to hoist him up. The wet rope slipped through their hands. "She's coming, damn you!" Chuggie shouted as loud as he could, but the noise of the crowd and the storm swallowed up his voice. He absorbed rain through his pores. Strength seeped into his body, drop by drop. "Quiet, dead man," a guardsman shouted. The guards tried to hoist Chuggie again. An explosion ripped through Stagwater. The ground shook, throwing people down on the cobblestone. The streetlights sputtered out. "The methane plant!" A woman shrieked. Her voice was swallowed up by another blast. Orange flames and impenetrable black smoke rose into the sky. The guardsmen jumped down from the dais. Dan grabbed Chuggie by the throat. "Did you do this? Did you bomb the fucking methane plant?" "Stinkface, I have told yer ass about as many ways as I can think of. I am not attacking Stagwater. The witch is, an' she has an army with her. Now think about those words, an' think about what they mean when you run 'em all together in a pile." Chuggie went to blow smoke in Dan's face, then remembered he wasn't smoking. Jaron picked up the bone dagger at his feet and stabbed it in Chuggie's direction. Chuggie turned so the blade glanced off his chain. He grabbed Jaron's wrist and squeezed. With his other hand, he grabbed a fistful of Jaron's stomach flesh. "Not a good idea, Mutt." Jaron didn't have time to scream as the moisture left his body. Even the rain couldn't save him from his dry demise. Chuggie bent down and retrieved the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu from Jaron's shriveled hand, then snapped his head around to Dan, who leapt back out of arm's reach. The drunkenness melted away once more. Chuggie's desire to drink large quantities subsided. His mind raced, processing many thoughts at the same time. The invisible geometry returned, and so did the blood that poured from his mouth. He welcomed its iron taste. Another explosion racked the city, and a towering trio of smokestacks crumbled. Billows of dust and debris rose up from the wreckage. Lightning flashed, illuminating terrified screaming faces. "You killed him!" Dan wailed. "Murderer!" He kept his eyes on his mummified friend. "He tried to kill me, so I stopped him." Chuggie kept one eye on the young man as he readjusted his chain and anchor. "You remember that." Dan bounded off the dais and vanished into the stampeding crowd. Three guardsmen took fighting stances around Chuggie. In light of Jaron's demise, however, none were willing to attack first. "For the love o' hell, quit worryin' over Chuggie! You got a fight on your hands, but it ain't with me." A new breed of terrified screams filled the square as Shola's scarecrows poured in. Citizens kicked and screamed as the scarecrows dove on top of them. They fought with umbrellas and sticks and rocks. The scarecrows piled on them and tore them apart. Wind, rain, thunder, screams, explosions â€" Stagwater shook with the sounds of chaos. Chuggie shoved past the indecisive guardsmen and rushed headlong into the scarecrows.  ⊠⊠⊠ As the city erupted in chaos, Rorid and Priole fled the square. Rorid had seen quite enough to know this was the time to leave. After all, if an invasion of animated scarecrows wasn't a sign to walk away, what was? He did his very best not to think about the actual likelihood of escape. It must have taken powerful conjury indeed to give life to all those scarecrows. Meeting their master was not something that interested him. "I'm getting my son and getting on a boat," Rorid said as they ran. "I'm advising you to get your wife and meet me at my house. Bring any weapons you can carry. Hurry!" Priole sprinted off to his house at double Rorid's top speed. The young man truly had amazing physical gifts. Rorid burst into his house. "Move, move, move! Let's go, Drexel. It's time for a boat ride." "What are you yelling about?" Drexel called out in a sleepy voice. "I'm yelling about get your ass up! We're leaving now, boy." Rorid slung his duffle over his shoulder. Drexel trotted out from his room, rubbing his eyes and dragging a bulging bag. "What's in that?" Rorid grabbed the bag. "Just what I need to survive, like you said." Rorid yanked open the bag. "Books? Damn it all, boy, I meant clothes, boots, and food!" Drexel looked wounded. "I guess I misunderstood." Rorid set the bag down and started pitching books out. He yanked Drexel's heavy winter coat off the rack and stuffed it inside. Drexel picked up his journal, along with his favorite novel. "Can I have these two?" he asked sheepishly. Rorid grabbed them and shoved them into the bag with little concern for their well-being. They jammed their arms in their raincoats and ran to the door as Priole and his wife Ree came splashing up the street. The four of them charged into the downpour.  ⊠⊠⊠ In the square, wind blew debris off the rooftops. The rain gave no hint of letting up, but also did little to extinguish burning buildings. Anchor in one hand and dagger in the other, Chuggie fought the scarecrow horde. Stagwater's guardsmen joined the fight. They jabbed and slashed and bludgeoned until they pushed the scarecrow line back out of the square. Smashed pumpkin heads littered the street. Pieces of ruined scarecrows lay in defeated heaps. "We've got them now!" someone shouted. Chuggie spat blood at the idiotic bravado, bashing his anchor through two of the witch's soldiers. It was then he heard a familiar voice shriek, "Kill them all!" The witch emerged from the stormy darkness, driving several dozen of her monstrous warriors before her. Shola rode atop a spider fashioned from more scarecrows. She waved the goat-face purse over her head as she crowed her orders. "Retreat!" Chuggie shouted. The other fighters gave no hint that they'd heard him. Several had yet to look up and see the witch with her honor guard. Chuggie knew he needed to fall back. The street was simply too narrow and crowded for his anchor to be effective. He was as likely to bash it through human heads as scarecrows.' "Get back to the square!" he barked. Only a handful joined his retreat. Shola's scarecrows flooded the street, scaled the buildings, and swarmed over the fighters. The witch charged on her spider, cackling madly. She burst into the square as twin explosions rocked buildings behind her. "Get the spider!" Chuggie howled. His voice cracked, and his throat burned with each word. A spider leg snatched a wounded guardsman and thrust him up to the witch. He yowled in pain and struggled uselessly in its nightmarish grasp. She forced him to look into the purse and threw her head back in howling laughter. She let go of the guard, and he fell to the ground with a sickening crunch. He kicked in the mud and wrapped his hands around his own throat. Shola's gaze fell on Chuggie. "You! My fondest love, it's time to die!" Chuggie spun the anchor over his head. His other hand held the dagger ready to attack. He charged at her, and she at him. The anchor beat down one scarecrow, then another and another, as the witch's mocking laughter sliced through the noise.  ⊠⊠⊠ Priole threw out his arms and skidded to a stop at the door to the Stagwater orphan house. Children's terrified screams spilled out of broken windows. "We can't linger!" said Rorid, but he couldn't believe those cowardly words had come from his own mouth. "Just cover the street." Priole dashed to the door. "I won't be long." He ran up the steps and kicked in the door. He activated his shockspear and held it up like a torch as he ran into the building. Rorid thumbed his own shockspear to life. He guided Drexel and Ree into the entryway of the orphanage, where they clung together shaking. He kept watch in the doorway as the screams of children rose and fell inside the building. A minute later, a whole flock of footsteps pattered down the hall. Priole herded a dozen or so terrified children back to the door. He held his left hand close to his stomach. Rorid's heart sank upon seeing all of their little torturgy masks. "Got these ones." Priole gave the shockspear a masterful one-handed twirl. A terrified little girl clutching a rag doll heaved and sobbed. Ree fell to her knees and embraced her. "It's going to be okay, honey." As the girl threw her arms around her neck. Ree cast a worried gaze at Priole.  "What happened back there?" Rorid asked. "Scarecrows attacking kids. Don't go back there, Captain." Priole sniffed. His eyes looked a tiny bit glassy. "Too late." Drexel had a hand on the shoulders of two scrawny, dazed runts. "We're gonna be fine, boys. We have the two bravest, strongest guardsmen in Stagwater to protect us. Can you little soldiers stay brave for me?" They nodded, but their glazed eyes made them look as if they didn't understand a word he'd said. "You're injured." Ree, with the little girl still clinging to her neck, grabbed Priole's shockspear and held its glowing tip up to his arm so she could see. "Damn scarecrow," said Priole. "Clawed my arm. I'll be fine, though." He pushed the shockspear away. With one hand, Priole was probably better with a shockspear than Rorid was with two. Seeing the younger man clutch his stomach that way had given Rorid a scare. It wasn't so bad if he just had a little injury to his arm. "We've got to get out of here." Priole cast a worried look over his shoulder. The group moved out of the building and down the street as a unit. Drexel grabbed the hand of a wild-eyed boy who was lagging behind. "It's going to be okay," he said to the kid. "We'll be on that boat in no time." Having the children in tow cut their speed in half. Rorid didn't like it, but he wasn't about to cut them loose. Nearing the square, Rorid raised his hand. "Sounds like trouble ahead." He waved the group off the street and into the shadows between two parked oxcarts. "What's your move?" "I'm going to go forward and have a look. You stay here with the group." Priole saluted and took a defensive position atop one of the oxcarts as Rorid dashed ahead to scout the square. A battle raged between the people of Stagwater and an army of huge, lumbering scarecrows. The streetlights were dark, but burning buildings lit the square despite the pouring rain. A pair of the scarecrows charged him. The long-legged one outpaced its broad companion. Its carved-pumpkin head had some missing chunks. Rorid activated his shockspear, drew it back, and slashed it through the faster of the two. The thing erupted in a spray of woodchips and crackling blue electricity. Its head splatted onto the street. He swung at the second, but it dove at his legs and tackled him. He collapsed on top of it. It bucked him off, and he landed on his feet. With a flourish, Rorid spun the blade across the scarecrow's chest. Like its companion, it blew apart. Blue energy crackled over it. Rorid stared in disbelief. Scarecrows everywhere. Hordes of them. He and Priole could have fought their way through, sure, but not Drexel and Ree, and especially not the orphans. Somehow Haste, Kale, and all their rich cronies were to blame for all of this. He jogged back to his little pack of refugees. "We can't get to the docks through the square." Rorid kept his voice low as he spoke to Priole. "If it was just the four of us, I'd say maybe. We'd be lucky to get one of the children across there." "What do we do?" Priole hopped down from his perch on the oxcart. "That's the Steel Jacks' headquarters right there." Rorid pointed to the menacing, metal-encased building. "We go in there, go through the passage beneath the square, and come out at the Municipal Building. Then we're right on top of the docks. We herd the kids onto a boat and float downstream to Sword Falls or Kendrid." "The jail is under the square. Are we going to parade all these kids by those bastards in there?" "You have a better idea?" Priole shook his head. Rorid spoke up so the others could hear: "Everybody, we're going into this building and taking a path that leads underneath the square. When we come out the other side, we're getting on a boat. You kids, I want you all to get in a line and hold onto the shirt of the person in front of you. It might be dark where we're going." A little orphan boy began to bawl. Drexel knelt down beside him. "Hey, hey, shhh. You see those two men right there?" Drexel pointed to Rorid and Priole. "They could each take on five Steel Jacks and win! Look at my dad. Monsters have nightmares about him! All the things you're scared of? They're scared of my dad. He wouldn't take us anywhere unless he knew it was safe." They boy ceased his sobbing and dried his tears. Drexel put an arm around him and beamed at his father. Drexel was an amazing son. Rorid could have shed a tear of pride, but that would have to wait. When they got to the rear entrance of the Steel Jack building, Rorid pushed on the door. It swung open. Priole brought up the rear, and as the door closed behind him the chaos outside became muffled and distant. Flickering sconces shed their light on the dark metal walls and floor. The lobby stood empty, except for a handful of bloody guardsman corpses. Rorid couldn't make out who these fallen guardsmen were, but he knew each man that wore the red and crimson. Whoever they were, they'd been his comrades. The orphans cried and cringed as they stepped past the dead men. They fed each other's fears in a rising tide of terror. One of them stopped and refused to move further. "We gotta move! We gotta move!" Priole's shouts could barely be heard among the cries of the orphans. When he crashed his shockspear against the wall, however, the flash and the crack and the shower of sparks got their attention. "We'll all cry later, when we're safe." Rorid's voice echoed off the steel walls. "Right now we have to move!" "It's going to be okay, I promise," Drexel said. "Just don't look and it's like nothings there." The kids squeezed their eyes shut. Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the wide expanse of the lobby. A barred gate blocked the stairway that led down into the sub-floors. Rorid triggered the release on the wall and heaved with all his might. He couldn't slide it open, and his worried eyes turned to Priole. The younger guardsmen handed his weapon to Rorid. His held his left arm tight to his stomach. With his right hand, he tried to shake the gate, but it held firm. He put a foot up on the wall and heaved on the gate. With one arm and one leg, Priole forced the gate sideways. As he grunted and huffed, it gave way. Even injured, the man was twice as strong as Rorid. Rorid guided the troop down the dimly lit metal stairs. They entered a hallway lit by flickering blue light, not unlike that of the shockspears. Rorid heard movement. He stopped the line and held his finger to his lips to signal for quiet. He stepped cautiously in the direction of the sound. He rounded the corner. A mass of quivering flesh emitted wet moans and grunts. Another flickering blue light shone down on the thing and the mirror next to it. A single word was written on the mirror in glowing Steel Jack paint: Haste. Rorid covered his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit as he stepped closer. The thing had eyes. Human eyes. This bloody, trembling mass had once been a man. Rorid felt the room spin. Haste, or what remained of him, stared blankly at his reflection. "Sir," Priole called out. "Coming through?" "No!" Rorid roared. "Hold your position." The Steel Jacks hadn't left Haste with any means of locomotion. His leg muscles, if he really flexed them hard, served only to stretch open the vast cavern of his new mouth. Rorid gasped as Haste strained against his new physiognomy. They'd left him with one semi-functioning arm, transformed into one long, multi-jointed claw. With great effort, the Haste thing could straighten the arm. With slightly less effort, he could curl it toward his mouth. At the end of it, all his digits had been removed except the middle finger. The flesh at the fingertip was stripped away, exposing the sharp white bone. Rorid froze as the thing that had been Haste stretched its arm and mouth. He took a series of short, heavy breaths and let out a squeal. He pushed his legs, straining so hard the body shook violently, to stretch his mouth open further and further. Inch by inch, he worked legs and jaw, making the bones creak. A snap reverberated through the room as the lower jaw reached its breaking point, and split in two at the chin. Next, the jaw hinges popped out of their sockets. Haste let out a groan of equal parts agony and relief. His leg muscles remained tight, keeping the jaw open. The finger at the end of his arm curled and uncurled. His airway sounded obstructed, almost as if he were snoring. The arm curled in. The finger probed the back of the mouth, then the throat. Haste squeezed and pushed, shoving that bony claw further down and in. He gagged, over and over. His whole body convulsed. Gagging, choking, Haste clawed at his esophagus. The claw pushed in deeper. Rorid could hear the sloppy, wet beating of Haste's heart. Haste dug furiously. The wet choking ceased, replaced by a quiet gurgling. Rorid found a drop cloth on the floor. He threw it over the dead Haste thing and hurried back to the line of refugees. "What happened?" Drexel's voice was a nervous whisper. "What did you see?" Rorid felt like puking, but inside a kernel of something, satisfaction maybe, grew. Chapter 24  Shola raged from atop her contorted perversion of a scarecrow spider. The spider seized Chuggie and lifted him high. Chuggie fought free and tumbled over the spider's back. Before Shola could turn, he threw the anchor. The blow landed between the witch's shoulder blades. She screeched with pain. Shola tumbled from the seat and landed hard on the cobblestones. Her head hit the ground like a hammer. The bones in her neck cracked. Her arms flopped limply at her sides, useless as rags. She kicked her legs with ferocious passion and pushed herself in circles. Chuggie pinned her shoulder with his knee and raised the bone dagger over his head. He grabbed the goat-face purse from around her neck. "Youâ€Åš you can't kill me!" She snarled and spat. "I control you now, Brother Drought." "We'll see." Chuggie opened the purse and held it in front of her face. Her eyes lit from within, brilliant blue and dazzling white. She gasped over and over as if a new breed of madness cascaded through her mind. Blood trickled from her nose and gushed from her eyes. A flash of lighting lit up the sky as bright as mid-day. Chuggie raised the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu, gritted his teeth, and got tackled from behind by a scarecrow. He somersaulted. Using the scarecrow's momentum, he swung to his feet. He kicked. His blow launched the scarecrow. It crashed into a pole and smashed into useless pieces. Chuggie stuffed the goat-face purse into his armored satchel. Dozens of scarecrows ran to help Shola. They hoisted her back up on the spider. She wailed and roared a stream of nonsense as if issuing commands. One of her minions held her head up. Broken bones poked through her leathery skin. The spider stumbled and lurched like a drunk. Scarecrows, one after another, dropped their weapons, deflated, and collapsed to the ground. The injury to their mistress seemed to injure them too. Shola shrieked as her head flopped to the side and the spider crashed under her. White-hot pain shot up Chuggie's leg, as if a thousand wasps had stabbed metallic stingers into his calf. Blinded, he slashed at the pain. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu skewered a small creature. Lifting it up, he blinked. He blinked again until he was sure his vision was clear. "In death, you will serve the Gooch!" the creature hissed at him. Dread crawled up from Chuggie's belly and lodged in his throat. Maybe one of the skittering beasties had strayed from the Desecration? Maybe that's what happened â€". The Gooch thundered into the square, pounding his massive arm into the corner of a building. The structure collapsed, section by section, as if in slow motion. The Gooch stormed into the crowd. The Gooch's desecrated minions swarmed into the plaza. They outnumbered, by far, man and scarecrow combined. The storm pounded Stagwater with renewed savagery. The citizens of Stagwater erupted in a fresh chorus of terrified screams. "Get to the bridge! Get out of the city!" Chuggie roared. But no one could hear his shout. The Gooch grabbed the living and the dead in his massive infant hands. He stuffed them into his mouth, devouring them with a gulp. Chuggie raced across the square and headed for the bridge, shouting at those he passed to do the same. He slammed to a stop. A face he knew blocked him, though its body was twisted and strange. "Dawes?"  ⊠⊠⊠ With Rorid in the lead, the group raced out the back entrance of the Municipal Building and charged down to the dock. No boats awaited them. Consecutive flashes of lightning revealed little more than floating wood. More lightning showed the bridge supports to be teeming with shadowy figures. "We have to cross the bridge!" he called to his group. "And fast, before they tear it down!" As they made their dash for the bridge, the horror and hopelessness of their situation crashed down on Rorid like a brick to the face. The scarecrows were no longer his biggest problem. An even bigger army of slimy, rotting abominations replaced them. "Get to that bridge, people!" Rorid yelled. "That's our only damn chance!"  ⊠⊠⊠ Chuggie bashed the desecrated Dawes aside with a swing of the anchor. Faben's former apprentice raised Faben's podium and screamed up at the sky. The two goat faces grafted to the sides of his head bleated with rage of their own. The kid was shirtless, and patches of goat hide mixed in with his skin. His midsection looked like it had been clawed open and glued back shut. Dribbles of black slime oozed from the seams. "You still in there, Dawes?" Chuggie pointed with the bone dagger. He could see Dawes' invisible aura. It moved like slow fire, and tendrils poured out of it toward the Gooch. "In death, you will serve the Gooch!" Desecrated Dawes lowered the podium blade and rushed at Chuggie. Chuggie threw the anchor at Dawes' feet in an attempt to trip him up. The throw missed, but Chuggie snagged Dawes as he yanked the chain back. Dawes veered off course. He stumbled. Chuggie hacked at him with the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. Dawes deflected Chuggie's lunge with the podium blade. He swiped the podium prongs at Chuggie's stomach. Chuggie dodged and grabbed the podium's shaft. Dawes let it go and wrapped his hands around Chuggie's neck. Dawes didn't seem to notice as Chuggie stabbed his stomach over and over. "In death, you will belong to the Gooch!" Dawes squeezed Chuggie's neck. Chuggie thought his desecrated breath could've choked a fuggin' Steel Jack. Chuggie stabbed the prong end of the podium through Dawes' neck. Dawes howled. He gripped the podium and tried to pull it out. Chuggie wiggled free of Dawes' clutches and kicked him in the chest. Dawes tumbled backward into a group of goatmen. Chuggie jumped behind some overturned carts to hide out while he plotted a course to the bridge. There'd be nothing to gain from battling all day with Dawes and his squad of desecrated goatmen. "This is for Jaron!" screamed a voice from behind him. Ragged and bloody, Stinkface Dan plunged a dagger into Chuggie's back. The blade didn't stab Chuggie's heart. It was a weak blow in that respect. Weak or not, the pain brought him to his knees. A frenzy of violence erupted in Chuggie. He jumped to his feet, spun, and grabbed the young man by the throat. "Look me in the eye," Chuggie howled. "You could have lived through this." Dan kicked and clawed. Chuggie held tight. He pulled at Dan's water. The life in Dan's eyes guttered out as Chuggie reduced him to bones and tightly stretched leather. He flung Dan's corpse into the bedlam of the square to be trampled to bits. Chuggie realized that he possessed fine control over his Drought power when he held the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu. It made perfect sense, but the notion didn't sit well. If he survived this night, he would have to study up on the bizarre artifact. Up on the bridge, a couple of guardsmen struggled to get a scraggly bunch of kids across. Screaming children clutched each other. One lady, looking about ready to collapse, clung to a howling little girl. They were innocent people running for their lives. Maybe somebody could make it out of this alive. Just maybe. Chuggie charged toward the embattled refugees. The Gooch's roar shook the ground. With the knife still sticking out of his back, Chuggie raced onto bridge. "Lemme at 'em, lemme at 'em," he hollered. Chuggie readied his anchor for attack. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu should have been slippery from the rain and the blood, but it stuck to his hand as if it'd been grafted there. Just ahead, a weary guardsman hacked and slashed at the Gooch's abominations. He impaled a creature on his shockspear. The cackling beast pulled the spear into itself until it got within arm's reach of him. It wrapped its dead arms around him. The guardsman lashed out, kicked and heaved. The monstrosity, shockspear and all, sailed over the side of the bridge. Chuggie shoved past the guardsmen and lunged for the desecrated warriors. "Thanks!" the guardsman yelled as he swung his remaining spear. Chuggie was a whirlwind of bone and chain. His dagger slashed, his anchor bashed, and the desecrated beasties were torn asunder. It felt so easy and natural he could have laughed triumphantly, but he'd lost so much he didn't have any laughs left in him. "Priole!" a voice yelled from behind him, "Cover the rear!" "The bridge is clear," Chuggie shouted back. "Lead 'em across. Let me watch the backside." Chuggie squeezed by the fleeing refugees to cover their escape. "What are you, drifter?" a guardsman shouted. "Get these folks across the bridge," Chuggie said. "Somebody's got to make it."  ⊠⊠⊠ Dawes wanted only to please his god. The Gooch demanded living sacrifice. The wooden men formed a circle around a screaming old woman. Dawes sensed great power within her. The wooden men tried to protect her, but they were too weak to withstand the onslaught of Desecration. Dawes fought his way through the scarecrows. His summoner's podium chopped them into pieces with ease. When he reached the shrieking witch, he roared with delight. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to his lord. She cursed him, but no curse could reach him through the unholy blessing of Desecration. At the center of the square, the Gooch rocked its giant infant body back and forth. He gurgled and laughed while his minions piled bodies all around him. Some were carcasses, twisted, shattered, and missing parts. Some were bleeding and broken, but still alive. Some were the remnants of scarecrows. In one hand, the Gooch held the limp body of a Stagwater guardsman. In the other, it held the demolished remains of a scarecrow. The Gooch's angry, rotten eyes moved back and forth between the two, as if seeing the potential of new playthings. He stuffed both in his mouth at once and grabbed up another pair. "In death," the Gooch thundered to the city, "you will serve the Gooch." He gobbled down more people, more scarecrows. Unholy digestion went to work in the Gooch's belly. It pushed the new creatures out the bottom of its vile digestive tract, birthing them in a slimy heap on the street. In the driving rain and pooling blood, the first scarecrow-man crawled to its feet. Torn human flesh and cursed wooden limbs took their first steps. Another fell from the Gooch and plopped to the mud, then another and another. So were born the Scarecrows of Stagwater. Dawes held the broken, screaming witch over his head in offering. The Gooch snatched her away and held her upside down. She flailed in the grip of the Gooch, screaming curses. The Lord of Desecration laughed in her face. Dawes drank in the scene with something like joy. The gift had pleased his god. Dawes wished he could sacrifice himself again. "Mine now," the Gooch rumbled to the broken old woman. "Love your new god." "In death, you will serve the Gooch!" bleated Dawes. His master devoured Shola's body, then shoved a handful of scarecrow parts down its throat after her. Dawes watched with fascination as the Gooch's stomach shifted and churned. He longed to witness the vile digestion inside, to see her mind and body decay together â€" breaking down, but not completely. He wanted to taste her anguish as her soul died over and over, to hear her pleas for oblivion. She splashed to the bloody mud in the square of Stagwater, transformed into something glorious. Eight wooden scarecrow arms clawed mindlessly at nothing at all. Eight empty eye sockets filled with rain as she wobbled to her feet. The witch no longer existed. In her place stood a newborn worshipper of the Gooch. "I serve," she rasped. "More!" boomed the Gooch. Dawes savored the terror. He would share it with the world, all for the pleasure of his master. Off he lurched to find new offerings.  ⊠⊠⊠ Rorid headed up the surge across the bridge. "We're almost there, Dad." Drexel herded the children. In the downpour, they slipped and tripped, but Drexel managed to keep them on their feet. Behind the group, the chain-swinging stranger held the monstrosities at bay. Any that got by him faced Priole'se spinning shockspear. Rorid could swear, one-armed or otherwise, the young guardsman grew more devastating with each creature he slew. Rorid pointed to the bank. "Gather the children over there." Rorid, Ree, and Drexel ran with the children off the bridge and up the muddy logging road. They slid and stumbled but Ree and Drexel gathered them all in a shivering huddle. "Where do we go now?" Drexel shivered. He'd given his raincoat to one of the orphans. "Move them up the trail, son. Get them sheltered in the logging pavilion. I'll get Priole and the drifter. We'll be right behind you." Rorid raced onto the bridge to help Priole and the stranger. He stopped as if he'd hit a wall. A thunderous crack, louder than any from the sky, ripped through the night. Tremors ran through the entire bridge as the support timbers started to give way. "Get off the bridge!" Rorid shouted to Priole and the man with the weird horns on his hat. The two fought side by side like no soldiers Rorid had ever seen, but their desecrated enemies attacked in an endless stream. Howling, the drifter cleared a swath with his anchor, flinging ruined creatures through the air. Priole ducked under the swinging chain as if they'd practiced it all before. "The damned bridge is going to fall!" Rorid hollered again. The drifter stopped mid-swing. He tilted his head as if listening then slapped Priole on the shoulder. Priole and the drifter ran toward Rorid. Another tremor shuddered through the bridge. A section fell away between them and Rorid. "No, no, no!" Rorid wailed. Priole looked down at the expanse between them, then back up to Rorid. "Sir!" Priole shouted. "Take care of Ree!" He stood at attention with the glowing shockspear standing straight at his side. Its crackling light lit his face. In this stance, Priole's arm no longer covered his stomach, and Rorid saw the true extent of his wound. The young guardsman's arm had never been injured. He'd clutched it to his stomach this whole time to keep his entrails inside. With a purposeful smile, Priole saluted his captain. Rorid's arm felt as heavy as stone as he lifted it to return the salute. The bridge section beneath him listed and bucked. Rorid had no choice. He turned and ran, leaving Priole behind. He stepped on land moments before his half of the bridge crumbled. The structure crashed into the river and splintered on the rocks below. Rorid walked with his head down in the direction of the logging pavilion. He turned one last time. Priole and the drifter held their ground on the quaking remains of the bridge. Rorid stood at attention, and tried to salute. Instead, his hand went to his eyes. He fell to his knees and cried.  ⊠⊠⊠  "How's that stomach, kid?" Chuggie patted Priole on the shoulder. "You got guts. I'll give you that." "Not for long, I don't." The young guardsman fell to his knees, holding himself up with one shaking arm. "I'm done now." "You fought plenty," Chuggie grunted as he blasted a creature with his anchor. "Don'tâ€Åš let them take me." "I'll do what I can, kid." Chuggie wished he could say something a little more reassuring, but he didn't want to make a false promise to a dying man. "You do it," Priole said with effort. "Huh?" "Finish me off and throw me in the river." Priole groaned and pounded a fist on the bridgeboards. "I won't end up like them." He pointed at the desecrated mob. Chuggie bashed more of the abominations with a swing of his anchor. He sensed them crawling along the bridge's underside. Soon they'd get up behind him. He swore he felt others clawing and gnawing at the bridge supports. "Do it!" Priole screamed, his voice slurred with agony and sorrow. He stretched out his arms to receive Chuggie's mercy. Chuggie went numb. As if on its own, his arm shot out and the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu pierced Priole's heart. Priole's dimming gaze turned in the direction the others had escaped. He saluted. His life left him, and his body thudded to the bridge deck. As requested, Chuggie heaved the body over the rail. A flash of lightning crackled through the sky A creature lumbered onto the bridge. It stood nearly eight feet tall, man and scarecrow melded together in mockery of a Steel Jack. Its mindless, grinning face chomped at the air. "Alright," said Chuggie, "let's do this, big boy." Chuggie launched his anchor at the thing. Not waiting for it to land, he launched himself at it, too. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu stabbed through its chest, doing absolutely no damage. He yanked the blade free and unleashed a combination of slashes, stabs, and hacks. He severed its left arm, and still it came. He severed its right arm, and it rammed into him with its head. Huge teeth snapped at his throat. Chuggie kicked its leg out from under it, and it flailed to keep balance. The thing bit into his shoulder, but luckily for Chuggie it got more chain than shoulder meat between its jaws. As it fell to the bridge-deck, it dragged Chuggie down. A chain-tangled wrestling match ensued. An army of similar creatures loped towards him. Chained to the scarecrow-thing, Chuggie clawed and kicked his way to the edge of the bridge. The bridge cracked and reeled in the stormy darkness. With one last push, Chuggie launched himself from the crumbling structure. He hacked his armless attacker to pieces as they plummeted into the water. Chuggie landed with a cold splash. He backstroked furiously with the current, hoping to get far enough away before â€". Tons of bridge timbers and metal supports crashed into the water. The ensuing wave blasted Chuggie downstream. The weight of the chain and anchor held him below the surface as he tumbled through the water. The river's roar and rush blended into an all-encompassing monotone. In the icy darkness, Chuggie found comfort. He could no longer see or hear horrible deaths. For that, he was deeply grateful. He grappled for a thick beam and held tight to it. Chuggie slid the Bleeding Jaws of Glughu into his belt. The dagger-vision fled, as did every last bit of energy in his body. He clung to the beam and to consciousness in equal measure. The latter failed first. Chapter 25  By the light of two fat, full moons, Chuggie awoke and discovered he sat at the muddy bottom of a riverbed. The mighty Staghorn River had been reduced to a sad trickle. He was to blame. He felt as used up and twisted as the driftwood all around him.The pair of yellow moons shone down from the starry sky like the eyes of a disappointed parent.He dragged himself up onto the bank. At the northern horizon, he saw no hint of the lights â€" or, indeed, the skyline â€" of Stagwater. There was no way to know how far he'd drifted downstream, but he guessed not far enough.He took inventory of himself. His chain knotted about him, and his anchor lay not far away. The Bleeding Jaws of Glughu was still wedged in his belt. In his pocket, he found the friendly curve of the boar tusk pipe. Kale's slug-plate satchel containing the goat-face purse was tangled up with his coat. It lay in a heap on the bank. And if he could ever get it outâ€Åš Chuggie reached his hand around behind his back. He strained and clutched at the handle but could not reach Stinkface's knife.He built a fire and sat down beside it. He dug out his tobacco stash. The pouch, soaked and dried out one too many times, started to crumble in his hands. He moved the tobacco to the safest container he had: the goat-face purse. As long as he never looked inside, what could go wrong?He was glad to find that his matches were dry. He lit his pipe and tried to smoke away all memory of Stagwater. He built a much bigger fire than was necessary."What happened, Chuggles?" asked a quiet voice.A girlish squeal nearly escaped from Chuggie's lips, but he composed himself and put extra gravel into his voice. "Shit happened.""Where are you going?" the voice asked.He looked around for a lurking trickster. "Who are you?""You don't recognize me? It's Faben.""Uhâ€Åš hate to say it, Faben, but you're dead.""No shit." "Where are you? Come out." Chuggie turned in circles and scanned the surrounding darkness. There was no one there. He was clearly losing his mind. He needed him some sleep.Chuggie took up Faben's book. He opened to the page she'd been writing on when she died.Everything is a door.He closed the book and stared into the fire. The weary mind played cruel tricks, indeed.It was time to rest. After all, Chuggie had promises to keep. First, he had to get Faben's book to the Lodge of Woodsmen. Then he had to go to the ocean's salty shore. There he had to buy, build, or steal a boat to name after Shola, just like he promised.Then he had to sink it to the bottom of the sea.Table of ContentsChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18 The Boy with the Wooden FaceChapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25